#study steady blogs

[inkieun]

Word for Word — Oh Beom-Seok x F!Reader

“You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano. Suho and Sieun trade a glance—Suho half-hidden in his hoodie, Sieun boredly tearing at his sandwich. “That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says.

cw: dark!beomseok, noncon/dubcon, stalking, gaslighting, physical violence, choking, hairpulling and creampie.

i've been wanting to write a dark beom-seok since he gives loser vibes

You notice the first note tucked inside your essay.

It isn’t stapled. Isn’t typed. Just a small piece of paper folded once, the edges sharp like someone took real good care not to crumple it. You hesitate before opening it, like it might be a mistake. Like it’s not meant for you.

But it is.

You know your own name when you see it.

The handwriting is neat. Slanted and familiar. It reads like something you might’ve written in the middle of the night, in that floaty space between dreaming and waking.

“The walls blink when you aren’t looking. Your words are louder in silence than in air.”

You blink. It doesn’t make immediate sense, but it feels like it should. Like a line from a poem you don’t remember writing.

You look around the room. No one is watching you. 

You slide the note into your notebook and don’t mention it to anyone.

The second one is harder to ignore.

It’s written in your style. The commas fall the way you place them. The images are strange, soft, slightly bruised like a mirror of your own. Whoever wrote it has read your essays closely. Intimately.

“You carry grief in a glass jar. You pretend it’s perfume.”

That’s a line from something you almost submitted last week. You deleted it at the last second because it felt too raw, too revealing. You never turned it in. You never posted it.

You feel cold, suddenly, despite your sweater.

Someone is watching you.

You start checking the backs of your papers. Looking over your shoulder. Taking different routes between classes. The halls feel longer now. The lights overhead too white. The sound of your own name when it's called in roll, when it’s printed at the top of a page, it all feels like a target.

You try to shake it. Tell yourself it’s just some weird joke. Someone admiring your writing. Maybe a classmate. Maybe—No. You’ve seen how they all read each other's work. Half-glances. Skims. No one is reading you like this.

No one should be. And yet, someone is.

“I'm telling you, it’s not just some cute little poetry fan. It’s... weird,” you say, keeping your voice low but tight. “I think someone’s been reading my writing. Like, really reading it.”

Sieun sits across from you, stone-faced, tapping his pencil once, then again, then again against the side of his notebook. Suho’s beside him, legs jittering under the table, half-listening, half-scrolling on his phone.

“I mean, that’s... good, right?” Suho says, offering a smile too quick to be genuine. “Someone appreciating your stuff? Could be worse. Could be nobody's reading it.”

“They’re not.” You don’t budge. “They’re studying me.”

Suho shifts in his seat, visibly uncomfortable now. “Maybe you posted it somewhere and forgot? You know, like Tumblr or Instagram or one of those creepy anonymous poetry blogs you’re always reading?”

You shake your head. “No. I didn’t.”

Now Sieun looks up. His eyes are unreadable, steady. One of his fingers stills on the table. “You’re sure?” You nod once. “Positive.”

Suho makes a soft, awkward sound—somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Okay, well… maybe it’s a coincidence. People write similar stuff all the time, right? Like, unconscious… uh, what’s the word. Parallels.”

“I’m being watched,” you whisper, half to yourself. “I know I am.”

The words sit heavy between you. You glance down at your own notebook, the edge of the last note still peeking out from the side pocket. It feels radioactive now.

“You sound paranoid,” Suho says, the edge of his voice wobbling even as he tries to laugh. “Like, this is how it starts, right? Next thing you know you’re pinning strings to walls and muttering about CIA satellites in your toothbrush.”

“You think I’m making this up?”

“I think you’re spiraling.”

“Shhh!” the librarian hisses from somewhere behind the nearest shelf, sharp as a slap.

You all freeze. You mutter, “Sorry,” without turning. Suho gets up, fast, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. “I need caffeine or I’m gonna flat line.”

Sieun follows him, slow and quiet, like a shadow detaching from its host. Before he leaves, he looks back once. “Next time it happens,” he says, voice like ice poured into a glass, “don’t throw the note away.”

Then they’re gone.

The lights above buzz faintly. You stay seated, the silence pressing in on all sides. Now you are wondering if someone’s watching you right now.

Then came the text messages.

At first, it’s one. Just one. From an unknown number.

“You looked tired today. But the blue in your sweater suits your sadness.”

You freeze, phone glowing in your hand at 1:04 a.m., the silence in your room suddenly too quiet. You block the number. Obviously. Immediately. But another pops up two days later.

“The way you bite your nail during class… what are you trying to chew your way out of?”

You block that number, too. They just keep coming.

One after another. Different numbers every time. Always poetic. Always familiar. Always close enough to your thoughts it feels like whoever’s writing them is reading your mind—or something worse.

You stop reading them. You stop opening messages altogether. You change your number.

It’s humiliating, dragging yourself to the mobile store and muttering something vague about spam or exes. The guy behind the counter doesn’t ask questions. You leave with a new SIM card and shaking hands.

For a moment, there’s quiet. But it’s not peace. Now you’re waiting for the next thing. You’re halfway out the classroom, already zipping up your jacket, when Professor Kim’s voice calls after you.

“Can you stay back a moment?”

You pause mid-step, the low hum of students clearing out around you. Your body says go, but something in her tone clips your breath short. You nod slowly and return to your seat as the door clicks shut behind the last person.

She’s standing by her desk, looking at you like she’s trying to choose the gentlest way to say you’re slipping.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she says, carefully. “Your writing’s changed. It used to carry this... emotional clarity. You wrote like you had nothing to lose.” You sit rigid in the chair, staring down at your fingernails.

“I’m just tired,” you say. “It’s nothing serious.”

“You’re missing assignments. You’re distracted in class. I don’t think this is nothing.” You don’t answer. There’s no point.

She picks up a slip of paper from her desk. “I’d like you to meet with one of my TAs. Just a session or two. He’s new, but very insightful. He’s good at picking up patterns.” Something about the word patterns makes your skin prickle.

She moves to the door. Opens it. “He’s outside. I asked him to come by.”

You expect someone familiar. Another student from class. A face you’ve seen slumped behind a Mac Book in the library. But the guy who walks in isn’t familiar at all.

Tall. Hoodie, layered under a jacket. Black backpack. Hair slightly unkempt like he tried to fix it on the way in but gave up halfway with glasses that sit on his nose. He looks... ordinary. Not harmless. Not threatening. Just there. 

Professor Kim gestures between you. “This is Beom-seok,” she says. “He’ll be your writing tutor for the rest of the term.”

You nod politely, already anxious to leave.

Beom-seok steps forward and offers a half-smile. It twitches oddly at one side, as if it doesn’t quite belong to him. “Hey,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

His voice is too quiet. Too soft. There’s something in the way he says it—like he’s been waiting for this moment a little too long. You murmur a hello. Professor Kim smiles with finality, grabs her bag, and heads out. “You two get settled. I’ll check in next week.” The door closes behind her.

Silence.

He sits across from you, pulling his chair in close, too close. He rests his elbows on the desk, fingertips tapping rhythmically, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

“I’ve read your stuff,” he says, not looking at you. “It’s really... intense. In a good way. Honest. I like that.” You tilt your head slightly. “Which one?”

“All of them,” he says too fast.

Then quieter: “I just think your writing is different from most people. Like you write with your heart.” The comment sits wrong. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the way he says it like a compliment he’s rehearsed in the mirror.

You shift in your seat. He notices.

His smile curls again, sheepish. “Sorry. I’m not great at, uh... people.” You want to ask how he ended up tutoring then, but you don’t. You just nod. He clears his throat. “Anyway. We can start next session, if you want. Or, you know, talk now. Whatever works for you.”

You glance at the clock. You want to leave. Every part of you wants to leave because you don’t want him to know how fast your heart is beating.

“Next session,” you say. “That’s fine.”

“Cool,” he says, like he didn’t just spend the last two minutes staring at you like he already knew you. He stands and watches you pack your things. You feel his eyes on your back as you walk to the door.

You don’t say goodbye. You don’t look back.

“You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano.

Suho and Sieun glance at each other across the table. Suho’s got his hood pulled halfway up and Sieun’s picking apart the corner of a sandwich like he was bored.

“That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says.

You nod. “Weird energy. He doesn’t blink enough. He kept saying stuff about my writing like—like he already knew it. He talks like he’s been thinking about me.” Suho chuckles. “Oh no. You got one of the creepy TAs. Did he offer to read your soul lines in the espresso foam?”

You don’t laugh.

You’re too busy remembering how still he was. Sieun catches your expression and leans forward. “Seriously?.”

“Yes." you say, voice low.

Your phone buzzes in your lap.

Unknown Number. Your chest tightens. You answer, slowly, eyes flicking to your friends. “Hello?” There’s a breath on the other end before the voice comes in. “Hey. It’s Beom-seok.”

You sit up straighter. “Hi…”

“I just wanted to confirm our session for tomorrow. Four o’clock. Library, upstairs back corner. Don’t be late.” His tone isn’t mean—but it’s too assumptive. Like you already belong to the schedule in his head.

“Yeah. Sure,” you say. “How did you get my number?”

“From Professor Kim,” he says quickly. “She gave it to me so we could coordinate.” You nod reflexively, like he can see it.

Then freeze. You didn’t give her your new number. You hang up shortly after, muttering some excuse. The second your screen goes dark, you look up at Suho and Sieun.

“He called me,” you say.

“Who?” Suho asks. “Beom-seok. He has my number. But I didn’t give it to Professor Kim. Not this number. I just changed it.”

Sieun frowns. “Are you sure you didn’t email it to her or something?”

You shake your head. “Positive.” You all sit in silence for a beat too long. And for the rest of the evening, no one brings it up again.

You find him already there in the back corner of the upstairs library, just like he said. He waves you over with that same off-kilter smile. There’s already a seat pulled out for you. A pen waiting on the table.

“Hey,” he says brightly. “You came. I wasn’t sure you would.”

You sit down slowly. “It’s a tutoring session, not a date.” He laughs at that, though you weren’t trying to be funny. “You look really focused,” he says, watching you pull out your notebook. “Even the way you organize your notes feels... poetic. Like there’s rhythm in your margins.”

You glance up, uncertain. “Thanks?”

“I like that you don’t censor yourself when you write. It’s raw. Kind of haunting.”

There’s a pause.

“Like that line from the essay about the blackout,” he adds. “‘I wanted to flip the switch, but I was scared of what would still be there in the dark. That one killed me.”

You stared at him. You never turned that essay in. You remember writing it, yes but you saved it in a private folder. Never shared it. Not even with your friends.

Your stomach twists. “I—I don’t think I submitted that one.”

Beom-seok’s eyes go wide. Too wide. “Wait, really? No, I—I think Professor Kim might’ve shared it with the TAs in a sample packet. She sends us excerpts sometimes, for grading calibration. You know how she is.”

You nod slowly. That sounds true. You want it to be true.

You look down at your notebook. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Totally,” he says, already sliding your last essay across the table. “Anyway, let’s dive in. I’ve got a few thoughts.” And for the next hour, you try to focus. But it’s hard not to notice the way he watches you when you’re not speaking.

Like he already knows what you’re going to say. 

You left that tutoring session more unsettled than when you walked in. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why—he hadn’t said anything strange, hadn’t done anything wrong. But something about the way he watched you, the way his eyes lingered a little too long behind those plain glasses… it stuck with you.

It happens two days later at the campus café.

You’re not hiding, you tell yourself. The café is loud, packed with half-zombie students scrolling through notes, nursing espresso, their eyes glassy and gone from finals week burnout. You’re wedged into a corner table, earbuds in, phone off, pretending you don’t feel cracked open.

You haven’t told Suho or Sieun about the tutoring session. Not yet. You don’t know how to bring it up—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself it was nothing. Normal. Just awkward, maybe. That you imagined the way Beom-seok looked at you. That his comment about your essay was just strange timing. A fluke. A coincidence. Something you could explain if you tried hard enough.

But you haven’t tried. Not really. You’ve almost started to believe it.

Almost. Until now. Because now—you feel it. That prickle.

At the base of your neck. That low, electric hum beneath your skin that tells you something’s wrong before your mind catches up.

You glance up, slow and casual, like you're just stretching. Like your muscles are stiff and you're not wired with quiet panic.

And there he is. Beom-seok.

Three tables away. No laptop. No books. No notebook open in front of him. Just a single coffee cup. He’s not scrolling through his phone. He’s not pretending to study.

He’s looking at you. Not past you. Not near you. At you.

You drop your gaze like it burns. Turn back to your notebook, scrawl something just to keep your hands moving, to keep from shaking. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re convinced people can hear it. That it’s echoing off the café walls.

Maybe he only just walked in. Maybe he didn’t see you here, didn’t come here for—But then. He smiles. That smile. Not warm. Not friendly. Something about it is wrong. Like it’s meant for someone else. Like he knows something you don’t.

You don’t think. You just move. Grab your bag, your coat, your half-filled coffee cup. You don’t look back. Don’t care how abrupt it is, how strange you must seem. You head straight for the side door and push out into the street, heart still hammering, breath tight in your chest.

You don’t look back.

You don’t want to know if he follows. Faster than you need to.

When you finally stop three buildings over behind the student center, half-hidden by a vending machine—you check your phone out of pure instinct. No texts. No calls. But your hands are still shaking.

You lean against the concrete wall, trying to catch your breath. You tell yourself to be rational. That it was public. That maybe he was there first. That maybe—Your phone buzzes. Unknown Number. You freeze. And then, against every instinct, you open it.

"You left in a rush. I hope I didn’t scare you. See you tomorrow."

You stare at the screen.

You never said yes to another session.

You go straight to Professor Kim’s office the next morning.

You don't email. You don’t wait for office hours. You knock at 8:02 a.m., fresh off a sleepless night and a sick knot in your chest that hasn’t let go since the café.

She opens the door, surprised. Coffee in hand. “You’re early.”

“I need to talk about my tutor,” you say.

That gets her attention.

She steps aside and lets you in. Her office smells like peppermint tea and old paper, the blinds still closed. You sit stiffly, clutching your backpack like it might hold your spine together.

“Is something wrong with Beom-seok?” she asks gently, lowering herself into her chair.

You hesitate. You want to say he’s stalking me, or he said something from an essay I never submitted, or he watched me at the café like a creep. But you don’t have proof.

So you lie.

“I just don’t think he’s a good fit,” you say, voice tight. “He makes me uncomfortable. I don’t feel like I can focus around him.”

She frowns slightly. “Uncomfortable how?”

You shrug. “Just... weird boundaries. He gets personal. I don’t know. It’s not working.” She watches you for a beat longer than necessary. Then nods.

“Okay. I’ll take care of it. You’ll work with another TA—Jun-tae. He’s quiet, but respectful. You’ll like him.” Relief floods your chest like breath after drowning. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she says. “I’m glad you told me.”

After the meeting, you return to your dorm.

The halls are quiet. Your shoes thud softly against the laminate. Everything feels unnaturally calm. You slip your key into the lock, shoulder aching from all the stress.

You close the door behind you and drop your bag. Sit on the edge of your bed. For the first time in hours, you let your jaw unclench.

Your phone lights up. You didn’t want to answer it but something cold and stupid in your chest makes you do it anyway.

You press the screen to your ear.

“Why would you do that to me?” Beom-seok’s voice erupts through the speaker, hoarse and cracked, like it’s been building inside him all morning.

“You went to Professor Kim?” he hisses. “You told her you didn’t want me anymore?”

You can barely breathe. “Beom-seok—”

“No. No, don’t say my name like that. Like you don’t know what we are. I’ve read you, every word. I know you. I see you. You think some basic-ass TA named Jun-tae is gonna get it?”

He’s pacing. You can hear it in the way the air moves on the other side of the line. “You don’t get to disappear just because you’re scared,” he growls. “You don’t get to cut me out like I’m some side note.”

“I’m warning you,” you whisper. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

And before he can answer, you hang up. You sit there for half a second—heart pounding, ears ringing, body shaking and then you throw the phone again. Harder this time. It cracks against the wall and slides to the floor in a dull, useless heap.

Your hands won’t stop shaking.

Your body won’t stop listening for footsteps, for knocks, for anything that says he’s near.

And for the first time since it all began, you feel it settle fully into your bones:

This isn’t just creepy anymore. It’s dangerous.

The first post-it note is yellow.

Just a single square, stuck dead-center on your dorm door. The handwriting is small, slanted, too neat—like someone practiced it. Like someone wanted it to be noticed.

“It’s quiet here. I like that.”

You stare at it for a second too long. Then you tear it down without thinking, fingers tightening until the paper crumples between them. It lands in your trash can with a soft rustle, barely a sound, but your pulse is loud in your ears.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. A prank. A weird joke.

But your hand doesn’t stop shaking until long after the door clicks shut behind you. You don’t tell anyone.

The next one is pink.

"You looked tired today. I hope you’re resting. You should take care of yourself."

You throw that one away too.

They keep coming. Green. Blue. Orange. Each new note appears the same way—silent, perfectly placed, like a ritual. Always there when you return.

You don’t replace your phone. You can’t. Your bank account is down to single digits and the last thing you want is to borrow money from anyone and have to explain why. No phone means no new number. No apps. No distractions. But it also means no help. And you start seeing him more often now.

Leaving the campus store just as you’re entering. Sitting on a bench when you pass by the art building, his gaze fixed on something else—until you’re close enough that you feel it swing toward you. He never speaks. Never waves. Never follows. He just appears. And somehow, that’s worse.

You’re five minutes early to your tutoring session with Jun-tae, clutching a folder you haven’t even opened because your mind’s been too loud to study. You wait outside the seminar room, watching the door. Professor Kim emerges instead. She looks... frazzled. “Oh,” she says, seeing you. “I was just about to email—Jun-tae won’t be able to meet today.” You blink. “What?”

“He had a bad fall,” she explains. “Stairs behind the science hall. Broke his leg.” Your stomach knots. “Oh,” you say again, slower this time. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay, but won’t be able to tutor for at least a few weeks.” She frowns, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ll try to get someone else assigned to you soon, but with finals coming, the TA schedule is a mess.”

You nod numbly, trying to process her words while something cold slinks down your spine. Jun-tae was your safe option. Now he’s gone. You don’t remember walking back to your dorm. You don’t remember unlocking the door. But when you get inside, there’s another note waiting for you.

This one is written directly on your mirror, in a red marker.

"Told you, didn’t I? You can’t get rid of me." 

You can’t keep it inside anymore.

The moment you see Suho and Sieun at the dining hall. They were heads bent over a shared plate of greasy fries, laughing about something dumb—you sit down so fast your tray clatters. They both glance up. You don’t even say hello.

“I think Beom-seok pushed Jun-tae down the stairs.”

The words just come out, wild and raw, too fast, like you’ve been holding your breath for days. Suho blinks. “Uh. Come again?”

You lower your voice and lean in. “Jun-tae didn’t just fall. He was fine. He was normal. And then the moment he’s assigned to me, suddenly he’s out for the rest of the semester? Don’t you think that’s—off?” Sieun raises his eyebrows. “You think Beom-seok, what, attacked him? Because he was your new tutor?”

You nod. You know how it sounds.

“I’ve been seeing him everywhere,” you continue. “Outside my dorm. In the café. Watching me. And he’s been leaving post-it notes. Every day.” They exchange a look. Not a mean one. Just that slow, careful look people give when they’re trying not to say, You sound unhinged.

Sieun speaks first. “I mean… okay. That’s a little weird, but maybe he just really likes you? Like, in a sad poet kind of way. Some guys don’t know how to deal with feelings.” Suho shrugs. “Yeah, this sounds more like—what’s the word—infatuation? Harmless, maybe a little cringey, but not dangerous.”

“He wrote on my mirror,” you hiss. “Inside my room.” That lands harder. But not hard enough. Suho winces. “Okay, that’s crossing a line. Still…It doesn’t mean he hurt someone.”

Sieun adds, “And the notes? I mean… yeah, it's intense. But lovesick dudes do stupid shit all the time. He probably thinks this is romantic.”

You stare at them both. They’re trying to soothe you. Not one of them believed you. “I’m not overreacting,” you say, quieter now. “I know it’s him. He’s everywhere. He makes me to feel trapped.”

Suho picks at a fry. “Look, if you’re this freaked out, go to campus security. File a report. They can at least talk to him.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get it.”

They don’t. You leave them without saying goodbye.

Their voices echo behind you as you walk away—half-concerned, half-curious, not really listening. You can feel their eyes on your back, can almost hear them already figuring out how to laugh it off later.

"She's just tired. She’s just being dramatic." It doesn’t even sting the way it should. It just sits there—quiet and cold and heavy—somewhere in your chest.

By the time you reach your dorm building, the sun’s nearly gone. The air smells like old leaves and someone’s burnt toast. You climb the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister like you need something real to hold onto.

You turn the corner. Your door is in view. And for the first time in days—There’s nothing on it. No post-it note. No message. No trace. You stop. You should feel relief.

But instead, something colder slides into you—deeper than fear. Like the silence is a trick. Like the absence is worse than the presence. The blank door suddenly looks too clean, like a wiped slate, or an invitation.

He knows you're scared.

You step inside quickly, locking the door behind you. Twice. Then dragging your desk chair under the handle for good measure. Your hands are shaking, but your face feels numb.

You don’t turn on music. You don’t open your laptop.

You just move through the motions like a ghost of yourself—changing into sweats, brushing your teeth, folding yourself into your sheets. You lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling. You plan.

Tomorrow, first thing, you’ll go to campus security. You’ll file a report. You’ll do it.

Because no one else is going to. But for now, all you have is the quiet hum of your dorm, the creak of your bed as you shift under the blankets, and that gnawing feeling in your stomach—

That somewhere, he’s watching this too.

You shut your eyes. You tell yourself to sleep. The kind of sleep that feels more like escape, like shutting down.

And maybe you do sleep, for a little while. You’re not sure.

Because the next thing you feel��before your eyes even open—is the weight.

A presence. Not a noise. Not a creak. Not the wind. Just that unmistakable awareness of someone else in the room. Thick and suffocating. So close you can taste their breath in the air.

You open your eyes. And someone’s there. Standing over you.

You don’t even have time to scream. A hand slams down over your mouth, fast and hard, pinning your head to the pillow with a quiet thud.

Your legs thrash, the sheets tangle, and your brain is screaming this isn’t real, this isn’t real, but then—He speaks. Low. Calm. Intimate. Like you’re sharing a secret.

“No, baby. None of that.”

Your blood turns to ice.

Because you know that voice. Beom-seok. He’s smiling. Not wide. Not wild. Just small. Gentle. Like this is all very reasonable.

“Shh,” he breathes, stroking your hair with his free hand like you’re a frightened animal. “You looked so peaceful. I almost didn’t want to wake you.”

You make a strangled noise under his palm.

He leans in, slow and deliberate, his knee sinking into the edge of the bed. His eyes roam your face like he’s studying a painting he’s seen before but never quite understood. 

“I didn’t like the way you talked about me today,” he murmurs, the edge creeping in now. “To them. Suho and Sieun. You told them lies.” You shake your head, or try to, but his hand presses harder, turning denial into a muffled whimper.

“I don’t like when people lie about me,” he whispers. “You know that.”

His hand lifts—just enough to let you breathe. You suck in air, raw and shaking, your voice catching in your throat. But he sees it And faster than you can scream...

His hand clamps around your throat. Not choking. Not yet. Just holding.

His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans in. “You were doing so well,” he murmurs. “The notes. The mirror. Our little cat-and-mouse game.” His grip tightens slightly—not enough to cut off air, but enough to remind you he’s in control.

“You were supposed to understand what this meant.”

Your chest rises and falls too fast. You want to move. Scream. Fight.

But it was like a out of body experience and your voice is gone.

He tilts his head, studying you like something broken he doesn’t know how to fix. “I was patient. I waited. But you let foolish thoughts get into your head. And now you’re scared of me?” His lips brush your ear. 

“That hurts.”

A soft, cracked sound escapes you—more instinct than speech. A broken plea.

He watches. The kind of watch that empties the air from the room. Then he moves. Straddles your waist, knees digging into the mattress, pinning you down. You can feel the weight of him pressing you into the bed.

One hand stays wrapped around your throat. Firm. Controlling. The other tangles into your hair, tightening until your scalp stings. He leans in, face inches from yours, breath laced with mint and menace. The glint in his eyes is sharp and empty. Calculating. Cold.

That smile on his lips—it never fades. But it isn’t human. It’s the smile of something that enjoys the fear. “Now, now,” he whispers, low and coaxing, “let’s not make this harder than it has to be.” His hand in your hair tugs harder. “I’ve been watching you sleep. You looked so peaceful. So... touchable.” Your heart slams against your ribs, desperate and wild.

Every nerve screams at you to move to run but his weight on you is making it difficult to move.

Then his thumb brushes your lower lip—slow, mocking. “I know you’re scared, baby. I can feel you trembling,” he says softly. His hand is still at your throat, not squeezing, not yet.

But the threat is there, sharp and clear. If he wanted to, he could end it right now and you both know it.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Not if you do as I say." His face dips closer, until you can feel the whisper of his breath on your cheek. "I just want to play a little game. A game that I think you're going to enjoy." He chuckles softly, a dark and sinister sound.

His hand slides lower, over your collarbone, your breastbone, until it rests just above your navel. You can feel the heat of his palm bleeding through the thin fabric of your nightshirt.

Something inside you snaps.

Your fist flies up on instinct and connects with his face with a sickening crunch, you feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins. Seizing the momentary advantage, you push against his chest with all your might, throwing him off balance. He tumbles backwards, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

Without hesitation, you leap out of the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. Your heart pounds as you bolt towards the door, desperate to escape. Just as your fingers brush the doorknob, you feel a rough hand grab your ankle, yanking you backwards with brutal force. You cry out in pain and surprise as you're pulled off balance, falling hard onto the ground.

Beom-seok looms over you, his face contorted in rage, a trickle of blood running down his chin from where you struck him. "Bitch!" he snarls, grabbing both your ankles now and dragging you back towards him. You kick and struggle, trying to break free, but his grip is unyielding.

You scrabble at the floor, your nails raking against the carpet, searching for something, anything to anchor yourself with. Your hand closes around a heavy, metal object from the bedside table, Your weights. Without a second thought, you swing it at Beom-seok's head with all your strength.

He roars in pain and fury as the metal connects with his temple, splitting the skin and drawing a gash of blood. But he doesn't let go. If anything, his grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. You feel his hand grab at your throat, squeezing, choking.

You gasp and choke, your lungs burning for air, as you continue to struggle wildly, thrashing and flailing. You manage to land a few more blows with the weights, feeling it crash against his arms, his ribs, his head. The room is filled with the sounds of grunts.

He grabs your hand thats holding the weight and takes it out of your hand and throws it across the room and backhands you and then flips you around on your stomach.

Without hesitation, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pajama pants and yanks them down, exposing your ass to the cool air. 

Rising up on his knees, Beom-seok takes a moment to admire the sight of you laid out before him, your panties the only scrap of fabric between your thighs. He leans down and places a tender kiss on the small of your back.

"Beautiful," Beom-seok murmurs, his voice low and tinged with reverence. "I've been dreaming of this moment, saving myself for you. To feel your soft skin, to claim you as mine..."  You could feel Beom-seok’s breath as he hovered just above, his body trembling with a reverence that bordered on obsession. “Every night I imagined this,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath, thick with heat and restraint. “You laid out for me like this… waiting.”

His hand slid down your thigh, fingers trailing like silk, lingering, mapping every inch as if it were sacred ground. The heat of his body pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling in sync with the tension building in the room. He aligned himself with agonizing slowness, his movements deliberate, worshipful.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed against your neck, lips grazing skin with featherlight reverence. “No more dreams. Just you. Just this.”

And then—he pressed forward, slow and unrelenting, claiming you inch by inch. His breath shuddered out in a broken gasp, his hand gripping your hip as if to ground himself in the reality of this moment. Every muscle in his body tensed with the intensity of it, of finally being inside you, of the culmination of desire long denied.

“Fuck... you're so goddamn tight," he pants, voice dripping with lust, glasses fogging up with each harsh thrust. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply as he growls filthy things in that sickeningly sweet voice. "You don’t even realize how much I want to wreck you... slowly, carefully, until all you can think about is me." 

You twist beneath him, your wrists straining against his grip, body bucking in defiance even as it betrays you with heat and need. "No—" you gasp, the word breaking on a moan you can’t hold back.

But he doesn’t stop. He’s relentless, driving into you with ruthless precision, every thrust forcing another helpless sound from your throat. The room fills with the obscene slick sounds of your body reacting, no matter how hard you try to resist.

Your thighs push against his hips, trying to shift him off balance, but he only tightens his hold, catching your chin in one hand to force your eyes back to his.

"You're fighting me," he murmurs, voice dark with something wicked and possessive. "But listen to yourself. Feel yourself. You want this."

A fresh wave of embarrassment crashes over you as your body clenches around him, pulsing with every punishing thrust. You shake your head, biting back a sob, but you’re trembling now for all the wrong reasons, lost in the terrifying, electric edge of surrender.

"Please... please Beom-seok!" you cry out, every movement shatters what little strength you have left, every second stretching into something unbearable. You try to pull away, to twist from his grip, but it's futile. He's relentless. You’re nothing but raw nerves and shaking limbs now, reduced to the desperate, broken shape of someone who just wants it to end. 

He just chuckles darkly, gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises as he slams into you even harder. "There you go, sweetheart. Take it all. Let go for me—let me give you exactly what you’ve been aching for." 

His other hand comes up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back as he hilts inside you, grinding his pelvis against your ass. "I’ll cum so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow, just the way I know your body craves it." 

You sob tears slipping down your cheeks unchecked as the pressure builds, unbearable and hot, curling in your core like a storm you can’t outrun.

The cold ground scrapes at your skin, but you barely register it. The only thing you feel is him is the weight, the pace, the overwhelming heat of being taken.

He watches you fall apart beneath him, eyes sharp and unreadable, breath hot against your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, a wicked edge in his voice. “You’re begging without a word.”

You choke on a sob, the sound dissolving into a moan as pleasure crashes over you, brutal and consuming.

There’s no room left for thought, no space for resistance and just sensation. Just the way he fucks you mercilessly into the cold, unforgiving ground, until you forget where you end and he begins. You feel him ground your hips harshly and flips you over onto your back with a sudden, rough motion. Before you can catch your breath, he's on top of you again, looming above, eyes burning with feral lust behind the steamed up glasses. He hooks your knees over his elbows, nearly bending you in half as he drives back into your abused pussy with a guttural moan.

“Fuck… the way you hold me—so warm, so tight—I swear you were made just for me.” His voice is low, rough with cruel satisfaction, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he drives into you with punishing precision.

The lenses catch the low light, reflecting just enough to mask his eyes, but you can still feel them—locked on your face, watching every tear, every flicker of surrender.

He sets a merciless rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, stretching you around him until you're gasping, seeing stars. You’re pinned beneath him, your body overwhelmed and trembling, reduced to sensation and sound—slick, wet, and ragged cries echoing off the walls.

And he still watches you through those damn glasses...fogged at the edges, a little crooked and like you’re something precious he intends to ruin slowly. 

"That’s my girl… make those sounds for me. Let the whole world know who’s fucking you like this." Beom-seok growls, sweat dripping from his chin onto your heaving tits. "You're mine now. Every sound you make, every time your body opens for me—it’s all mine." 

He leans down, biting at your neck hard enough to leave a mark. The mix of pain and pleasure is dizzying, your mind short-circuiting with the intensity of it all.

"Beom-seok!" you wail, fingernails scrabbling at his back. You're so close, teetering on the edge, your pussy clenching wildly around him. But he just fucks you harder, chase his own release, determined to make you fall apart completely.

You could feel it. You feel the way Beom-seok’s breath hitched, the way his grip tightened just slightly, fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to anchor himself. His rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, a sharp stutter that made your own body brace, tension coiling tight. His glasses on his nose, fogged at the edges, crooked from how hard he’d been moving. You caught a glimpse of his eyes behind the lenses—heavy-lidded, unfocused, undone.

Then his head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering shut, a raw, breathless moan breaking from his throat. With a final, brutal thrust, Beom-seok drives in deep buried to the hilt and goes still.

A guttural sound tears from him as his cock twitches inside you, each pulse drawing a soft cry from your lips. You feel the heat of him, spilling in thick, hot waves as your own body clenches around him, milking every last drop.

And through it all, those fogged-up glasses stay on his face—crooked, slipping, catching the light as he shudders against you, lost in the high of it.

“Fuck… take it all, baby. Just like that.” he growls, grinding against your cervix, making sure every last drop of his cum paints your insides. You can feel the warmth of it, the obscene amount of it, flooding your walls.

Panting, he finally pulls out, his breath still ragged as he watches you. You lie there trembling, legs slack, your body caught between exhaustion and afterglow. His eyes track the slow drip of him leaking from you, your inner thighs sticky and glistening. It slides out in lazy pulses, leaving no doubt who you belong to.

He adjusts his glasses with one hand, slow and deliberate, then leans back on his thighs, eyes raking over you like you’re something obscene and beautiful all at once. The faint glint of his lenses catches the low light, masking the hunger in his gaze but you feel it, sharp and possessive.

He exhales, a low, satisfied sound. “Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fucking perfect like this.” The heat in his stare scorches you, more searing than his touch ever could. He leans in, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours like he wants to brand the moment into your bones.

“Remember this,” he says, voice low and rough, “every inch… every breath.” His hand drifts between your thighs, fingers gathering the slick evidence of what he’s done to you. You shiver as he gently presses two fingers back inside, slow and unyielding, pushing his claim deeper into you.

“The way I filled you,” he breathes, watching your face as his fingers begin to move in a lazy rhythm, “left myself buried so deep, your body’s going to ache with the memory.”

Each thrust is deliberate—more intimate than rough—drawing soft, helpless sounds from you as he curls his fingers just right. You clench around him, your breath hitching, and that only makes him smile.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “Always were.”

He slows, then pulls his fingers out with a deliberate, gentle slide. Your body still trembling from the sensation, he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—warm and slick with sweat.

His lips hold the kiss for a moment, grounding, almost tender amidst the heat and chaos. You can feel the steady beat of his breath against your skin as his eyes meet yours again, quieter now, but no less intense. He then scoops you into his arms, his grip firm even in its care. Your body, boneless and trembling from everything and melts against his chest, not out of trust… but because you’re too spent to resist. He carries you back to the bed without a word, the silence louder than it should be.

When he lays you on the sheets, they feel cold against your flushed skin. His fingers brush the damp strands of hair from your face—gentle, yes, but it’s a studied gentleness. The kind you know could vanish in an instant.

“There now,” he murmurs, voice gravelly but controlled. “That was just what you needed, wasn’t it, sweetheart?”

There’s something in the way he says it—like he’s not really asking. Like your need is something he gets to define.

"A reminder of who you belong to."

The words settle over you like a weight. Your stomach tightens. He tucks the blanket around your naked body—marked, bruised, his. The act should be comforting, but instead it feels like being wrapped in a cage you can’t quite see. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft but possessive, lingering just a moment too long. You don’t move. You don’t dare.

"I expect you to be a good girl now, understand?” His voice dips lower. “No more of this bratty behavior."

His fingers drift across your cheek—slow, almost affectionate—but it only makes your heart pound faster.

“I want you focused on being good for me,” he says, like a warning disguised as care. “Behave yourself, sweet thing. I’ll be watching."

And you believe him.

When he rises, he dresses slowly, methodically. Shirt buttoned, belt fastened, everything smoothed into place like nothing happened. You lie still, skin cooling, muscles sore. The silence he leaves behind is heavier than before, thick with the scent of sex… and something colder. Your body still trembles, not just from the aftermath, but from the growing sense that he isn’t finished with you.

And you’re starting to understand that in Beom-seok’s world…belonging isn’t a choice.

fin

© 2025 mymelllllinda

[kngrose]

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐄

sevika with a s/o from piltover

WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol, fluff and more fluff

from roselí ᡣ𐭩 : happy new year! i hope everyone’s had happy holidays! i’d like to thank you all for the kind messages and for all of your submissions; my inbox is filled. i took a small hiatus to prioritize family and to sort out my other blog and content, but mother has returned and asks will be answered! ᡣ𐭩

Just thinking about the first time she catches you sneaking into the undercity.

You definitely weren’t supposed to be there, you or your friends; But you all had ended up feeling a little ballsy and sneaking into Zaun after a few drinks of stolen alcohol from their parents.

It was fun. One might call you shallow or privileged for ‘escaping’ Piltover to party in Zaun. Randomly appearing from your wealthy life to the common wealth; because you had that luxury.

But how could you care? It was exhilarating to get away from all the snobs of Topside and the snobby school filled with snobby teens and all their snobby parents money.

You see in Topside, nothing less than brilliance was expected of you. From a young age you were groomed to excel in every aspect of the word: your parents meticulously planning out your life. Enrollment into the prestigious school was non-negotiable, and to your parents your success wasn’t measured by personal growth, but by your accolades and connections.

It’s not enough that you’re accepted into such a narrow landing, you must exceed their expectations. Achieve feats that cement your families legacy.

And after being the top of your class, exceeding in every extra curricular, and remaining poised and graceful at all times, you’ll be expected to choose a suitor and marry into more snobby wealth.

All the rules and regulations were much too heavy a burden, and it felt nice to be at ease for once.

And so what if for once turned into every now and then…

Your friends had long ditched the idea, emphasizing that it was a ‘one time thing’ and they wouldn’t be supporting your idea to keep frequenting the ‘poor’.

Well so be it, if you had to be alone, a lone wolf you’d be. You’d navigated these streets before, you know your way there and back—

“Lost, sweetheart?”

The voice was low and sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade. You froze, your hand instinctively reaching for the small dagger hidden under your cloak. When you turned, a woman stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the brick wall. Her stance was deceptively relaxed, but her sharp gaze missed nothing.

She was larger than life, her broad shoulders and metal arm gleaming faintly under the dull glow of a nearby streetlamp. Even in the dim light, her gaze was unmistakable—dangerous and amused, like a predator catching sight of prey.

“I don’t think this is your side of town,” she continued, taking a step closer. The sound of her boots against the cobblestones echoed ominously. “Little piltie girl, right? The hell could you possibly be doing all the way down here?”

Your breath caught. You’d done everything to blend in—rough clothes, a lowered hood—but it clearly hadn’t been enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady.

She just scoffed, the sound deep and mocking. “Sure, and I’m the head of the Council.” She tilted her head, studying you like a puzzle she was deciding whether to solve. “You stick out like a sore thumb. So, why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what you’re looking for?”

You hesitated, weighing your options. Lying felt pointless; she’d already seen through you. But telling her the truth? You weren’t sure if that would be better or worse. “I’m just passing through,” you said, attempting to sidestep her.

Her metal arm shot out, blocking your path with a loud clang as it met the wall beside you. She leaned in, her face close enough that you could see the faint scar cutting across her cheek. “Passing through?” she echoed, her voice dripping with disbelief. “That’s funny, because people from Piltover don’t pass through the Undercity. They either come looking for trouble, or they’re running from it.”

Her words made your stomach twist. You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off, her sharp gaze narrowing. “Let me guess,” she said, her tone almost bored. “You’re here for something you can’t get topside. Something dangerous. Am I right?”

You swallowed hard, your silence giving you away. “Something like that..”

She huffed through her nose in amusement, leaning back just enough to give you a moment to breathe. “Thought so. Look, Piltover girl, this place eats people like you alive.” She paused, her eyes glinting with amusement as she sized you up. “You should stay where you’re safe. Never know who might be looking to ruin something so soft.”

Looking back, it’s a bit ironic.

She’d put in enough effort to try and keep you away; told you harrowing stories and showed you the daunting realities of Zaun. She’d walked you through the slums of the place, let you see the true living conditions. True, it was a lifetime different than Piltover. Also true, you now understood the shallowness of calling such a place ‘fun’. You’d seen the truth now, and it almost made you want to make a change. She’d succeeded in making you want to stay away from the undercity entirely.

Just not her.

Of course it wasn’t anything either of you had planned or foreseen; The random attraction that you just knew was mutual. Of course attraction wasn’t enough to put a label on it, but you figured when she became your unofficial guide of the Undercity that it was enough to be called acquaintances.

The first few nights were cautious. Going directly against her orders, as she’d called it, she’d caught you sneaking through the Undercity again. She figured she’d just let you wonder around and probably get mugged or whatever. But she couldn’t— and against her better judgment, she chaperoned you.

Sevika didn't trust you— why would she? What sort of a pea brained Piltie would come down here? For fun, at that? She kept her distance, watching you as you wandered the undercity with the wonder of someone who had never known hardship. You’d asked questions, not just about Zaun but about her: her arm, her life, her thoughts. Sevika answered sparingly at first, her natural suspicion at war with a growing amusement at your audacity.

But you kept coming back, and Sevika found herself drawn to you stubbornness. Unlike most Pilties, you weren't trying to fix anything or impose your ideas of progress. You just wanted to understand. Over time, Sevika began to meet you intentionally, waiting at the same spot every night after her work was done.

She took you deeper into Zaun, showing you places most outsiders never saw: the hidden workshops where discarded scraps became innovation, the quiet corners where people found moments of joy amid the chaos. In return, the you shared snippets of your life in Piltover-stories of rigid expectations and a yearning for freedom that resonated more with Sevika than she cared to admit.

Your relationship grew slowly, almost entirely against your wills. For you, Sevika was a stark contrast to the life you’d known: a life of politeness, restraint, and pretense. Sevika's blunt honesty and strength were intoxicating. For Sevika, you were a reminder that not all Piltover elites were heartless or blind to the suffering below.

Your connection deepened in secret. Meetings in shadowed alleys and hidden corners of Zaun, far from prying eyes. Sevika, ever the realist, tried to keep her guard up. "This is dangerous. For both of us," she would say.

But you were persistent. "Everything about my life is already decided for me," you whispered one night, your voice trembling. "This... you... it's the only thing that feels real."

Sevika knew the risks. She'd spent her life surviving in a world that crushed the weak. Falling for a Piltie—a woman whose family was arranging her marriage to a wealthy, ambitious topsider— was a vulnerability she couldn't afford.

And yet, Sevika couldn't stop herself.

She supposed if she’d treated you like the liability that you were this could’ve been avoided.

"Your folks are trying to get you with some preppy boy? Damn. Just imagine the look on his face when they tell him that their daughter's in love with some thug twice her age."

She’d joke about it a lot, but you could hear the insecurity behind her ‘joking’ words.

The arranged marriage loomed over you like a storm. Your parents saw you as nothing more than a pawn in their political games, and the marriage was meant to strengthen their position in Piltover's cutthroat hierarchy. It was a hard pill to swallow. You hated it, but defying them would mean losing everything; your family, your status, your safety.

Sevika would sneer at herself privately. How could she— hardened by years of betrayal and loss, find herself wanting something she’d never thought she deserved?

Love.

With a piltie… It left a bitter taste on her tongue.

"I could run away," She recalled you offering one night, laid up in her flat, voice filled with desperation. "Leave Piltover. Stay with you." But she shook her head. "You don't belong in Zaun, and I don't belong topside. Running won't change that. Not to mention," She sat up on one arm looking down at you, “You know what type of hell they’d raise down here if you go ‘missing’?” You bit your tongue at her words, and she’d avoided your gaze. The truth was painful.

The alley was partially quiet tonight, the only sound the soft hum of the dying streetlights. You should’ve known better than to come back here. Every trip to the Undercity felt like stepping further into a fire, knowing you were already too close to getting burned.

The streetlights above flickered in the distance, casting a pale glow that barely penetrated the smog-choked night air. You tugged your scarf tighter, feeling the weight of it—of the lies you’d told, the deceit. But your heart beat faster as you heard the sound of heavy boots crunching the metal beneath them, unmistakable even in the shadows.

“You’re late.”

Sevika’s voice broke through the silence, low and commanding. You hadn’t seen her yet, but you didn’t need to. You knew the sound of her voice, the sharpness that always lingered in it.

You turned slowly, your heart catching in your throat when you saw her silhouette leaning against the rusted wall. Her eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, locked onto yours with a gaze that was both predatory and possessive. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her stance confident and unyielding.

“I had to make sure no one followed me,” you said, your voice quiet, laced with the unease that always came with being here. Being with her. She raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips curling up in a half-smile that never quite reached her eyes. “Do you think I’d let you get caught?” she asked, stepping forward, her presence commanding the space between you.

You stare at her with fond eyes; She’s was everything you weren’t supposed to want—strong, dangerous, and untouchable. She had a reputation that spread like wildfire through both cities, and you were well aware of the risks.

And yet, you’re drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

Her gaze softened, just for a second, and she reached out to gently push a strand of hair from your face. All of your reservations melted away. The rest of the world disappeared, leaving just the two of you.

“I hate that you come down here,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, a rare vulnerability creeping into her tone. “It’s dangerous… you’ve got no business in this place.”

You took a step closer, the pull between you undeniable. “I don’t care about that. I need to be here. I need to see you.” Her eyes darkened, and her breath caught for a moment before she let out a low chuckle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Piltover. If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t.” You reached for her hand, your fingers brushing the cold metal of her prosthetic, the touch both thrilling and unsettling. “I trust you.”

Sevika’s gaze flickered to your hand before meeting your eyes. There was a long pause, the air between you charged with something unspoken. Then, in a move that was both tender and possessive, she pulled you closer.

“You shouldn’t.” she murmured, her voice a low growl. “Not in this place. Not when you have everything to lose.”

“But I do,” you whispered, your lips brushing against hers. “I trust you with everything.”

She hesitated, and for a moment, you thought she might pull away, that she might remember the boundaries that should never have been crossed. But instead, her hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was raw and desperate—filled with the months of unspoken longing and defiance.

The kiss was everything you both had been hiding. Everything you both knew you could never have. The danger, the risk, the lie of it all, wrapped in the heat of her lips, the fierceness of her touch.

When she pulled back, her chest rose and fell with the same unsteady breath you were trying to catch. She pressed her forehead against yours, her metal arm resting at your waist as she held you close.

“You’re a fool,” she said softly. “This can’t go anywhere. You know that, right?”

You nodded, your fingers tracing the edge of her leather coat. “I know. But I don’t care.”

She chuckled darkly, though there was something softer in her gaze now—something that, for the first time, made her look almost vulnerable. “We’re both fools then,” she said quietly, before kissing you again, deeper this time, as though sealing a pact neither of you could break.

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[kdyq]

Hi, I got to know your blog recently and I loved your writing, your story of Ambessa x pregnant reader gave me an idea. What do you think of a modern au (or in the series setting if you prefer) Ambessa solo mom. Where she meets the reader and sees that the relationship between the two is getting more serious and decides to introduce formally to her children, I imagine them younger but if you want with them older it would be great too!! ❤️

A piece of her world.

AU! Milf!Ambessa x Fem!reader

context: You and Ambessa meet at a art gallery and a month later Ambessa wants the relationship to deepen by introducing you to her two kids Kino and Mel at dinner.

The first time you met Ambessa she gave off an effortlessly commanding presence drew attention the moment she entered the room. It was at a small art gallery downtown where you’d been helping a friend organize an opening. She was hard to miss her tall regal figure dressed in a tailored dark cherry red suit her sharp gaze sweeping the room as though sizing up a battlefield. What started as a simple conversation over drinks turned into dinner dates late night talks and an undeniably connection.

Months later you found yourself deeply in love with the woman who somehow balanced happiness and tenderness with ease. Still there was a part of her life she’d carefully kept at arm’s length her children.

She had spoken of them occasionally Kino her thoughtful and bookish eldest, and Mel her sarcastic and optimistic youngest. But she kept that part of her life separate not out of secrecy. But out of a deep sense of protection it doesn’t mean she didn’t trust you it’s just a motherly instinct of hers.

But it all changed one crisp Saturday morning when she invited you over for dinner.

“I think it’s time you met my children ”she said over the phone with a steady tone.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure” she replied. “You’ve become important to me and I think they need to see that.”

You smiled touched by her words. “I’d love to meet them.”

When you arrived at Ambessa’s house it was every bit as grand as you’d imagined modern and elegant with high ceilings grand decor and wide windows that let sunlight flood the space.

Ambessa greeted you at the door dressed casually for once in a fitted sweater and dark jeans. She looked calm but the slight tension in her posture betrayed her nerves.

“You’re nervous” you teased gently stepping inside.

She huffed crossing her arms. “I’m not nervous.”

“Liar” you said with a smile leaning up to kiss her cheek. “It’ll be fine.”

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hallway and two figures stepped into the room. Kino appeared first tall and composed at eighteen with a quiet confidence that made him seem older than his years.

His dark locks in a back ponytail his brown eyes landed on you. He paused for a moment studying you in a way that felt both cautious and intrigued.

“You must be [Your Name] Kino said his tone even but polite as if he were testing the waters.

“I am” you replied matching his calm energy with a warm smile.

“And you must be Kino.”

He nodded a flicker of amusement crossing his face as his lips went into a faint smirk. “Mama talks about you. A lot.”

“Does she?” You glanced at Ambessa who stood just behind him arms crossed and exuding her usual composed demeanor.

But there was a hint of softness in her expression a subtle pride as she observed the interaction. “Good things I hope?”

“She said you’re smart and funny” Kino replied his tone teasing just enough to make you smile.

Before you could respond a smaller figure darted into the room behind him. Mel at fifteen moved with a youthful energy that contrasted sharply with her brother’s calm demeanor. Though she was only a few inches shorter than Kino her presence was just as commanding her green eyes flicking between you and her mother before finally settling on you.

“So” Mel said leaning casually against the doorway with a playful smirk “you’re the one who’s been stealing all of Mom’s attention.”

“That’s me” you said with a light laugh your gaze meeting hers. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

Mel tilted her head studying you with an intensity that reminded you of Ambessa though hers had a mischievous edge. “We’ll see.”

Kino groaned rolling his eyes as he turned to his sister. “Mel seriously can you not?”

“What?” Mel shrugged her smirk growing. “I’m just saying—”

“You’re gonna scaring them off” Kino cut her off with a sigh giving you a look that said this was a regular occurrence.

Mel opened her mouth to make a comeback but Ambessa’s voice cut through the playful tension like a blade. “Enough Mel.”

Mel held up her hands in mock surrender though the mischievous twinkle in her eye remained.

Before the back and forth could escalate even more Kino turned back to you and gestured toward the living room. “Come on” he said his voice quieter now almost shy.

“I want to show you something. Mom told me you like books and I’ve been putting together a library.”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise genuinely touched by the offer. “I’d love to see it.”

As he led you out of the room Mel lingered behind with Ambessa. She crossed her arms her smirk softening as she glanced at her mother. “She’s better than the last one” she muttered under her breath.

Ambessa raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “Mel.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

From the doorway Ambessa watched it all unfold with a quiet intensity. Her expression softened as she observed how naturally you fit into her world. The way Kino opened up to you the ease with which you handled Mel’s sarcasm it all struck a chord deep within her. For someone so fiercely protective of her family seeing this dynamic felt like a rare moment of peace as if the pieces of her life were finally aligning.

You glanced back at her catching her eye as Kino chatted excitedly about his favorite books. She gave you a small nod In her way of saying she was glad you were here.

Ambessa watched it all unfold with a quiet intensity her expression softening as she saw how naturally you fit into her world.

After dinner you and Ambessa retreated to the back patio the stars glittering above as the cool night air wrapped around you. She poured two glasses of Syrah red wine her usual strong composure giving way to something more vulnerable.

“You were amazing with them” she said her voice low but full of emotion.

“They’re incredible kids” you replied leaning into her side. “You’ve done an amazing job with them.”

She exhaled softly her arm wrapping around your shoulders. “It hasn’t been easy ”she admitted.

“Especially after their father went away. But they’re my world.”

“You don’t have to do it alone anymore ” you said your voice gentle but firm.

Ambessa looked at you her eyes searching yours. For a moment you saw the vulnerability she so rarely let show the weight of years spent carrying the burden of being both mother and protector.

“I know”she said softly her hand brushing against your cheek. “And I’m glad it’s you.”

You stayed like that for a long time wrapped in each other’s warmth as the future stretched out before you and filled with endless possibilities.

“THE END”

AN/ TYSM @baesye for requesting this i hope I brought your vision to life. I never really thought about doing an AU ambessa x fem reader story but in the near future I will definitely make more stories in a AU once again tysm 🙏🏾🙌🏾.

+ I’m running out of photos for Ambessa so ima have to reuse them and I can’t draw for shit so I gotta do what a what girl gotta do 😭🤷🏾‍♀️.

[tteokdoroki]

aali how do u think jock yuuji makes out with u 👉👈

࣪𖤐๋࣭ — JOCK BF!YUUJI ENTRY #11. makeout sesh.

about. the jock boyfriend convinces his girlfriend that making out is always more fun than studying. m.list ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊ ⊹

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! suggestive, nsfw, making out, consensual groping lmao, weird / fem!reader, jock bf!yuuji.

makeouts with jock yuuji never start how you expect them to.

you’ll be doing nothing at all; studying together in your dorm or holding hands in yuuji’s jeep on the way to a meet up or something else just regular and mundane. if it’s studying, for example, you’ll reward yuuji with a kiss — to his forehead, between his eyebrows, his cheeks or the corner of his mouth every time he spends an hour focusing on work.

“what about here?” he’ll say, tapping the fullness of his lips, blinking up at you innocently.

and in response, you’ll barely look up from your laptop and books. “what about there?”

“you’re no fun.” he pouts back, as usual. “c’mere.” makeouts with jock bf!yuuji never start the way you expect them to, but they almost always end the same. this time with him pulling you into his lap, chest to chest and hearts in sync as he lures you into a sweet and simple kiss. “i like it when you kiss me here…” there’s a shift in the stuffy air, yuuji’s dark lashes soft against your features as his eyes flutter and hardly look away from you. from your lips.

if you’re careful enough you can catch the way the corners of his mouth twitch up into a coy smirk for a split second before his large, dominant hand slides up from your waist to the back of your head — pulling you in for more than just a rewarding peck.

yuuji’s tongue is patient when your lips meet again, swiping over them as an ask for entry. the mewl you let out when his pink muscle finally swipes over yours is music to your boyfriend’s ears — he shudders wholly, with his entire body, and tightens his grip on you. lets it slide down to your plush ass, squeezing it hungrily.

you’re close but not close enough, even with your noses nudging and becoming next door neighbours as your lip locks grow more feverish. intense. yuuji fills you with a different kind of heat that builds up, swapping spit with you like he’s pouring molten lava and wrapping it around your internal organs. your lungs burn with every breath between every kiss, you need yuuji as though he’s your oxygen or your air.

“you taste s’good, baby, so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles into your mouth, against your bruised lips — groaning with thanks to the higher power above when you cup his throat with your dainty little hands and squeeze. yuuji’s mind grows hazy, his touch more and more inappropriate (pinching your ass, your tummy, thumbing the skin where your breasts meet your ribs) while his appetite for you becomes ravenous.

“don’t stop,” you sigh, purring at the weight of your boyfriend’s tongue in your mouth. “don’t stop kissin’ me…”

itadori cherishes each and every single one of your kisses, treating them like they’re gold and basking in your reactions to them. your hand around his neck, your whines, your other hand tugging on his air. you want yuuji as much as he wants you. you want his taste, touch, attention.

he wants it all from you too.

it’s only when your chest begins to burn from the lack of air that you unwilling part from your strong boyfriend — sitting back in his lap so that you’re only a breath’s width apart, panting heavily as you recover. “we um…we got a little distracted,” you laugh airily, steadying yourself on yuuji’s broad shoulders. “this is exactly why you don’t get kisses on the lips when we study.”

in the end, all yuuji ever does is smile, linking his fingers with yours happily. “so whaddya say? let’s give up studying ‘n get a little more carried away, yeah?”

making out with yuuji always ends with you being putty in his hands, or perhaps underneath him instead.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai & recommend elsewhere.

[ponderingmoonlight]

Basen hating kissing the hell out of you

Pairing: Basen x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,7k

Synopsis: That General who is so full of himself, who never misses a chance to put you into your place. And you? A hot-headed nurse with outstanding tactical abilities and a big mouth. What can possibly go wrong?

Warnings: enemies to lovers y'all, why is it always the side characters on this blog 😭 language, injuries, heated kisses hehehe

You never thought you’d end up here - stuck in the middle of the Imperial Palace’s tangled web, tasked with not only saving lives but also becoming a strategic advisor in matters of war. Did you even dare to dream of taking in this role at the palace?

Not once.

Despite being the head nurse of the Imperial Army’s medical corps, your knowledge stretches far beyond medical healing. You’ve studied the anatomy of war, how to break down the enemy’s tactics, and how to keep the army fighting even when the odds seem overwhelming.

After all, your father was a general himself before he found his own end on the battlefield, leaving you behind with nothing but the knowledge you’ve gained from his mission reports and books.

To be honest, the anatomy of the body and war never differed that much to you anyway. It took you no effort to catch attention by the medical corps of the Imperial Palace by a very young age, to outshine even some of the doctors and Generals with your expertise.

But Gao Basen, the General of the imperial forces, refuses to acknowledge any of this.It’s not that he’s rude. No, Basen is far too well-mannered for that. He simply doesn’t take you seriously.

To him, you’re just a nurse, someone to bandage wounds, prepare medicines, and keep the soldiers on his trenches alive. The fact that you have a better understanding of battlefield strategy than most generals seems lost on him.

Every time you try to offer a suggestion, he dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

“Stay out of this, nurse,” he barked at you during one of the many operations you’ve been forced to collaborate on.

His tone wasn’t unkind, but it carried that arrogance that made you want to punch him in his oh so perfectly-shaped face.

“Leave the tactics to us.”

That was before the rebellion reached its peak, though. Now, the battlefield is everywhere - the palace, the streets, even the walls of the very city you swore to protect. The emperor’s will is being challenged, and General Gao Basen is leading the charge.

Well, at least he thinks he does.

The first real test of your worth comes when the emperor orders a new assault on a rebel refuge. The battle is expected to be brutal, and the medical corps is rushing to prepare under your command.

But even in the chaos, you’re needed beyond your station. You, who can read a battlefield like a map, who understands how to turn the tides of war by just knowing where to place your forces and where to strike, are called in to offer strategy.

Oh, you know a certain someone who will be absolutely fuming about this.

“You’ve all seen the plan,” Jinshi states, voice cool and collected, his eyes flicking between the generals and advisors gathered around the table.

“But we have little time. I’d like to hear your thoughts, head nurse.”

You take your place at the table, your gaze meeting Basen’s across the room while you’re barely able to hold yourself together. He looks at you, his face unreadable, but his posture stiffens ever so slightly. It’s as if he’s already decided you don’t belong here, as if the sheer fact that you breathe the same air as him almost drives him over the edge.

What a sight.

Ignoring him with that feeling of satisfaction filling you to the brim, you pull a map towards you, running your finger along the terrain.

“We need to utilize the terrain to our advantage,” you begin, your voice steady and confident.

“The rebels have set up in the valley, but there are high ground positions on the left and right. We could use those as staging points for a two-branched attack while simultaneously sending a smaller unit to flank from behind.”

One of the generals gives a soft grunt of approval. Except for Basen, everyone silently acknowledged you a long time ago.

“But what about the cavalry?”

“That’s where we’ll hit them hardest,” you respond quickly, already sketching the next steps on the map.

“The cavalry has been spread too thin. A concentrated effort here”, you point to a key point on the map, “will take them out before they can reinforce.”

For a moment, there is silence. You’re aware of Basen’s gaze on you, the sharpness of his eyes, the way his jaw tightens. You know he doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like you in the war room at all. You, a feisty woman, nothing but a nurse in his eyes. But the others are nodding, murmuring their agreement. Even Gao Shun, the general who raised Basen, looks at the map thoughtfully, his hands resting on the table.

“This could work,” he remarks gruffly.

“But what if the enemy has hidden reserves?”

You smile a little, the answer already forming in your mind. As if you didn’t already think about that beforehand.

“We keep a unit in reserve, hidden by the eastern ridge. If we’re caught in a trap, they can flank and assist us from behind.”

Finally, Basen speaks, his voice cold and cutting.

“You’ve had a lot to say for a nurse. I’ll admit, you know your battlefield tactics, but I’m still in charge of the military strategy.”

You don’t flinch, even though his words sting. After all these years of assisting him while watching him take on the role of a General, this is everything he has to say about you?

“I’m simply offering suggestions, General Gao Basen,” you remark, your tone calm and composed.

“I don’t need your approval.”

Thick anger rises up your veins before you can stop it.Who does he think he is? That son of a high-ranked General who never had to work as hard as you. What does he know about you, your status, your abilities?

A long silence follows before Jinshi speaks up, his voice laced with amusement.

“It seems we’re in agreement. Let’s put it into action.” 

The battle rages on in your pounding ears. The rebel forces are relentless, and the wounded are going to the roof. As the battle shifts in your favor, the injured flood in, and you’re forced to treat one soldier after another, your hands moving quickly, efficiently, but your mind on edge. You can feel the heat of the conflict seeping into the very walls of the palace - this is more than just a rebellion now. It’s a war for survival.

In the midst of the chaos, Basen is everywhere. His presence is a force of nature on the battlefield, his commanding voice cutting through the fog of war and the walls of your tent. You can’t help but peak through the curtains, to watch him from afar.

That smug bastard. He moves with precision, taking down rebels and barking orders, his form a living testament to his father’s iron rule.

But even someone like Basen can be overwhelmed.

You’re in the middle of stitching a soldier’s gash when you hear it - a scream, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. Your heart skips a beat, and your eyes snap to the scene unfolding before you.

There he is.

Basen, bloodied, injured, and holding his side where a deep wound has opened. He’s trying to walk, but the blood pouring from him makes it clear he can’t keep going much longer. His men rush to help him, but he punches them away, his teeth gritted in pain.

You barely register the distance between you before you're already on the move, pushing through the chaos to reach him out of instinct.

“Basen!” you shout, voice cutting through the noise.

He looks at you with cold, narrowed eyes.

“I don’t need your help. And it’s General Gao Basen to you,” he grunts, his voice a low snarl as he stumbles slightly, trying to steady himself.

You ignore the words, rushing to him and pulling him toward the nearest medical station.

“You’re bleeding out, Basen! Let me treat you, idiot!”

Your hands are already at his side, but he jerks back, glaring at you with all the stubbornness and pride you’ve come to expect from him.

“I told you,” he snaps, voice sharp as a whip, “I don’t need a nurse to patch me up. I’m not some weakling who needs tending to. And if you call your General an idiot one more time, I’ll make sure you’ll get punished.”

His refusal and harsh words sting like they usually do, but you don’t let it show. Not now, not when he might bleed out in front of your very own eyes if you continue standing there.

“You’ll die if I don’t treat you, Basen!” you reply, frustration boiling over, your hands gripping his arm to keep him in place.

He recoils violently, his face flushed with anger.

“I don’t need you to save me,” he growls, his breath ragged.

“You think I care about your medicines and bandages? You think I’m some soldier who needs to be babysat?”

“Stop acting like a damn fool!”

The words fly out before you can stop them, the tension that’s been building between you both finally snapping.

“You’re not unshakable, Basen. You can’t fight everything on your own.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to walk away again. But instead, he takes a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. His eyes flicker with something dark, something intense, before he takes a step closer to you.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

“To always be expected to be perfect. To always have people looking to you for answers. To be the one everyone depends on and never let down. I can’t… I won’t be weak.”

The raw emotion in his voice hits you harder than you expect. You take a step forward, your hand reaching out almost instinctively to touch his arm, to comfort him in the way you know how - by offering your help, by showing him that you care, that you’re not judging him.

But before your fingers can make contact, Basen moves. His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist tightly, and with a sudden, jerking motion, he pulls you closer.

The shock of his touch makes your breath catch in your throat. You look up at him, his eyes wild, burning with frustration, with something else.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hisses, but his voice wavers for just a second.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Basen pulls you the rest of the way toward him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that leaves you breathless.

It’s hot. It’s furious. His mouth is demanding, his kiss claiming, as if he’s trying to drown the fury and frustration he feels inside, trying to lock it all away in this moment.

You’re too stunned to move at first, the shock of it all coursing through your veins.

But then, instinct kicks in.

You kiss him back. You’re not sure what drives you. Anger, desire, or the way his entire body is shaking with unexpended emotion? But it doesn’t matter. There’s no turning back now.

His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you, his heartbeat loud in your chest as his grip on your wrist shifts to your waist.For a moment, all the anger, all the long lived hostility between you, melts away.

It’s just him, just you, the heat of the battle fading into the background as his kiss deepens, becoming more desperate, more primal. You pull away just enough to breathe, your chest heaving, your heart pounding in your ears. His face is inches from yours, and his breath is just as ragged as yours.

You…hate him, don’t you? You always hated Basen with all of your heart. Hated the way he looks down at you, hated his cold gaze, hated how he always urged to be in charge, to be the one in control. Gao Basen is the epitome of all the things you have, and yet…

“Don’t ever… do that again,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

You can’t tell if you’re angry, confused, or something else entirely, but your chest feels tight, as if your breath is trapped beneath his hands.

Basen doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, his voice a low rasp.

“I don’t know what this is. But I can’t stand seeing you with anyone else, not even with Master Jinshi. Can’t stand you not being by my side, can’t stand you putting yourself on display for danger almost every single day… can’t stand it…”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know how to respond to the confession that feels raw and completely out of place in this moment. Instead, you step back, shaking your head slowly, even as your heart races faster than you can understand.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur, but there’s no real heat in your words anymore.

You’re too confused, too overwhelmed to be angry. Was all of this just a dream? Those words, the desperation in his gaze?

No.

You shake your head ever so slightly, eyes shifting to the gaping wound on his side.

“And I’m still treating that wound.”

Basen’s eyes narrow, his pride not letting him fully back down. But there’s a shift in his look, a flicker of something deeper, something softer that you can’t quite place.

“You’re stubborn,” he mutters, his voice still rough.

“And you’re insufferable…kissing me in the middle of the battlefield like that…”

“But you kissed me back-“

“I DID NOT!”

[attapullman]

Bob From Stats | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: College is a wild time, but absolutely nothing could prepare you for the quiet guy from Stats riding around campus as a cowboy. Or what a good kisser he is.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: f!reader, smut, 18+ ONLY as always, dry humping, alcohol, drunken party games, mentions of studying because that gives me PTSD, semi-exaggerated Greek life for theatrical reasons

A Note From Mo: Somehow my frat!Bob, drunk Bob is Rhett, and 7 minutes in heaven ideas all rolled into one fic - wild! Massive shoutout to everyone who listened to me talk about Stats Bob (who is now officially my #2 Bob, I love him) and for supporting this here lil blog. May you find a hobby-horse-wielding future WSO to sweep you off your feet too!

If you liked this, you may also enjoy on our syllabus Bob From Pi Kapp.

“I hate this. I’m going to quit school and become a stripper.”

Anna gives you a wry look. “That joke was only funny the first time you said it.”

“So you admit I’m funny!”

The two of you have been spread out in the library the majority of the evening. Textbooks, snacks, and highlighters littering the glossy dark wood. You’re on hour five of assignments and your brain is pounding against the front of your skull. Your other classes aren’t too bad, a bit time consuming, but Statistics is a foreign language. Thinking in probable numbers? It was one thing when the nice guy who sat behind you helped explain concepts, but Anna does not have quite the same analytical mind.

The sky outside is an inky black and the library is quiet except for your frustrated huffs. It’s Saturday night. The rest of campus is indulging in cheap beers at Barney’s, slinking along Greek Row, or enjoying tonight’s episode of Saturday Night Live. It’s time to get out of here and crawl into your soft bed. Torturing yourself with Stats homework will be just as painful on Sunday.

“If I buy us a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, can we blow this off and hang out back at the dorms?” Anna is nodding before you’ve even finished. Stuffing notebooks into backpacks and capping pens low on ink, you’re strolling down the library stairs not even five minutes later.

As the balmy evening campus air hits your face, you already feel fresher. Campus is quiet, late enough that most people are settled into their Saturday night plans. As the two of you near Greek Row, there’s a comfortable silence as you appreciate the breeze through the trees and the warm glow of campus housing windows.

That is, until a low whoop rings out. An undercurrent of boisterous cheering and what sounds like stomping feet. You exchange eyes with your roommate. What is that?

As if summoned, a group comes galloping through the neatly trimmed cypress trees around the corner. They’re stomping their feet in a rhythm, hands held mid-air to imitate holding reigns. Drunken laughs ring out between cries of “Whoa!” and “Steady there, Lucky!” To round it off, the leader of their horse play (literally) is full-on cosplaying as a cowboy, his jeans tucked into boots and a Stetson perched atop his head. 

Wait, is he holding a hobby horse? It’s been decades since you’ve seen those horse heads stuck on a stick. The stuffed felt Appaloosa head is reigned in the cowboy’s hands, where he pretends to spur it back into action. 

Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

The group continues its way toward you and you’re equally secondhand embarrassed and amused. As they grow closer you recognize a few guys from the Pi Kapp house and wave. But it’s Anna who makes the most shocking discovery when Mr. Cowboy tilts his brim up.

"Is that Bob from Stats?" 

It takes a second to look past the brown felt hat and the hobby horse he's taking for a spin, but that's definitely the same pink-cheeked Bob Floyd who has lent you a pencil all semester. 

“Howdy, ladies.” He tips his hat to you, all toothy grin and droopy drunk eyes. "Can I offer you a ride?"

You stare open-mouthed. Shocked. That slow rancher drawl is new. The unbridled confidence is new. Actually, the entire getup is new. For nine weeks you’ve seen him in the same trucker hat and sweatshirt combo while going over homework answers together. What is going on?

He’s clearly in the middle of his house party crawl, bright blue eyes half open behind his metal frames. Just as gorgeous as ever as a tendril of sandy hair curls against his forehead. Normally your reaction to him is tender, a puppy dog crush. But this wild, inebriated version of him? You’re hot under the collar.

“You think there’s room on your horse?” Ever since that first Stats class he’s made your brain feel like it’s on RedBull. The way he noticed you missing a writing utensil and offering you his extra. His kind smile when you get a homework answer completely wrong. Anna hasn’t noticed your crush, but it feels obvious with the way you can barely keep eye contact with him yet are unable to look away. Especially with that stupid cowboy hat on.

He bites his lip, considering your response, and his buddies all razz him as he drawls out, “There will be if we squeeze in.”

The wink makes your mouth dry.

Someone from the back of the group complains of the cold and the group prepares their steeds to head back to Pi Kapp. Anna explains you’re headed back to the dorms, tone deaf to the sexual tension, and Bob nods with his brow furrowed. 

“Another time then.” His white tshirt practically glows in the moonlight. “Have a good night, chickadees. Get home safe!”

With another tip of his Stetson to you, Bob Floyd gallops away toward another keg. 

You’re sprinting across campus, cursing how late your meeting with your advisor went. There was ten minutes to get across campus and he had spent four of those questioning whether you really needed another semester of French. You make it into the lecture hall with a minute to spare, finding your preferred spot in the lower rows where you can actually see the board. Right in front of Bob.

“What? No cowboy hat for class?” His cheeks flame red, the hope you’ve forgotten about his Saturday antics lost. He looks like himself today, his signature trucker cap keeping the hair off his face. Those friendly ultramarine eyes shyly focusing on his notebook because god forbid he makes eye contact after you’ve seen him gallop across campus on a fake horse. 

He rubs the back of his neck over his soft-looking crewneck, an awkward smile playing on his lips. “It’s at the cleaners.”

You give him an amused grin before settling yourself into one of the classically uncomfortable lecture seats. Anna waves to you from where she’s rushing in, historically always late. The professor is shuffling notes at the podium as she collapses into the seat next to you, nodding her head in greeting to you and to Bob. She raises her eyebrows to you, a “remember when Bob was dressed as a cowboy” gesture, and your lips twist happily. 

“Alright, class, who’s ready to talk probability?” The collective groans and hollers mark the start of lecture. You flip open your notebook and start digging around for a writing instrument in your bag. Like usual, you seem to be missing a pen or pencil when you need one most.

A tap on your shoulder. You turn and lock eyes with the frat boy-turned-cowboy with the shy smile. He holds out a pencil to you. Taking it sheepishly, you mouth a thank you and turn back to lecture. After nine weeks it shouldn’t be this embarrassing, but every week he’s given you a pencil since you whispered shoot! a little too loud on Week 1.

Risking a quick glance back at him, engrossed in the Empirical Law of Averages while he twirls his pencil, you’re not sure you can survive the rest of the semester.

By the end of the Stats lecture on Thursday, you have one brain cell to your name and seven pages of notes. What a brutal class. Midterms were quickly approaching and not a single professor had any mercy. As you pack up your stuff - including the borrowed pencil that would promptly disappear before next class - you make a study plan with Anna for that evening. She brings the chips, you’ll supply the vodka.

“Are you two not hitting the houses tonight?” He looks uncomfortable having interrupted the two of you.

Bob shifts his backpack to his other shoulder, adjusting the collar of his navy blue sweatshirt. Other than when he’s kindly exchanged homework answers before class - or been drunkenly galloping across campus - the two of you don’t speak much. The odd quip here and there, but overall the two of you exist in pencil-sharing quiet. “Everyone’s having pre-midterm parties before buckling down to study.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” You look at Anna encouragingly. As needed as a vodka-infused study session was, one night out couldn’t hurt. And it was Thursday. No classes tomorrow meant you had three days to buckle down and attempt to understand anything you’ve learned this semester. 

She eyes you warily, but agrees that Greek Row sounds like a better option than highlighting textbooks. Bob flashes you his timid smile beneath the brim of his cap. “It’ll be a fun night. Maybe I’ll see you? If not, have a good weekend!” 

As he starts to walk out, a feeling takes over you. “Bob?” You watch him slow down and turn, wide blue eyes watching you from behind those unconventionally cute glasses. “You’ll be at the Pi Kapp house, yeah?” He nods. “Cool. See you around!”

Despite standing next to it the entire conversation, neither of you notice the pencil sitting on the desk, left behind as you head out for your respective weekends.

“What did you say?” You’re practically yelling to be heard over the EDM that Sigma Chi is blaring. They’ve turned their house into a rave with glow sticks, body paint, and music so loud your eardrums must be burst. The beer is warm, your arm has supernaturally purple paint smeared across it, and Anna has been unsuccessfully telling you a story for ten minutes.

Huffing, she grabs your arm and drags you toward the entrance, tossing your cups onto a random hallway table where a heated makeout session is taking place. They move out of the way just enough so the two of you can slip out of the old colonial house and out into the cool night. The ringing in your ears subsides slowly as you lean against the columns of the front porch. 

“House number three? Also sucked. Three strikes and you’re out? Can we go home?” Anna grabs your wrist and pouts. She wanted movie night with vodka and a pizza from Pietro’s. You wanted to blow off steam.

But Alpha Sig had mostly been freshman and Phi Delt, while not a terrible party, had the most smarmy men on campus. The bleeding eardrums of Sigma Chi was preferable to pushing off men in polos just to grab another drink. You just wanted a semi-decently flavored alcoholic beverage - maybe three - while chatting with some friends. You weren’t asking for much.

Allowing Anna to drag you in the direction of the dorms, ready to admit defeat, you slow to a stop seeing the bricked entrance to Pi Kappa Phi. Bob’s fraternity. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, right?

It takes a little convincing, but soon you’re in the warmly lit foyer of the Pi Kapp house. The vibe is more relaxed than Sigma Chi, with a keg in the corner, an array of liquor bottles in the kitchen, and hip-hop softly filling the house. You’re impressed they’ve even gone the extra mile with multi-colored string lights across every surface to brighten up the otherwise dark house. 

“Yooooo, how’s it going?” A drunken loaf of snapback and Deep Eddy envelopes you in a hug. It’s Tyler, one of your freshman seminar PK friends. Exchanging pleasantries - the best you can with someone that far gone - he drags you further into the house. Miscellaneous groups of Greek and geed litter the hallways. Anna sees her friends from Delta Gamma and ditches you, promising to get home safe. Tyler continues on his mission to god knows where.

At least he’s considerate enough to stop in the kitchen so you can grab a whiskey lemonade to sip.

Eventually you’re spat into a sitting room of sorts, groups crowding the ring of sofas while drunkenly jeering at the game. You set yourself on the arm of one, trying to make sense of the theatrics. The latest victim laughs out a “Truth!” before everyone giggles wickedly. Are they playing truth or dare? 

Your eyes gloss over the group, trying to figure out who else you know. A few PK’s you recognize, a girl who smiles but looks unfamiliar, and…a cowboy hat that is a dead giveaway.

Standing up and walking around the group, you tap him on the shoulder. The biggest blue eyes meet yours, a surprised smile splitting his face. 

“You made it!” That deep drawl is back and that tingle reappears on your spine. Bob jumps up from the couch, beer bottle dwarfed in his hand, and comes to stand with you. “You having a good night?”

Ironically, your night is much better now that you’ve found him. He’s back in his cowboy gear, a worn denim shirt tucked into his jeans and those same cowboy boots scuff against the hardwood. You’re tempted to steal the felt hat from his head just so he looks a little bit more like Bob from Stats. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, letting the alcohol be an excuse, you succumb to the obvious question. “I need to know - what’s with the…cowboy?” You gesture up and down, drawing a chuckle from him.

He blushes under the felt brim. “You know I have a slight accent, yeah?” You attempt to stifle your laugh as he incidentally talks in a thicker accent. “When I was a pledge they started calling me cowboy. Saw the hat while I was in town one week, ended up leaning into the joke.”

“And the hobby horse?”

He beckons you closer, bringing his lips to your ear. “Stolen from my little sister over summer break.”

There’s that wink again making your knees weak. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and takes another sip from his beer. Despite the party raging around you, nothing else seems to exist past him asking about your night and if you want another drink. You’re wrapped in the warmth of his words, itching to snuggle into his broad chest. 

The spell is broken when “Cowboy Bob!” rings out from the crowd. The entire room is turned to you two. “Truth or dare, man?”

In the background of your intimate conversation with Bob, the truths and dares have reached full raunchiness. People have been stripped of clothes and dirty secrets. A bead of sweat gathers at Bob’s collar, aware that neither option is safe. 

His worried gaze flits to you, as if you hold the correct answer, before tipping his hat back and exhaling, “Dare?” 

It’s gutsy, but if there’s one thing you’re learning about the quiet guy from Stats, he’s full of surprises. The crowd bubbles with excitement, anticipating what dare will be dealt out. Next to you, the wannabe cowboy looks more annoyed than anything. He was enjoying talking to you not in a classroom and with a little liquid courage.

An evil smile crosses the dare-dealer’s face. He knows Bob and isn’t blind to what’s going on. He’s gonna help his buddy out on this one.

His arm stretches out and he points (with the red plastic cup in his hand) to the coat closet at the end of the hall. “Hmmmmm, I dare you to, hmm, play Seven Minutes in Heaven with…” It’s no surprise when the cup-turned-pointer lands on you.

Ice water down your back wouldn’t be as panic inducing. It’s hard to tell who swallows harder, you or Cowboy Bob. Every instinct is telling you to run, but that little voice in the back of your head wins out. As Bob starts to tell you it’s okay, they’re joking, you don’t have to, you grab his thick wrist and give him a nervous smile. You don’t even care what the punishment is for not completing a dare, this stupid drunken game has given you an opportunity.

The dealer of the dare follows the two of you down the hallway, leading the whoops and wolf whistles. Bob’s cheeks flame scarlet in the low light. You keep your chin high and eyes forward. He can definitely feel the way you’re trembling around his wrist.

Whether in anxiety or excitement it’s hard to tell.

The inside of the closet is dark, the faint light under the door casting only the faintest of shadows. Your heart is pounding, blood pulsing through your ears. Bob rubs his lips together nervously. It’s all you can do to not run your tongue along them. 

“We don’t have to do anything, we can just talk.” The way he prioritizes your comfort makes heat pool between your legs. The brim of his hat is as far back as it can go, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as he gauges your emotions. He’s welcome to figure them out, you’re unsure of them yourself. 

His large, warm hand rubs your forearm comfortingly, your skin too cold without his touch. You’re suffocating under his sweat-and-bergamot scent, citrusy and warm.

You bite the bullet. “What if I want to?”

His breath stops. Fingers find yours in the dark, interlocking on either side of your hips. Eyes you know are the deepest blue lock onto your gaze, a million emotions passing behind his irises. Face descending upon the space between you, tentatively showing his intentions. You meet him in the middle, caution out the window.

The kiss is gentle, puzzle pieces slotting together for the first time. He tastes like malt sugar and peppermint. Mouth warm and soft, enveloping you fully in his comfort. It’s even better than what you’ve imagined for the past nine weeks.

Bob begins to pull away, ever the gentleman. Your hand finds his collar, holding him in place. “Not yet, we still have, like, five and a half minutes.”

Despite the low light, his smile lights up the closet.

His lips return to yours in a rush, swallowing your mouth in a passionate heat. The press of his body to yours is delicious. Hands previously at your side meet your hips, lightly squeezing as you moan into his mouth. You reach up and hold the back of his neck, bringing him even closer as your lips toy with the tiniest bit of stubble along his jaw.

“You know,” he starts, holding the moan in the back of his throat. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since September.”

You pull back momentarily, a crinkle upon your brow. “Bob, we didn’t start Stats until January.”

He kisses the confusion from your face, his hands wrapping further around your body. “And you looked very pretty in that green dress at the homecoming barbecue.”

Bless your love of school spirit and free food. “Why didn’t you? Kiss me?”

“I don’t normally make a habit of kissing girls I don’t know. And clearly it takes an entire fraternity for me to get you alone.” The way his chuckle bounces against your skin has you squirming. Your schoolgirl crush on him wasn’t one-sided, and suddenly you’re hot for teacher. 

You capture him in another kiss, tongue searching the seam of his lips for entrance. He obliges immediately, groaning as you explore his taste. Four hands roam skin, finding purchase in anything and everything. Your body has a mind of its own as you press against him, chest heaving with your passion. The right shift of fabric on fabric reveals that he’s equally as affected by the chemistry.

Reluctantly, he pulls away once more, threading his fingers across the back of your neck. Takes a moment to capture his breath as he sees the lust in your eyes. A deep breath. “As much as I like you, I don’t want to do anything if you’re drunk.”

Soft fingers follow the line of his arm to where it wraps around your waist. How is he this impossibly sweet? Thoughtful, respectful, and looking hot as sin with swollen lips. It’s unfair.

“I promise I’m not.” You stroke the back of his hand. “Please kiss me?”

His large hands unwrap from your waist and travel down, shifting behind your legs and pulling you up, resting your back against the wall. You tangle your legs around his waist as best you can in the small space, relishing his firm body pressed deliciously close, warm and solid. Kisses smeared across lips and jaws as noises crescendo. You’re panting as you trail down to his impossibly long neck, desperate to cover it in affection.

You’ve barely explored the expanse of skin when the door flies open, the boisterous party sounds flooding in. Reality strikes like a slap across the face. The truth-or-dare ringleader takes you in - legs wrapped around Bob and hands creeping toward your ass - and whoops in delight. Who knew Cowboy Bob had it in him!

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” He crows and reaches forward to slug Bob lightly on the shoulder. 

Not skipping a beat, Bob shoves his friend back and throws up his middle finger. “Fuck off, Milburn.” 

The closet door slams shut, blanketing you again in the intimacy of the moment. You’re looking at him with unsure eyes and he’s praying the moment hasn’t been ruined. He’s waited seven calendar months for this opportunity and his fingers are so close to enjoying the plump squeeze of your ass.

“We can go back to the party if you want?” Your voice is so small, nervous outside of those bold seven minutes. Tentative breaths exist between you. 

In lieu of an answer, he bows his head to give you a searing yet gentle kiss.

That cramped coat closet suddenly is an inferno, his tongue slipping inside your mouth and groaning at the burning sweetness of your taste. Your hands grip his shoulders as you fight for dominance, fingers tangling in denim. Hips brushing together, still clinging to the idea of this being innocent. 

An innocence immediately lost when Bob strikes up the courage and palms your ass. Soft and pliable and perfect to squeeze in his palms. He remembers the exact day you came to class in the tightest jeans known to man (laundry day) and the way he had dug his pencil in his palm to avoid a semi as your curved ass met the lecture seat. Something unavoidable now as you squirm against him, moaning your pleasure against the pulse in his neck.

Nothing has ever felt as good as rubbing against Bob Floyd’s clothed bulge. One glance down and you’re dizzy with arousal. Rutting yourself against him as best you can with your limited mobility, sloppy kisses exchanged as the two of you can barely keep your mouths closed. It feels so good, too good. 

Lost in the moment, one hand slips below the hem of your skirt, warm skin on skin. Any noise from outside the closet dims to a hum. Two hearts beating rapidly as desire fully consumes, directing lips to too hot exposed skin. You murmur your need in his ear. You don’t care where you are, you need him.

Bob tucks a finger under your thong, feeling the slick coating your folds. The whine that leaves him is desperate and gruff. He groans against your throat. “Shit, I don’t have a condom.”

Undeterred, your lip catches between your teeth, core muscles contracting as you grind your hips forward. “Doesn’t mean I can’t go for a ride.”

He’s immediately on board, teasing you briefly before extricating his hand to support you better against the wall. His hands practically swallow your ass, flooding you with lust. You thrust your chest against him, desperate to touch every spot on his handsome body as your hips begin to grind. 

His hands are sweltering as they trail down, effortlessly clutching the back of your thighs to give you leverage. Your clit finds friction against his jeans and your mouth hangs open as you buck frantically into him.

“Look at you move, cowgirl,” he breathes out, infatuated. The nickname spurrs you on, whimpering against his lips.

One hand clutching his bicep, holding on for desperate life, while the other snakes its way atop the damned cowboy hat that’s stayed on the entire encounter. Gripping the top of it and holding fast as you ride his clothed bulge with everything you’ve got. Denim and lace against your clit, rubbing deliciously as your brain fuzzes. His hot mouth focused at the hinge of your jaw, sucking soft bruises into the skin; moaning when you brush him just right. 

“I’m close,” you whisper against his cheek. Time has stood still, but it’s embarrassing how close he’s gotten you to orgasm with just his clothed cock and strong hands. 

He ruts his hips forward, meeting your thrusts in heavenly synchronization. You’re panting as the pressure on your clit catapults you, so close to the ultimate prize. Whispers of you can do it, cowgirl, cum for me, doing so good riding me, just a bit more, cowgirl fizzle your senses. 

“O-oh!”

It’s intense, the blinding pleasure coursing through your body. Prolonged by the thick bulge still rutting against you, ready to burst itself. Lips tickling your ear as he praises you. You want to live in this perfect moment of bliss. A moment only perfected when Bob’s fingers grip too hard and his hips stutter up into yours. His all-consuming orgasm only muffled by the skin of your shoulder as he rides it out. 

The rhythmic slowing of your breaths is all you can focus on. You breathe in, he breathes out. Small smiles and a blush barely visible in the low light. 

Delicately, like he knows you might break, he releases you back to the ground; taking his time to smooth down your skirt and straight out your top. Your own hands reach up to his chest, fixing the fabric that had bunched up in your passion. Adjusting his fogged glasses to look into his beautiful eyes.

It doesn’t matter how much you clean up, one look at you two and anyone would comment you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

With one final kiss to your lips, you feel something land on your head. The brown cowboy hat with the rip along the edge. Cowboy Bob showing off his cowgirl.

You tentatively open the closet door, eyes adjusting to the normal light. Painfully aware of the wet splotch on the obvious front of his jeans, Bob holds your body against him as a human shield. The party is still going strong - your antics have not interrupted anything - and you slip toward the front door without notice. Well…mostly, as a few wolf whistles reach your ears.

“It’s not that late, you want to go back to mine? I’m just off Thornton. It’s quiet since everyone is here.” His eyes are so hopeful in the dark night. So desperate for you to say yes. For you to be his cowgirl beyond tonight.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close, careful to avoid the spot where your bodily fluids have drenched his jeans. “I’m in.” Your smile is blinding. “We have about nine weeks of Stats to make up.”

The brick is uncomfortable behind your back, but it’s hard to care when his lips feel so good. Broad shoulders shielding you from the hallway, trucker hat turned around and glasses in his pocket so there’s not an inch between your faces. Agreeing to meet outside before lecture was such a good idea.

Despite spending most of the time between Thursday night and Tuesday afternoon in Bob’s apartment trying every position in the book (with teasing hollers from his Pi Kapp roommates adding to the soundtrack) you can’t help but steal these five minutes. He looks so cute, to not kiss him would be a crime.

Bob squeezes your hips, lips trailing down your jaw. “What’s on your mind, cowgirl?”

“I’m trying very hard to convince myself that we pay a lot of money to attend this school and should go learn about statistics. Even though I really only want to head back to my dorm and see how sturdy that loft bed is.”

From where his nose traces your ear, a guttural whine leaves him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to go to class.”

You pull back to look at him, fingers tickling the close cropped hair at his neck. God, he makes it so hard to want to be responsible.

“Let’s make a deal, okay? We’ll go to class, learn, and tonight you come over and for every study guide question you get right I’ll take off a piece of clothing. Sound good?” He’s practically panting as he smothers your mouth in another kiss. He’s really good at Stats. A steady stream of students files past Bob’s back, a sign that class is about to start.

You press another kiss to his lips. “Let’s go or we’ll miss out on seats. Plus I need to dig through my bag for a pencil.”

“Do you think you actually have one today?” He smirks, amused. The eighteen pencils he’s lent you say otherwise.

Your cheeks are hot under where he kisses them. “Uh…if I don’t can I borrow one? If you have one, that is.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and holds you closer, rubbing your noses softly.

“You do realize I’ve been buying pencils all semester just to give to you, right?”

Turning his cap around - insides fully melted - you know you’re in this rodeo for the long run.

Want more Frat Cowboy Bob? Hang out with Bob From Pi Kapp!

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[sailorsoons]

Still Watching? (l. c)

PAIRING: Lee Chan x f. Reader 

SUMMARY: Blood and Popcorn with your newly minted boyfriend is your favorite. Except now you watch a lot less Buffy and a lot more of Chan. 

WC: 2,153

AU: Established Relationship, PWP

GENRE: Smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Shameless pwp, explicit language, explicit sexual content including nipple play, vaginal fingering, a little bit of teasing/edging, cheesy banter. 

A/N: Happy Valentine's day pt II the remix! As always, thank you to @daechwitatamic for beta reading this :)

A/N 2: This is the same couple from Blood & Popcorn but you do not need to read the first story to read this one :) This was originally posted on my old blog.

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“HONESTLY, IT'S SO OBVIOUS THIS SHOW WAS WRITTEN BY A MAN,” You mutter, watching as Buffy yells at Xander. “He wants to be a hero for her soooo bad.”

“Xander is the worst,” Chan sighs. You rise and fall with his chest, your back pressed against his front where you lay against him. His knees cage you in on either side of your hips, your ass planted firmly between his legs with his arms around your middle, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “He really thinks he should win the girl just because he’s a nice guy.” 

“Truly, he has like… very few other qualities than being a nice guy.” 

He hums. “At least Spike knows he’s an asshole. It’s guys like Xander who think just because they’re not blatantly awful that it makes them dateable.” 

“A lot of guys think that.” 

“Mhmm. I’m a rare breed.” 

You crane your neck to look up at him. You can hear and feel the steady thud of his heart, smell the hint of aftershave and menthol from his shower earlier, feel the heat of his skin. It makes you a little dizzy and you unfocus on the screen, studying the gentle curve of Chan’s mouth. 

“You’re surely something,” you mutter in response, grinning a little as you look away toward the screen. His fingers slip under your shirt, skimming your waist. You suppress a shiver, suddenly hyper aware of the way his fingers scrape against you. 

“I’m a nice guy and I know that it takes more than being a decent human being to get the girl.”

“Oh yeah? Remember the time it took four years to confess your feelings to me? What do you know, Lee Chan?”

“Hmm. Data is insufficient. Need more evidence regarding that specific example.” 

For a moment, you’re unable to respond, lids fluttering as Chan continues to caress your lower stomach and hips. His touch is completely innocent, no suggestion that he intends anything. That he means anything. It’s a motion that is instinctual for him, so naturally to have his hands on you that it almost makes it worse. 

Just knowing how easy it is for him to love you never fails to surprise you. You don’t know how you never saw it before. 

Now it seems silly to have ever thought that Chan was anything less than in love with you. It’s in the way he naturally gravitates toward you in every room. It’s in the way he can be totally focused on something else, but his hand reaches out for you, not even really noticing that he’s seeking you out. It’s  in the way that you mold so perfectly into his chest, made to be there. 

“You don’t know your own data?” you shoot back eventually, snuggling a little closer to him. If you could crawl into his hoodie, you would. For now, this is fine. “Seems like you don’t know much.” 

“Hmm?” His fingers stop moving. You feel the question hum against you. “I don’t know much?” 

“Nope.”

Your heart starts to pick up. Chan’s fingers start stroking your skin again but you feel the difference. His blunt nails scrape across your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms. He skims his hands higher and back down, touch light over your ribs. Every time his fingers dance up your side, his reach goes a little higher. 

A tightness forms in your throat. You try to keep your breathing even and will yourself not to squeeze your thighs. You are pressed too close to him for him not to tell if you squirm. Chewing your lip, you stare at the screen totally unseeing. 

“Hm.” Chan’s deep hum hints at trouble. You feel your hands get clammy. “I think I know some things. Like for example…” He trails off for a moment, hand brushing under your left breast. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, fighting a twitch. “I know that your favorite color on me is green.” 

“Green is a good color on anyone.”

“I know that you like the feeling…” His hand skates low this time, fingers dancing dangerously against the waistband of your shorts. “Of high thread count sheets.”

You snort. “Everyone likes good sheets, Chan.” 

“Good sheets are important,” he agrees. You feel him trace his pointer finger back up with deadly accuracy, following the swell of your breast upward, skating so close to your nipple that you stop breathing. “Everything alright? You stopped breathing.”

“What?” you squeak. “Oh, yep. I am great.” 

“I don’t know, baby. Are you feeling well? You seem… warm.”

Chan presses his palm flat to your chest, fingers splayed wide. His palm is warm and rough, his touch igniting a fire inside of you. The heat spreads outward, licking at every one of your nerves and setting them ablaze. 

In an effort to ignore him, you lick your lips and say, “Never felt better. I like her boots.” 

His chuckle is low. Throaty. You’re barely holding it together, feeling the ache between your thighs at the firmness of his touch. “See, I don’t know a lot about women’s fashion. But I do know those are not boots. Just like I know you’re not paying attention to the show, Bambi.”

You blink and stare at the TV. Chan’s right. Buffy is in sneakers, though in your unfocused haze they had been blurry and looked like boots from a distance. You swallow down the dryness in your throat, Chan’s hand still pressed flat and warm against your chest. 

“I know that your heart is pounding,” Chan murmurs, voice barely audible as he presses his mouth by your ear. Your eyes flutter shut. “I know that you’re trying really hard not to squeeze those thighs.” 

“You can’t possibly know that.” 

To prove his statement true, Chan’s thumb brushes upward, skating gently over a nipple. On command, your thighs squeeze and you feel the shake of his laughter behind you. 

“I know everything about you, Bambi.” His voice brushes against you like his soft touch. You melt, feeling your weight sink into him further. “I know that you don’t share your food with anyone but me. I know that your favorite episode of Buffy is Hush. I know that you think Buffy should end up with Spike. I know that you are probably soaked right now because being caressed drives you crazy.” 

“Insufficient data,” you breathe. “I recommend research.” 

“You know what? Agreed.” 

Chan moves fast. His hand moves from your chest to between your legs, hands slipping under the waistband of your shorts and panties before you can blink. Your lips part, a breathy noise escaping you as Chan drags a slow finger up your sticky folds. 

“What do you know,” he observes. His fingers idly trail up and down your slit, making you twitch against him. “I was right. Do I win anything?” 

“I thought you said nice guys shouldn’t just win the girl.” 

Chan presses his fingers firmly to your clit, a ripple of pleasure ebbing through you. Your hips lift off the couch slightly but he pushes you back down into his lap, other hand looping around your waist to lock you to him. “Maybe I’m not that nice.”

Slowly, he starts to retract his hand. You whimper, both of your hands shooting to grab the wrist belonging to the hand between your legs. He pauses, fingers pressed between your folds. “You are nice!” 

“Oh?”

“Very nice. You’re my very nice, very sweet boyfriend.” 

“I see.” 

He doesn’t move his hand at all. The space is filled with the low hum of Buffy fighting vampires, the blue flash of the screen falling against your silhouettes, body to body as he holds you tight. You try to get control of your racing heart, but that’s never been easy around Chan.

He knows it.  

“Maybe you know some things,” you admit slowly. “Maybe I was wrong.”

Chan’s resounding chuckle is dangerous, but he slides his hand back down. You loosen your grip on his wrist but keep your hands resting on his forearm, feeling the muscle flex under your fingertips as his fingers resume their debauched exploration. 

“See, that’s another thing I know. I know you hate being wrong, so if you’re wrong… it was because you were doing so intentionally.”

His words fall on unlistening ears. You’re too worked up by the simple way he plays you, too focused on the way his fingers gently circle your clit, the perfect stimulation. Too distracted by the way he dips his head down to sweep his mouth across your throat in open-mouthed kisses. 

“I know you’re… not listening.” He stops and you let out a strangled sound, nails digging into his arms. He presses a wet kiss to your pulse point. “Didn’t think so.”

“Chan.” 

“Hmm?”

“Please don’t tease me.”

“Why not? You were teasing me.” 

You pout. He can’t see it, but you know he knows it’s there. “I like to tease you. I have to keep you humble.” 

A long moan slips from your lips and you tilt your head back to Chan’s shoulder when he presses a finger into your aching cunt. You feel yourself twitch around him, hips swiveling for more friction. 

“Humble? How are you ever going to keep me humble when this pussy gets this wet after I’ve barely touched you?”

Well that’s true. You don’t care, though, turning boneless as Chan strokes you with his fingers properly. It feels so good. Only he knows how to touch you like this, familiar with every button to press and every contour to mold to. 

Heat flushes your neck. Chan presses his lips against your cheek, working your cunt with his fingers as he holds you steadfast. It feels like you might suffocate, totally trapped against him. His skin and breath are hot against you, the air thick. He breathes out a groan when your hips buck upward, Chan dropping all pretext of teasing you.

“Like that,” he breathes, heavy. “Do it exactly how you like it.”

Another finger drives you wild. You fumble over his name, squeezing your eyes shut and meeting the quick strokes of his hand. His palm presses firmly against your clit, letting you grind yourself against him for the extra stimulation. 

You burn up. Briefly you wonder if this flash of euphoric heat is what Icarus felt before the fall. The thought is chased away from the intense pressure in your stomach as Chan presses up against that spot inside you, making stars burst behind your eyes.

“Wait - I’m gonna come in my shorts,” you whine, realizing you still have them on. “Chaaaan.”

“So come in them,” he says simply. “Research has revealed that you have a washer and dryer down the hall, baby. Go ahead.” 

“Fuuuuck.” 

“Come for me. I know you want to.” 

You do want to. A moment of static builds up, your thighs squeezing around his hand so hard he can’t move and then you’re coming around his fingers, your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. His grip across your waist is like iron, holding you to him as you come undone. 

Chan’s mouth presses gentle kisses on your jaw, muttering soft I love yous and fuck yeahs against your burning skin. The burning doesn’t stop, your body flushed with heat as you sink away from your orgasm, turning to molten metal and melting into his hold. 

He leaves you like that for a few minutes, thighs shaking around the hand still shoved between your legs, fingers pressed deep inside of you. It feels intimate, and you crane your neck, driven by the desire to kiss him. Chan’s lips are already there because he knew you would want his lips against yours. 

Just like he knows everything about you. 

Chan’s lips are soft and gentle. His tongue brushes against yours in a slow dance and you lean up into him more, desperate for him. He laughs into the kiss, letting you have your way until you’re panting, sweaty and out of breath again. 

You sag, head on his shoulder as you pant. “Your fingers are still in me.”

“Mhm.” He presses them in harshly, making you jolt. It earns a deep laugh from him. “Maybe we should call this Popcorn & Pussy instead. We’ve barely gotten through a full night of episodes since we started dating.”

“Are you aware you make the worst jokes?” You open your eyes and glance at the screen, only to find that the show has paused between episodes, asking if you’re still watching and if you want to continue. “Are you still watching? No, Buffy. I’m not.”

“No problem.” Chan pulls his hand from between your legs, the wet squelch making you whimper. “I have something else you can watch.” 

“Oh?” 

Chan kisses your temple sweetly before getting up, letting you fall back against the couch while he kneels on the couch and pulls your legs toward his face. You inhale deeply, watching as he looks up through long lashes, a smirk on his face. “Still watching, Bambi?” 

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[novaursa]

The Flames We Share

- Summary: You tell your son the truth. He has more than the blood of dragons in his veins.

- Pairing: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaenyra's younger sister and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Blood We Choose. If you want to read all parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 5 198

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The dungeons beneath Dragonstone were a cold, damp place, lit only by flickering torches that cast shadows that seemed to dance mockingly on the rough-hewn walls. The stench of rot and mildew clung to the air, seeping into the very stones of the fortress. Gwayne Hightower sat chained to the wall, bruised and dirty from his days of captivity, but his eyes were clear and resolute, fixed forward as he awaited what was surely his fate. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—focused only on you, the woman he had risked everything for.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the stone corridors, and he looked up as the iron door creaked open. Daemon Targaryen stepped inside, a predator’s smirk twisting his lips. He tossed a crumpled message onto the filthy floor in front of Gwayne’s feet. The black wax seal was unmistakable—bearing the sigil of House Hightower.

“Your father sends his regards,” Daemon drawled, a cruel edge in his voice. “He offers to trade his traitorous son for some stronghold I care little about. Imagine that—a worthless fortress in exchange for his even more worthless offspring.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed as he studied Gwayne’s reaction, searching for any sign of weakness.

But Gwayne’s expression remained stony. “You can say what you wish, Targaryen. My fate was sealed the moment I brought her to you.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “As long as Y/N is safe, I care not what becomes of me.”

Daemon’s lip curled in disdain. “Is that so?” He took a step closer, as if to loom over Gwayne. “Safe? You think she’s safe, having fallen from the sky, bleeding and broken? You think I would allow the woman who bore my son—my heir—to suffer any harm under my roof?” There was a dark gleam of possessiveness in Daemon’s eyes, as if the very notion of another man daring to care for you was an affront to his pride.

Gwayne’s gaze sharpened at that. “I want to see Vaeron,” he demanded suddenly. There was a tremor in his voice, a desperation that Daemon did not miss. “I want to speak with my son.”

Daemon’s anger flared at the insolence of the request. “Your son?” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “That boy is a Targaryen—a dragon, not the product of some dishonorable tryst! Do you think I would allow him to be tainted by the shame of what you nearly brought upon my niece, siring a child on her without even the dignity of wedlock?”

Gwayne’s eyes darkened, yet there was a hint of mocking amusement in them as he stared up at the Rogue Prince. “And you believe yourself to be the righteous one? The man who slew his first wife in pursuit of power? Who consorts with whores while claiming the love of dragons? Tell me, Daemon, what makes you any different from me?”

Daemon’s smirk faltered, his face tightening with barely controlled rage. But Gwayne continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “She was denied to me—Y/N, I mean. If your brother had seen sense, had given her to me rather than feeding your ambitions, we could have avoided all this bloodshed. The boy would have been raised in Oldtown, under the guidance of both our Houses, and this war might never have happened.”

“Nothing could have prevented this war,” Daemon snarled, eyes flashing. “It was written in fire and blood long before you or I even took breath. But do not delude yourself into thinking you have anything resembling love, Hightower. What you claim as love is mere possession—an attempt to bind what you could never truly have.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenched at the words, but he did not respond. The two men stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like a drawn sword. Daemon took a breath, his composure returning as he straightened.

“I’ll have the boy brought to you,” Daemon said at last, his tone laced with scorn. “You may look upon him and see the life you were never destined to have. But do not forget—he is mine, and Y/N belongs to me now. She is a Targaryen, and you are nothing more than a failed traitor.”

With that, Daemon turned and strode toward the door. Before he left, he paused, throwing one last taunt over his shoulder. “Do not hope for mercy when your father trades you away like the pawn you are, Gwayne. Your life is worth little, even to those who should care most.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Gwayne alone in the darkness once more. But he did not feel defeated. Even with the chains biting into his wrists, he had no regrets for what he had done, for saving you and ensuring you were delivered safely to Dragonstone. In the end, it was not his fate that mattered—it was yours. Even in the heart of this cold, bitter place, the thought of you kept the warmth alive in his heart.

Because in the quiet shadows, despite all the titles and power Daemon clung to, Gwayne knew one truth that Daemon would never fully grasp—he loved you, wholly and without condition. And in his mind, that was a victory far greater than any throne or dragon could ever grant.

The soft crackle of the hearthfire filled the chamber, mingling with the scent of herbs and ointments from where Maesters had tended to your wounds. You sat by the window, Silverwing’s scales still etched into your memory, the pain a constant reminder of the battle you had narrowly survived. The healing was slow, but the bruises and cuts were nothing compared to the deeper ache in your chest. You weren’t sure what stung more—the death of your dragon or the desperate, foolish bravery of the man who had risked everything to save you.

A knock at the door broke your thoughts. “Come in,” you called, and the door creaked open to reveal Vaeron. The boy’s silver hair glinted in the evening light, and his blue eyes—so much like his father’s—fixed on you with concern.

“Mother,” he said quietly, stepping inside. “How are you feeling today?”

You smiled softly at him, though your heart ached as you looked upon him. “I am mending, sweetling. Stronger with each day.”

Vaeron nodded, yet his expression was troubled. He came closer, sitting on the edge of your bed, the worry in his eyes clear. “I heard… I heard Daemon talking about him,” he murmured. “The man in the dungeons—the one who saved you. Is it true he defied Ser Criston Cole and fled with you from Rook’s Rest? They say he’s a Hightower. An enemy.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. The boy was no longer the child you had once cradled; he was growing, his curiosity sharp and his mind keen. He deserved the truth.

“Yes, it’s true,” you replied, voice gentle. “The man who saved me is Gwayne Hightower. He… he betrayed his own kin, risked his life, and rode through the chaos to bring me here, to safety.”

Vaeron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But why would he do that? Daemon says he’s just trying to make amends for his family’s treachery. That he’s nothing more than a desperate fool.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s more complicated than that, my dear. Gwayne… he did it out of love, out of loyalty to someone who meant the world to him once.” You hesitated, the words heavy on your tongue. The truth was a blade you’d kept sheathed for too long, and it was time to draw it, no matter how much it might wound.

Vaeron looked at you expectantly, sensing the weight of what you were about to say. You reached out, taking his hand in yours, needing the touch to anchor yourself.

“Vaeron… the man in the dungeons, Gwayne Hightower… he is your father.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Vaeron’s eyes widened, the shock raw and unfiltered in his young face. He pulled his hand away, as if trying to distance himself from the revelation. “What?” he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “My father? But… Daemon… I always thought…”

You nodded, pain lancing through your heart as you watched him grapple with the truth. “Daemon has raised you as his own, and in many ways, he is your father. But you have another father, by blood, and that is Gwayne Hightower. You were conceived out of a moment we both knew would never be more than a fleeting dream. He wanted to marry me, to build a life, but—”

Vaeron shook his head, backing away as he struggled to process it all. “No,” he muttered, as if denying the words could somehow make them untrue. “Daemon’s always told me I’m a Targaryen, that my blood is pure, that I am his son, a prince of the realm. How could—why didn’t you tell me? Why now, when he’s chained beneath us like some criminal?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I didn’t want you to bear the burden of that knowledge before you were ready. You were always meant to be strong, to carry the legacy of the dragons. But Gwayne… he isn’t just a Hightower, he’s the man who saved my life when no one else dared. Whatever his blood, he does care for you in his own way, even from afar now.”

Vaeron’s lips trembled as he stared at you, his confusion and hurt palpable. “I need… I need to think,” he stammered, turning abruptly and nearly stumbling over himself in his haste to leave the room.

“Vaeron, wait—” you called after him, but he was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed in the emptiness of the chamber, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Your chest tightened with regret. You had known this moment would come eventually, but you had hoped it would be under different circumstances. There was so much more you wanted to tell him, so much more to explain. But for now, all you could do was hope that he would find a way to understand, to see beyond the conflict of bloodlines and names.

In that fleeting moment before he vanished, you had seen the storm raging behind his eyes—a storm you knew would not settle easily. And in that storm, you glimpsed the boy he had always been and the man he was becoming, torn between the truths that defined him.

But you could only wait, knowing that the choice between dragons and towers was his to make, even if it broke your heart in the process.

Vaeron’s footsteps echoed through the winding corridors of Dragonstone as he fought to steady his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a heavy drum drowning out the world around him. The truth his mother had just revealed rang in his ears like a cruel jest—Gwayne Hightower is your father. The words were a blade lodged deep in his chest, twisting with every thought, every doubt that now swirled within him.

He turned a corner, the air cool against his flushed face, and found himself in the dimly lit dining hall. The large table at its center was set for the evening meal, though the room was mostly empty save for one figure seated at the end, absently twirling a goblet in his hand.

Jacaerys Velaryon looked up, catching sight of Vaeron. His dark curls fell loosely over his forehead, and his brown eyes narrowed in concern as he took in his cousin’s strained expression. “Vaeron?” he called out, his voice low but filled with the warmth of kinship. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

Vaeron stiffened, his gaze flickering away as he hesitated at the threshold of the hall. The weight of the revelation clung to him like a shroud, and for a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to bury it, to pretend that nothing had changed. But Jacaerys’ patient eyes, filled with genuine care, drew him in like a tether.

With a resigned sigh, Vaeron walked over and slumped into the chair opposite Jace, the firelight casting shadows on his troubled face. He didn’t speak for a moment, merely stared at the table as he tried to gather the words that had lodged like stones in his throat.

Jace leaned forward, the lines of worry deepening on his brow. “Vaeron, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

“I…” Vaeron’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing, “I just learned something that changes everything.” He finally looked up, his eyes rimmed with uncertainty. “The man in the dungeons—the Hightower who brought Mother back from Rook’s Rest… He’s my father. My real father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes widened in shock, his goblet nearly slipping from his grasp. “What? But—Daemon’s always—”

“I know,” Vaeron cut in, voice strained. “I thought Daemon was my father, too. I grew up believing I was his son, a true Targaryen. But Mother told me just now that Gwayne Hightower is my sire. I’m… I’m a bastard.”

The word hung heavy in the air between them, laden with shame and confusion. Vaeron felt his chest tighten again, the sting of doubt gnawing at him. What did that make him now? Was he even truly a part of this family? A dragon in name only, born of a union that should never have been?

Jacaerys’ expression softened as he saw the pain in Vaeron’s eyes. He set down his goblet and leaned closer, trying to find the right words. “Listen to me, Vaeron,” he began, voice steady and laced with a touch of empathy. “We’ve both been raised with more lies and expectations than most people could handle. But if anyone understands how it feels to question who you are, it’s me.”

Vaeron blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jacaerys gave a rueful smile, leaning back in his chair as he stared into the flames. “I’ve heard the whispers, the taunts—people saying I’m no true Targaryen because of my questionable blood. They mock the fact that I don’t have silver hair or violet eyes, that I look more like a commoner than a prince. And sometimes… sometimes, I wonder if they’re right.”

The honesty in Jace’s voice caught Vaeron off guard, pulling him out of his own turmoil. He had always admired Jacaerys—his confidence, his sense of duty. He had never imagined that his cousin carried doubts of his own.

“But you’re still recognized as one of us,” Vaeron murmured, brow furrowed. “You’re still heir to the Iron Throne, still a dragon. No one would ever dare deny that.”

Jace nodded, but his gaze remained distant. “True, but that doesn’t erase the whispers. Even with the dragon blood flowing through my veins, I’ve always felt like I had to prove I’m worthy of the name Targaryen. But you…” He looked back at Vaeron, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You look like a Targaryen. No one would ever question your blood—silver hair—you were born a dragon, even if your father wasn’t one.”

Vaeron’s breath hitched at the kindness in Jace’s words. But it didn’t soothe the ache gnawing at his heart. “Does it even matter, Jace? If I’m truly a bastard, what does any of this mean? My whole life, I’ve been told I’m meant for something great, but now… now I don’t even know who I really am.”

Jacaerys’ expression grew firm, his voice taking on a rare edge of command. “It means you choose who you are, Vaeron. Blood alone doesn’t decide it. You were raised in this family, loved by your mother and Daemon alike. That is what makes you one of us. Not some Hightower who’s rotting in a cell.”

Vaeron’s throat tightened at the thought of Gwayne, the man who had defied his own House, who had thrown everything away to save the woman he loved. Did that make him worthy of being called a father? Could that kind of loyalty outweigh his bloodline, or was it too little too late?

“I need time to think,” Vaeron murmured, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… a lot.”

Jacaerys reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Vaeron’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, cousin. You’re not alone in this, alright? Whatever you decide, you’ll always have me and the rest of your family behind you.”

Vaeron nodded numbly, grateful for Jace’s support but still lost in the sea of confusion and emotions swirling within him. The questions gnawed at him relentlessly, leaving him torn between the man he had always believed himself to be and the truth that now threatened to shatter that identity.

The tension clung to the air in the dining hall like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Vaeron sat in silence after Jacaerys left, lost in the maze of his thoughts, unable to untangle the twisted knots of his emotions. His whole life had been built on one truth: that he was a Targaryen, son of Daemon, a prince destined for greatness. But now that truth had shattered, and he felt like a child cast adrift on a stormy sea, unsure of where to turn.

The sound of footsteps approached, measured and deliberate, and Vaeron looked up to see Daemon entering the hall. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept over Vaeron’s troubled face. For a moment, the prince said nothing, merely studying his son—his real son in all but blood—with a calculating gaze.

“You’re brooding,” Daemon finally said, his voice low and tinged with an edge of dry amusement. “A trait you didn’t inherit from your mother, I’d wager.”

Vaeron clenched his fists on the table, unable to meet Daemon’s eyes. “Everything I’ve ever known about myself is a lie,” he muttered, his voice thick with anger and confusion. “How am I supposed to believe anything now?”

Daemon’s gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. “You think this changes who you are?” he asked, stepping closer. “You think some whispered secret about your parentage wipes away the blood that runs through your veins? You are still a Targaryen, still my son in every way that matters.”

Vaeron’s eyes snapped up, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “But I’m not,” he insisted, his voice cracking. “I’m not truly your son, not by blood. I’m just… a bastard. A mistake.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, and he took a seat across from Vaeron, his presence commanding and unyielding. “Is that what you truly believe?” he asked, his tone both gentle and sharp. “That blood alone defines who you are? You were raised in the shadow of dragons, with the legacy of kings and conquerors shaping your every step. That is no lie. I’ve taught you, guided you, prepared you for the world because I chose you as my heir, not because of whose seed sired you.”

Vaeron looked away, struggling with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. “But… why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice a whisper now, tinged with the pain of betrayal. “All this time, you let me believe…”

Daemon sighed, his gaze growing distant as if recalling a memory long buried. “Because you needed to grow up without that burden,” he said quietly. “What good would it have done to burden you with a truth that might have only confused you, made you question everything? You were born a Targaryen in all the ways that matter. I’ve treated you as such, and so has your mother. That will never change, no matter who your true father is.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened at the mention of his mother, and he shook his head. “But now I know, and I can’t just pretend it doesn’t matter. That man in the dungeons… he’s the reason I exist, and yet he’s a stranger to me. How can I make sense of that?”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the wood. “Gwayne Hightower might be your blood father, but that doesn’t mean he has any claim over you,” he said with a hint of disdain in his voice. “He made a choice back at Rook’s Rest—one that I don’t entirely understand myself. He risked everything to bring your mother back here. Perhaps he thought it would redeem him somehow, or maybe he truly cared for her in his own way. Either way, he’s asked to speak with you.”

Vaeron stiffened at the words, his heart lurching in his chest. “He wants to see me?”

Daemon nodded slowly. “He does. He requested it, though he knows the choice is yours to make. I told him I’d send you, but the decision is yours. You can go to him, or you can ignore it and leave him to rot where he belongs.”

Vaeron’s mind reeled, torn between the curiosity gnawing at him and the fear of facing the man who had upended his world with his very existence. He shook his head, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I can’t. Not today. I don’t even know what I’d say to him… what I’d ask.”

Daemon studied him for a moment before nodding in understanding. “That’s your right. You don’t have to face him until you’re ready—if you ever are.” He reached out, placing a hand on Vaeron’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “But know this, boy: whoever sired you, you are still my son. You bear the Targaryen name because I have claimed you as my own, because you were raised with fire in your blood. No man, be he Hightower or otherwise, can take that from you.”

Vaeron looked up at him, searching Daemon’s face for some trace of deception, but all he saw was the fierce loyalty and pride that Daemon had always shown him. For all his faults and ruthlessness, Daemon had been the only father Vaeron had ever known. And in that moment, the boy clung to that truth like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” Vaeron murmured, his voice small but filled with genuine gratitude. “I just… need time. To sort through it all.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a rare, almost affectionate smile, one reserved for the few he held dear. “Take all the time you need,” he said quietly. “But remember, you are a Targaryen, and no truth will ever change that. Not in the eyes of those who matter.”

With that, Daemon rose from the table, giving Vaeron a final nod before turning to leave the hall. Vaeron watched him go, the conflicting emotions still swirling in his chest, but there was a newfound clarity in his heart. The path ahead was clouded, and the shadow of Gwayne Hightower’s existence hanged over him like a specter. But for now, he knew where he stood—with the family that had shaped him, that had loved him despite the secrets and lies.

But deep down, in the quiet recesses of his mind, he knew that one day he would have to face the man who had saved his mother and who claimed the title of his father. Just… not today. Today, he would hold on to the identity he’d always known and trust that, in time, he would find his way through the tangled web of blood and loyalty.

For now, he was still Vaeron Targaryen, son of Daemon—trueborn or not, dragon or not, he was still a part of the legacy that burned brightly in the heart of House Targaryen. And that was enough to anchor him, at least for tonight.

The corridors beneath Dragonstone were dark and damp, the oppressive chill seeping into Vaeron’s bones as he made his way toward the dungeons. It had been a week since his world had been upended, a week of wrestling with the truth of his parentage. He had tried to push it aside, to focus on the training sessions with his cousins, the books his mother insisted he study, the words of comfort from Daemon. But every night, when the candles burned low and the castle quieted, the thought gnawed at him: if he didn’t face the man in the dungeons, he would never truly understand where he came from—or who he was.

So here he was, descending deeper into the belly of the fortress, the iron doors looming ahead. A guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing him entry. The door creaked open, revealing the shadowed cell where Gwayne Hightower sat slumped against the cold stone wall, chains rattling faintly with his every breath.

Gwayne’s face was bruised and gaunt, the days of imprisonment leaving their mark on him. But his eyes, so strikingly similar to Vaeron’s own, flicked up the moment the boy entered. Surprise and something softer—something like hope—flashed in his gaze.

“Vaeron,” he murmured, as if testing the name on his lips. “You came.”

Vaeron stood just inside the threshold, tension thrumming through his body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—anger, indifference, desperation? But all he felt was a tangled mix of emotions that refused to settle.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally took a few steps closer, his voice tentative as he asked, “How could I not? I had to face you… or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Gwayne’s expression softened, a flicker of pride and sorrow crossing his face. “You’re braver than most would be in your position,” he said quietly. He shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of his wounds and restraints. “How… how is your mother? Is she recovering?”

Vaeron’s heart tightened at the genuine concern in Gwayne’s voice. Despite everything, despite the shame and anger swirling within him, he could not deny the sincerity of the man’s question. “She’s getting better,” Vaeron replied, a hint of guardedness still in his tone. “But her injuries are still bad. The fall from Silverwing was…” His voice trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Gwayne nodded, his jaw clenched as if in shared pain. “She’s strong. She always has been. I knew if I could just get her here, she’d fight her way back.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion, and he averted his gaze for a moment before looking back at Vaeron. “Thank you for telling me.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint drip of water echoing through the dungeons. Vaeron swallowed the lump in his throat and finally spoke the question that had been burning in him since he decided to come here. “Daemon says you’re a traitor,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “That you can’t be trusted, that you’ve betrayed your family and your House. But… you saved my mother. You risked your life, your honor, everything.”

Gwayne’s expression didn’t change, but something deep and resolute flickered in his eyes. “Daemon’s right—I am a traitor to my own kin, to my House. I turned my back on everything I was raised to uphold. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The simple conviction in his words struck Vaeron like a blow. He could see the truth of it written in every line of Gwayne’s face, in the quiet determination that had driven him to this point. Vaeron wanted to challenge him, to demand answers, but instead, he found himself asking, “Why?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “Because she was worth it. Your mother was worth more than any loyalty to my House, more than any honor I might have clung to. You see, I loved her long before any of this war came to pass. I wanted to marry her, to build a life with her, but your uncle, King Viserys, had other plans. When she was given to Daemon, I knew my place would only ever be on the outside, looking in.” He paused, eyes darkening with the weight of old wounds. “But that didn’t change how I felt. When I saw her falling in battle, when I saw Silverwing plummet… I didn’t think about anything else. I just acted. I’d rather be a traitor and live knowing I saved her than be a loyal man and watch her die.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened, torn between resentment and reluctant understanding. “You say that like it was noble, like it justifies everything. But it’s still treason. You abandoned your family. You betrayed your own.”

Gwayne’s expression grew more serious, his voice a low rumble in the dim light. “Yes, and I will face the consequences of that. I know what I’ve done, and I’ve made my peace with it. But you must understand, Vaeron—whatever Daemon tells you, whatever anyone says—you are my son. I know I have no right to claim you, not after all these years, but it doesn’t change what you are to me.”

Vaeron felt the words hanging in the air like a challenge, daring him to acknowledge the bond that existed between them, even if he wished it didn’t. He looked down, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t know what I am,” he admitted, his voice strained. “I was raised to believe I’m a Targaryen, that I’m Daemon’s son. Now everything feels like a lie. How can I be both?”

Gwayne’s gaze softened, the hardness of his demeanor giving way to something almost tender. “You are both,” he said quietly. “You were raised as a Targaryen, with all the fire and pride that comes with it. That is a part of you. But you’re also my blood, whether you like it or not. And you get to decide what that means for you.”

Vaeron’s mind spun with conflicting emotions—anger, guilt, a flicker of something like pity. He wasn’t sure if he could ever see Gwayne as his father, not in the way Daemon had been. But he couldn’t deny that the man who sat before him had risked everything for his mother, for the chance to protect her even when all seemed lost. And for that alone, he couldn’t simply dismiss him.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally shook his head. “I can’t face you—not today. There’s too much I don’t understand, too much I still need to figure out.”

Gwayne nodded, accepting the decision without protest. “I won’t ask for more than you’re willing to give,” he said softly. “But know that I’m here, for as long as they allow me to draw breath. And whatever choice you make, whatever path you choose—I will always be proud of you.”

The words stung, leaving Vaeron with a raw ache in his chest. He wanted to respond, to say something more, but the weight of everything—his own confusion, the war, the fractured loyalties—was too much. He turned abruptly, leaving the cell without another word, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of conflicting emotions.

As he walked away, the echo of Gwayne’s voice lingered in his mind, a reminder that some truths, no matter how painful, couldn’t be ignored forever. But for now, he needed time to reconcile the man he had always believed himself to be with the truths he couldn’t yet fully accept.

And so, Vaeron returned to the world above, leaving the man who called himself his father to the shadows, knowing that one day—perhaps too soon—he would have to confront the reality of who he truly was.

[jelly-rei]

Sweet Tooth

Alfie Solomons x Reader

Summary: You and Alfie have a very sweet and sticky breakfast to start the day.

A/n: This is a rewrite of my previous Alfie x reader fic that was posted on my previous blog which has now been deactivated.

Content includes: Foodplay-sitophilia, smut

Divider by: @strangergraphics

The morning sun filtered through the curtains in long, golden strips, warming up the worn wood of Alfie’s kitchen table.

You sat across from him in one of his too-big shirts, sleeves rolled up, collar slipping off one shoulder, eyes still soft from sleep. The table was humble with just two plates, a kettle, and two buns cut open and buttered half-heartedly.

Alfie slid a jar of chocolate spread and a bottle of syrup toward you’

“Right,” he said suddenly, dragging over a small jar. “Picked these up, didn’t I? Chocolate spread, yeah? Syrup too. Got ‘em off some French bastard in the market, swears on his mother’s grave it’s the best shit outta Belgium. Thought we’d, you know, try somethin’ new, yeah? Might be good on those buns of yours”

You grinned and scooped a generous smear of chocolate onto one and took a bite, eyes widening. The taste was rich, creamy, melting thick across your taste buds. You hummed, pleased, eyes sparkling as you chewed.

“Oh my god, this is delicious, Alf!”

He smirked, his elbows resting on the wood as he watched you like a man studying a painting. He cocked a brow as he leaned in slowly.

“Hold up, love. You’ve got something—yeah, right there.” He pointed lazily to your nose, then waved off your hand when you reached up. “Nah, nah, I got it”

Alfie leaned forward and licked the chocolate from the tip of your nose, his beard scratching against your skin like trouble. You yelped and giggled, scrunching your face, already shoving at his shoulder.

“Alfie!”

“What?” he said, smirking.

“Don’t waste good chocolate, yeah? That’s bloody rude.”

You narrowed your eyes and scooped another dollop onto your tongue, sticking it out at him.

“Try it like this then.”

Alfie chuckled, “You’re bloody cheeky this mornin’, ain’t ya?”

“Come ‘ere then”

He reached out one hand cradling your cheek, the other steady on the table, and pressed his tongue onto yours eagerly to taste more than just the sugar. His beard was still sticky. His tongue was hot as he sucked unhurriedly, teasing yours in a kiss that lingered longer than it should’ve.

“Mm. Not bad” He pulled back with a hum, licking his fingers like he was debating seconds.

“But I reckon it would go down sweeter with syrup, personally.”

You raised a brow playfully, ever the provocateur. Without a word, you tilted your head back and let the syrup drip onto your tongue slowly until it was glistening and thick in your mouth. Sticking it out again, looking at Alfie with a daring gaze.

Alfie groaned under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

He leaned in and took your mouth again. The syrup ran down your chin, catching in his beard, but he didn’t give a damn. He couldn’t, not when you were tasting so sweet on his tongue like this. If anything, he opened wider for more. Both of you pulled away, breathless and dazed, you were already grinning.

“Do you think chocolate and syrup would taste good together?”

Alfie sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Only one way to find out, love. Let’s not be cowards now.”

You reached for the syrup. He reached for the chocolate and smeared a thick, shiny dollop on his tongue, you matched him with syrup, sucking the chocolate from his mouth like you were starved for it, tongues crashing and colliding to get every inch of flavour, laughing between gasps and moans.

The kitchen felt warmer now, though it wasn’t the oven. It was the way Alfie was looking at you. You were still laughing faintly, licking syrup from your lips, when you noticed his gaze change. His hands were sticky from chocolate and syrup, but his eyes had gone dark. Hungry. Not for food. For you.

“You gonna sit there grinnin’ at me like that,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “or you gonna let me spread that syrup somewhere more useful?”

Your thighs clenched together beneath the table. You raised a brow, “Oh yeah? And where exactly is more useful, Alfie?”

He stood up slowly, “We’ll start with that sweet little stomach of yours, won’t we? Work our way down.”

The chair scraped as he pushed it back. He grabbed the jar, and with a tilt of his head and a sinful glint in his eye, he nodded toward the kitchen table.

“Up. Come on now. Lie back”

You swallowed hard. Heat pooled between your thighs. The wood of the table was cool against your thighs as you sat, and cooler when you laid back, your heart was hammering against your chest, and your breath fell short. Alfie stood over you, dragging the pads of his fingers down your inner thighs, syrup clinging to his knuckles.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered, almost reverent.

“Like a feast, you are”

He opened the syrup, spilling it carefully over your belly. The golden stream landed warm and slow, trailing from your navel down toward your hipbone. You gasped at the hot trickling sensation, it was ticklish and indecent. Just the way you liked it. He used the back of the spoon to smear it all over, catching a glossy smear, causing you to whimper pathetically.

“There now,” he said gruffly.

“That’s a fuckin’ sight.

He set the spoon down and rolled his sleeves higher before descending. Flat on your back, sticky and half-laughing, you arched beneath him, his bare forearms braced on either side of your waist, his thick beard now speckled with syrup and chocolate, eyes locked on yours like he was about to bless you and ruin you in the same breath. Your stomach was slicked, catching the light like golden rays. Your thighs were drizzling with liquid sticking to your skin in all the right places that made you twitch.

“Gonna eat you proper now,” he said with a raspy vibration against your neck.

“Start with dessert. End with dessert. Fuck dinner altogether”

He dragged his tongue along your torso in slow, wide strokes, licking up the syrup, teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm and cry out his name.

“A-Alfie fuck…” you groaned.

“Mmm, fucking sweet, sweet noises as well” he hummed against your stomach.

His hand slid between your thighs, parting them with ease. His mouth followed and his beard scratched against your trembling thighs, licking thick strokes down to your ankles. Alfie kisses your heels while you held your breath. Only after he was satisfied did he rise up from your sweetness to admire the mess he had left behind.

“Fuckin’ divine,” he panted while undoing his trousers, his fingers carefully jangling away at his belt.

“And now I’m gonna fuck you so deep they’ll be findin’ sugar in your lungs.”

[jtargaryen18]

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 3

Series Masterlist

Words: 9k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: References to disappearances, kidnapping, threats, and emotional angst. Care. Comfort.

Tommy meets your brother when he shows up at the betting shop looking for you. You meet Ada looking for help with a little problem and find a champion in Polly. Tommy surprises you completely.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

The betting shop was unusually quiet when an unfamiliar young man walked in. He wasn't hesitant, like many who weren't regulars there, but he wasn't charging in like a fool either. His approach was measured, like he knew he didn’t belong but had decided to walk in anyway. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. Slim build, shoulders squared in a patched coat that had seen too many winters. The young man's eyes were sharp, locked on Arthur, who leaned back behind the counter, watching him like this was all a bit of theatre.

"You lost something, lad?" Arthur asked, grinning around his cigarette.

The young man’s jaw tensed. His voice was tight and controlled, but steady. “My sister.”

Arthur’s smile faded—not with guilt, but with interest.

“Ah. That one.” He stood, stretching like he’d been waiting all morning for something to liven the place up. “Bit late for all that, eh?”

The younger man didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Tommy watched from the back office doorway, caught the way his hand hovered near the inside of his coat. He was armed. Brave but stupid.

Tommy stepped out then, made his presence known.

Arthur lit up. “This one’s yours, brother. Came to collect what’s left.”

Tommy said nothing at first, just studied the stranger. Young. Angry. Focused. But the lad wasn't reckless. He wasn’t here to posture, the way John Boy did more and more these days. No, he was here because someone he loved was gone, and nobody was giving him answers.

"Name?" Tommy asked quietly.

"Rory." The young man met and held Tommy's gaze. "Rory Flynn."

The surname matched the girl’s—his girl’s—file he’d already had drawn up. But now, standing in front of him, the boy wasn’t just a name on paper. He had her eyes—same shape, same quiet fire behind them. The sharp, observant way he took everything in was familiar too, saying very little but missing nothing.

But Rory Flynn reminded him of someone else. Tommy couldn't immediately place it.

Tilting his head, he studied him for a beat longer. "Who's your father?" he asked. 

Rory’s gaze dropped for just a moment. "He died in the way in France. 1916."

Their father had died in the war then. “Name?”

"Malachy Flynn." 

There it was.  Tommy’s expression didn’t change, but inside, recognition tightened his chest. He remembered Malachy Flynn. Their father had been older than him by at least a decade. They hadn’t served side by side. Flynn was in earlier, already a sergeant when Tommy was still green. The name Malachy Flynn meant something. Tommy had heard it in the trenches. Flynn died a hero, pulling two younger soldiers out of a crater after a shelling. He could’ve saved himself but chose not to. 

“I knew your father,” Tommy said in a lower tone as the boy blinked in surprise. “He was a good man.”

In that moment, the something shifted between them—something almost like understanding. He understood the boy in front of him better. He was his father’s son.

"My sister’s been gone two days," Rory said in a tight voice, cutting to the chase. "She was supposed to be… delivered to your brother. No one’s seen her since.”

Arthur gave a low whistle, but Tommy raised a hand. Quiet. Let him talk.

"Our mother’s worried sick," Rory added, his expression cracking just enough to show the truth of it. “She doesn’t know who to ask, who to trust. So I came here.”

Tommy stepped closer, arms loosely crossed. “And your stepfather?”

The boy's gaze hardened, but he didn't answer.

And that was answer enough. Tommy watched him try to control his emotions, mostly suceeding. The kid wasn’t just worried—he was plotting something. A pistol hidden in the lining of that patched coat or maybe a cheap folding knife meant for a throat that had made a deal no decent man would’ve dared. Tommy recognized that look. A young man with nothing left to lose, trying to change his world with a single, violent act. It was foolish, but he respected it.

“You plan on killing him?” Tommy asked bluntly.

Rory’s gaze returned to his. Some intense emotion flashed there before his expression was guarded again. “He deserves worse.”

"Why?"

"For wanting my sister out of his house," Rory said tightly. "She's a temptation to him, see. He wants her more than our mother."

Tommy filed that bit of information away. He recalled her telling him that their stepfather wanted her gone. Now he knew exactly why. She wasn't another mouth to feed and she helped the household earn money. No, the man just wanted her. While was a good, decent young woman, he couldn't do that without resorting to rape. No, now him offering her up made sense. Once the Shelbys soiled her, she was fair game to him.

As he returned his attention to her brother, he realized the boy wasn't bluffing. This was a brother who cared more about his sister than himself. And that meant something. The young man had more honor than many of the men Tommy had dealt with this week.

He exchanged a glance with Arthur, who shrugged, then grinned. “You’ve got your hands full now, don’t you?”

On the one hand, the boy let him know that, so far, his plan was working. No one outside the family knew where she was. Not the local blokes who’d heard about the wager and were sniffing around for gossip. Not the old women who watched from behind their curtains on Gray Street, waiting for her to come walking back home in shame.

She’d disappeared.

And in Small Heath, disappearing meant one of two things: death or Shelby. The right people were wondering. The wrong people were staying quiet. That was exactly what Tommy wanted. She wasn’t just gone—she was untouchable. Hidden. Held. And the longer she stayed out of sight, the louder the message would ring when Tommy was ready to speak it.

But the rest of the conversation? The situation was too delicate, too exposed, to continue it there. The last thing Tommy needed was a scene in the middle of the betting shop. Too many eyes and ears. Word about the girl couldn’t get out—not yet.

Tommy straightened, smoothing the front of his waistcoat with a slow, practiced motion. “Walk with me,” he said, already turning toward the hallway that led to the back office.

Rory didn’t move. “I came to speak to Arthur.”

Stopping mid-step and turning back, Tommy eyed him with a glint of steel behind his eyes. “You’re speaking to the man in charge.”

Arthur let out a small chuckle behind the counter, clearly enjoying the moment. Mostly because he was still pissed at Tommy for the entire affair. “He is, y’know. Always has been.”

Rory’s spine straightened, but Tommy saw the hesitation. He didn’t trust this. Didn’t like being led somewhere less public. Smart.

But Tommy didn’t ask twice. He met the boy’s eyes, voice low and final. “If you want answers about your sister, you’ll come with me. Now.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with challenge. Rory’s hand hovered near his coat again, and for a second Tommy wondered if the lad would actually try to be brave enough to draw on him. But then—a slow nod. Rory stepped forward, lips pressed into a grim line, eyes burning with controlled fury.

Tommy turned without another word, the sound of Rory’s boots following close behind. And just like that, the game moved behind closed doors—where Tommy always played best. 

Once the door was closed and it was just the two of them in the back office, Tommy voice was calm, final. “She’s safe.”

Rory's demeanor didn't change. He barely moved. When he spoke, it wasn’t with the blind deference most gave the name Shelby. “You say that like it’s supposed to mean something.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked to him, sharp.

But Rory didn’t flinch. “You’re a powerful man, Mr. Shelby. But I'm just supposed to take your word for it? That she’s safe, that she’s unharmed, that she’s not—” He cut himself off, swallowing the emotion before it could break the surface.

Tommy could see it—the fight between pride and fear, fury and helplessness all crashing together in someone too young to carry that much weight, and yet doing it anyway. This wasn’t about challenging authority. It wasn’t about standing up to the infamous Tommy Shelby just for the sake of pride. Here was a brother asking the only man who might know the truth if his sister was still the same girl who’d left their doorstep two nights ago. And now he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Why am I talking to you?” Rory asked, voice sharp but not disrespectful. “Why isn’t it Arthur telling me she’s safe?”

Tommy let him talk on.

“Arthur made the deal.” Rory’s hands twitched at his sides, as if even his body didn’t know what to do with the storm building in his chest. “And now she’s gone. You’ve got her then. And I’m supposed to believe she’s just… being looked after?” There was a beat of silence, heavy, still. Then he added—“You turning her out? Passing her around behind those big gates like she’s…” He couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say it out loud.

Tommy’s face didn’t change, but inside, something coiled tight. The boy was bold, reckless, and about three seconds from pushing too far—but not wrong for asking or for being afraid. The lad knew how the world worked. And worse, he knew what the Shelbys were capable of. 

In a softer voice, he finished with, “You’ve got no reason to lie to me. But I’ve got every reason not to trust you.”

Rory Flynn wasn’t a fool, nor soft either. He’d walked into a lion’s den armed not just with a weapon, but with the kind of quiet conviction Tommy rarely saw in men twice his age.

Stepping away from the desk, Tommy crossed to the cabinet near the wall. He poured two fingers of whiskey into a short glass, then set it on the edge of the desk without pushing it forward. A gesture, not an invitation.

“She’s not being turned out," Tommy said. The boy's gaze searched his, looking for the lie. “And she’s not being passed around. Your sister’s not a message. She’s the punctuation at the end of one.”

Rory’s brow furrowed slightly, not getting the answer he expected.

“Your stepfather made a wager," Tommy continued. "That debt was collected. You know what she walked into—and who made it happen.”

Rory nodded stiffly.

“But I made sure she was protected,” Tommy added. “From Arthur. From your stepfather. From every bastard in Small Heath who now thinks she’s someone they can have a turn with.”

“Why though?" Rory's voice broke through the weight of it all. “You don't know us.”

Tommy looked at him for a long moment. “Because your sister deserves better than what the world would’ve given her.” Another beat. “And maybe... I wanted her for myself.”

Rory’s first reaction was a flash of anger, sharp and instinctive, the kind of response any brother would have when hearing a man like Tommy Shelby admit he’d taken something that wasn’t his to take. Disbelief, drawn across his brow as he blinked, probably had the lad wondering if this was a twisted test or a joke he wasn't in on. Neither lasted. Rory's mind was impressive for his age. Tommy could see it behind his eyes as the weight of the situation settled in. His sister had been plucked out of a world that treated her like currency and was now in the hands of the most dangerous man in Birmingham.

Rory visibly didn’t like it—not by a long shot— but he understood the value in that. In a world as ugly and unforgiving as theirs, maybe it wasn’t the worst place for her to be.

He straightened just slightly, holding Tommy’s gaze. “So then what?” he asked, voice rough. “You planning to keep her locked up forever?” The worry hadn’t left. But neither had the fight. Not for blood. Not for vengeance. But for his sister.

Tommy held Rory’s stare, unflinching. The lad wasn’t backing down. More than most men in Small Heath, this one had the guts to ask a question that would’ve earned others a bullet.

“No,” Tommy said finally, voice low but sure. “Not forever.” Stepping around the desk, slow and deliberate, he kept his tone measured. "She’s not my prisoner, Rory. But right now, she can’t be seen. Not until the people who gambled her away learn their lesson. And not until she understands she’s safe here. With me.”

Tommy watched more emotion cross his young face, the way he wanted to argue—but didn’t.

“When this is over,” Tommy said, choosing each word carefully, “she won’t go back to the life she had before. I won’t allow that.” A pause. “And she won’t want to.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

“You came here today prepared to do something stupid if you didn’t like the answers," Tommy redirected their conversation back to Rory himself. “You're armed. But you didn’t. You asked questions instead. You listened. That’s more than most.” There was no mocking in his tone, no challenge—just an observation. A truth. Tommy would be truthful in turn. “She’s not your concern anymore. But she will be taken care of. You have my word.”

For a moment, Rory didn’t move. He stood there bravely, like he was trying to be a man in a room where boys didn’t last long. But something in him cracked, just slightly. He looked down—not in submission, but to keep himself from saying too much. Tommy admired the boy's control.

When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “She’s still my sister, sir.”

The words landed full of weight that didn’t need to be shouted. Fear, pride, and the guilt for not being able to stop any of it. She was still his sister. And no matter who claimed her now—that wouldn’t change. But there were conditions the boy needed to understand. 

Tommy looked him in the eye, the edge returning to his voice like a blade slipping back into a gloved hand. “You can’t say anything, Rory. To anyone.”

The younger man’s brows drew together, the fire in him flaring again.

“To anyone,” Tommy repeated, voice low, steady. “Not your mates, not your foreman at the factory, not the neighbor who always has something to say. And not your mother.”

Rory stiffened. “You can’t expect—”

“I do.” Tommy’s tone cut through the room like a gunshot. “Because the minute anyone knows where she is, the point of all this falls apart. The lesson ends."

The words hit hard—because they were true. And Rory knew it. But he wasn’t done. “Can I at least see her?” he asked, voice low now, more pleading than angry. “Or let my mum? Just to know she’s not… hurt. Scared.”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Rory’s mouth opened, protest rising, but Tommy cut him off before the words came. “She’s under my roof. That means she’s under my protection. And she stays hidden until I decide otherwise.”

Rory shook his head, frustration bubbling over. “And I'm supposed to what? Just give her up?”

Tommy’s voice lowered again. “No. But if you tell your mother, and she tells someone else—intentional or not—we’ve got a problem. And if this becomes a problem…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished but understood. “You’re a good brother, Rory. So be a smart one, too.”

Tommy turned slightly, as if the conversation was over—but then paused, glancing back at Rory with something like recognition. “Your stepfather isn’t worth the noose.”

Rory’s posture stiffened again. The flash in his eyes said it all—he’d been thinking about it. Planning something. 

“I’ve seen lads like you ruin their lives trying to settle scores that weren’t theirs to carry.”

Rory didn’t speak, but he was weighing Tommy's words.

“You want to punish him? Fine.” He held Rory’s gaze. “Make something of yourself. Become a man he’ll never be, like your father. Protect your mother. Look after your sister when the time comes.” He let that settle before adding, “But don’t end up in a grave over a man who already buried himself.”

Rory stared at him, the weight of it landing heavy—but not wasted.

Tommy stepped back behind the desk, nodding to the glass he hadn’t touched. “Drink that and go home.”

The boy's hand shook slightly. Still, he took pains to try and hide it. Knocking it back, he did as Tommy wanted and walked out the door. 

As the door clicked shut behind him, Tommy remained still for a moment, eyes lingering on the space where the boy had stood. 

Rory Flynn.

The boy was wasted on the factories. That kind of fire—controlled, not reckless—didn’t belong behind a grinding machine or buried under soot and orders. The boy had walked into a Shelby stronghold, armed and alone, and hadn't flinched. Had spoken with conviction, not desperation. He had the look of his father—Malachy’s grit, that quiet backbone. But more than that, he had the one thing Tommy valued most in a man: purpose. Even if it wasn’t quite shaped yet. And that made him valuable.

Loyalty born from blood is dangerous. But loyalty born from debt? From earned respect? That was something Tommy could build on.

Tommy reached for his cigarette case and lit one slowly, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. He'd keep an eye on Rory Flynn. There were uses for a lad like that. It wouldn’t just be strategic for Tommy—it would be personal leverage cloaked as kindness. His girl might not trust him now—probably didn’t—but if her brother was safe, fed, and rising under the Shelby name, it would chip away at her resistance more effectively than any locked door or quiet threat. It would show her that he wasn't just keeping her—he was looking after her people. That meant something to a girl like her.

She was fiercely loyal, just like him. If she saw her brother being taken seriously, being respected, she’d start to question her own resentment for the man who took her. She might not forgive him—not yet—but she'd feel tethered in a way Tommy could work with. Bringing Rory in gave her a stake in the Shelby world. And if she had something to lose inside it, she’d stop thinking so hard about running from him.

Better still, it gave Tommy a way in. A reason to have her near without forcing it, to speak to her under the veil of family concern. It made him look like a protector—not just of her, but of the people she loved. And that kind of power was far more effective than fear.

Because eventually, fear fades. But debt? That lingers.

***

You heard the commotion before you saw it the next morning as you carried your breakfast tray downstairs, just to get out of that room. A baby fussing, a door swinging open, and the kind of voice that carried through hallways like it belonged there. It wasn’t Polly. And it wasn’t one of the house staff. No, the young woman stepped cautiously into the corridor just in time to see a you coming through the front hall, a babe perched on her hip, and confidence radiating from every inch of her like she’d never once been told no. The stranger stopped mid-step when she saw you, arching a brow as if she’d just walked into the most interesting scene in Birmingham. 

“Well,” the woman said, eyeing her with open curiosity. “You’re definitely not one of the housemaids.”

You panicked, unsure what to say. You were supposed to be hiding. Panic rose as you just stared at the lovely young woman.

She shifted the baby higher on her hip, adjusting the wool blanket around him. “I’m Ada. Arthur’s sister.”

Of course. The Ada. The one Polly mentioned with half pride, half exasperation. The one who’d married a communist and kept her spine straight about it. Ada tilted her head, looking you over with a keen eye—not cruelly, but thoughtfully. Then a devilish excitement flashed in her eyes. You'd seen Tommy react the exact same way.

“You’re the girl, then?” she asked casually, as if they were talking about nothing more serious than a new dress Polly had brought home. "The one from Gray Street?"

Heat crept up your neck. “I… suppose I am.”

Ada grinned. “Well, I’ve been dying to know who managed to stir up this much Shelby drama and still be breathing after two days. You're all anyone's talking about. The girl Arthur won... You’re not exactly his type.”

The baby gurgled in her arms, waving a tiny hand, and Ada bounced him gently with an ease that didn’t match the sharpness of her words. Her face softened as she looked down at him, and for a moment, the sharp edge of her Shelby wit dulled. The baby was beautiful—rosy-cheeked, dark lashes, that innocent glow untouched by everything swirling around him.

Ada looked back up at you. “You don’t have to look so terrified,” she said, with a kinder smile this time. “I’m not here to drag you off and parade you through Small Heath. I wouldn’t want to face down that lot either if that was done to me.”

Out of all the Shelbys you'd encountered so far, Ada seemed to be the kindest. And you were grateful for that. You woke up with a headache, an ache in your lower back. Sharp cramps signalled it was time for your monthly and your lack of supplies there left you somewhere between panic and despair. As if your situation wasn't bad enough. It had taken a little while but you'd finally talked yourself into seeking out Polly to let her know of your latest situation and begging for her help.

Her expression shifted, brow knitting slightly. “Truth be told, I came here to ask Polly what the hell was going on. Last thing I heard, you were delivered to Arthur for the night and then…” She made a vague motion with her hand. “Gone. Vanished. Like smoke. And now here you are—in our house. Looking like a ghost someone forgot to let out.”

Before you could answer—before you could even figure out what to say—Polly’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Ada.”

Ada turned, smirking over her shoulder as her aunt descended the stairs with that familiar tight-lipped look that warned of no-nonsense ahead. “I was just talking to your guest,” Ada said lightly. "Or should I say Arthur's guest?"

Polly shot her a glare as she reached the bottom step. “She doesn’t need your commentary. And you—” her sharp eyes flicked to you, then softened just a touch, “—shouldn’t be running around the house."

"I'm sorry," you told her, watching the older woman's knowing gaze drop to the tray in your hands. You'd hoped to avoid that. You'd barely eaten anything. 

Shaking her head, Polly took the tray and carried it just inside the kitchen.

Ada raised a brow. “So why is she here?"

Polly didn’t answer right away when she returned. She looked at you for a long moment—not coldly, but carefully, as if trying to decide whether to tell the truth in front of you or send you out of the room first. “She’s here because your brother made a decision,” Polly said finally, her voice clipped, measured. “And now we all have to live with it.”

Ada's gaze shifted from Polly to you and back, the baby shifting in her arms. “What does that even mean?”

Polly cut her niece a steely look. “It means Tommy stepped into something Arthur started and decided he could fix it by making it worse.”

Ada blinked. “Tommy?”

Polly nodded. “Tommy's the one who settled the debt.”

Heat crept up your neck again, but something colder lingered underneath—shame, confusion, and the terrifying sense of being spoken about like you weren’t standing right there.

Ada’s gaze landed on you again, but her amusement was gone. Just realization. She adjusted the baby gently, then said, softer now, “I didn’t know.”

“None of us did,” Polly replied, eyes never leaving Ada. “Not until it was already done. He's hiding her here.”

To Polly’s astonishment, Ada didn’t argue. She didn’t huff or scold or lecture the way Polly expected. Instead, she stood there in the middle of the hall, baby on her hip, brow furrowed as she actually thought it over. The silence stretched a beat too long before Ada finally said, “Well… from a certain point of view…”

Polly blinked. “Ada.”

“No, hear me out.” She gave you a small, sideways glance—not unkind, just curious again. “He didn't send her walking home in shame the next morning over a stupid wager she wasn't even a part of. He's hiding her here and there are worse places to hide. I should know.” She shrugged, bouncing the baby again gently. “I mean, it’s twisted. But it’s Tommy. And for him?” She gave a small, incredulous laugh. “It’s almost… romantic.”

Polly stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Do you hear yourself?”

Ada's smile was impish. “I wouldn’t have expected it of him. That’s all I’m saying.” She turned her gaze back to you, a little spark of amusement in her eyes. “You’ve clearly shaken something loose in that cold, dead heart of his.”

You didn’t know what to say—was this a compliment? From the look on Polly’s face, even she wasn’t sure how to take it.

"Why does everyone think she’s missing then?" Ada asked.

"Because that’s what Tommy wants them to think," Polly said, and there was warning in her tone. “So you’re sworn to secrecy.”

Ada’s brows lifted slightly, but she nodded. “Of course. Shelby rules.” Then her gaze shifted back to you, her voice gentler. “What about her family?”

It was the same question you’d been asking yourself over and over again for the last two days. They must have been worried sick. Your mother probably hadn’t slept. Your brother… God, Rory. He could be doing anything right now. Searching the streets. Demanding answers from men more dangerous than he realized. The thought of him searching for you in vain cracked something open inside you. You tried to blink the tears away before they could fall, but it was too late. Both Shelby women saw.

Ada’s expression softened instantly, and even Polly’s sharpness dulled. “Oh, love…” Polly murmured, stepping closer.

Pressing your lips together, you tried to keep your voice steady. The wave of emotion hit you fast. The weight of being taken, hidden, claimed—and forgotten by the world you left behind—was suddenly too much to hold in. You were scared and angry now. You were grieving. And now, finally, someone realized it.

Polly didn’t say another word—she just gently placed a hand on your shoulder and turned you, guiding you down the hall like a mother ushering her child out of a storm. “Come on, love. Let’s not fall apart in the foyer.”

Ada followed without question, as Polly ushered you into the sitting room. She waved you toward the sofa while Ada settled into an armchair near the fireplace, the baby now babbling softly against her shoulder. 

Polly’s eyes narrowed slightly as she looked you over, her arms folding across her chest. “You didn’t eat this morning.”

“I’m not sick,” you murmured, a little embarrassed. “It’s just… it’s my time.”

Ada gave a soft “Ah,” nodding in understanding.

Polly, however, straightened slightly, her expression immediately shifting to one of disapproval bleeding on concern. She shook her head and you weren't sure who she disapproved of - you or Tommy.

“I'm sorry," you added quickly. "I wasn’t exactly… prepared.”

Ada snorted softly, adjusting the baby’s blanket. “Well, if there’s any silver lining, that’s it, isn’t it?” she said, almost too casually. “At least we know you’re not pregnant.” 

The words hit the air and settled there, a truth no one wanted to say but couldn’t ignore. And you were grateful for that considering the last two nights.

Polly’s jaw tightened, her mouth a thin line. “Same clothes since she got here. No proper supplies. No privacy. No explanation. Just dropped into this house like she’s one of the bloody spoils of war.”

You looked down at your lap, fingers curling in the fabric of the dress you'd been wearing since your ordeal started. You couldn't even bringing yourself to mention you had no draws on top of it all. You were ruining a small towel you found to use until you could ask for help.

Ada shook her head. “This isn’t how it should’ve been handled.”

"It shouldn't have happened at all." Polly’s voice softened then, but didn’t lose its edge. "All this so your brother could strike more fear in the hearts of all those in Small Heath."

Polly looked at you then—really looked. Not just as someone Tommy was hiding here, but as a young woman dropped into something too big, too fast, and too cruel.

And in that moment, you saw it clear as day: Polly Gray had just decided she was going to look after you.

Whether Tommy liked it or not.

***

Tommy stepped through the front door later than usual, the scent of rain and coal smoke clinging to his coat. His boots echoed in the hall, the kind of sound that announced his arrival. The low murmur of voices drifted in from deeper in the house—John Boy and Finn, unmistakably, and Polly holding court in that no-nonsense tone she saved for family. The scent of supper wasn't lingering in the air, letting him know just how late he was.

He shrugged out of his coat, and laid it across the chair by the entry—his movements automatic and his mind was elsewhere. 

Tonight, his thoughts weren't on the Garrison, nor on business. 

They were on her.

He didn’t like the feeling. It was a crack in the armor he wore every waking hour. But it was there all the same, threading through him like the last drag of a cigarette he hadn’t meant to enjoy.

His conversation with her brother made it worse. Rory Flynn walked into the betting shop, ready to draw blood if it meant finding his sister. He’d held his nerve, asked the right questions, listened when it counted. Seeing the boy’s loyalty—his quiet devotion to his sister—unsettled something in him. It reminded him of what he was holding onto. 

Exhaling through his nose, he started toward the stairs. The truth was simpler, but much harder to admit. He just wanted to see her. And he didn’t like how much that mattered.

Polly caught him before he could make it farther. “Ada’s been by,” she said without preamble, arms crossed like she was bracing for his reaction.

Tommy stopped. “What did she see?”

“Everything.”

He sighed. “She saw her?”

Polly gave him a sharp look. “She found her before I could stop her. Ada won’t say anything. She actually seemed charmed by the whole thing.”

Charmed. Christ.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his shoulders sore from a day spent putting out fires at the Garrison—men needing reminders, deals needing to be reinforced. From trying to keep his focus on business all day and failing.

“I’m going to wash up,” he muttered, brushing past her. "Have my supper brought up."

“Don’t stomp in like you own the place,” she said, her voice low and clipped. “I'll send something for her too. She's not eating.”

Tommy paused mid-step, one brow lifting. “What?”

Polly’s expression didn’t flinch. “She’s not eating. Said she's not feeling well today.”

The words hit harder than he expected. He didn’t show it to Polly, but the truth of it pressed in just beneath the surface. She wasn’t eating. And that meant this game he’d started—this lesson for Small Heath, this cold, calculated plan—was wearing her down more than he’d accounted for.

He set his cap on the sideboard, slow and deliberate. “Send supper up then, Pol," he said. "And laudanum. She'll eat. I'll talk to her."

“Then mind your tone, Tommy.”  Polly watched him for another beat, she could always see right through him. After a moment, she stepped aside to let him pass. 

He didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t need to. Because now, as he climbed the stairs toward his room, that single detail—she’s not eating—settled into him, heavy and unwanted, coiling in that quiet part of his chest where concern lived, the place he rarely let anyone touch.

Tommy had built an empire by knowing what men valued. He hadn’t stopped to consider how often women like her weren’t valued at all. And now here she was, pulled out of one world and into another, not asked—just taken. Her brother's visit, the details about her relationship with her stepfather, ran through his mind. His girl's life had been far from easy. And just so he could have her, just so he could impose his will on the people in Small Heath, he'd gone and thoughtlessly made her plight worse. What had he thought? That she’d be grateful? That she’d look at the Shelby name like it was a lifeline instead of a collar?

The tension in his head grew, a culmination of business, family, guilt, and the uncomfortable realization that he’d miscalculated the one thing he thought he’d handled precisely. 

When he reached his room, he opened the door quietly. She was already in bed. Not asleep—he could tell by the way her breathing changed, the slight tension in her shoulders. She was lying on her side, facing the wall, hands wrapped around her abdomen like she was holding herself together. 

Stepping inside, he closed the door gently behind him, and studied her in the dim light from the lamp on the bedside table and the fire the maid kept up in the fireplace. Polly had said she wasn’t eating. Said she wasn’t feeling well. And now that he really looked—the way her body curled in slightly, the faint clench of discomfort in her posture—it didn’t take him long to work it out. She wasn’t ill. She was in pain. 

Pain had been a companion to him many times in his life, particularly during the war. But this pain wasn't the kind she could explain to a man like him. A woman's pain. It hit him then—the silent panic she must’ve been living with, knowing what he might expect from her, unable to say a word without fear and shame burning her alive. Of course she wasn’t eating. Of course her anxiety was through the roof. She was miserable. And worse—she was bracing for something she didn’t have the means to refuse. 

Tommy stood there for a long moment, staring at the girl he’d dragged into his world, knowing full well he was the last person she could admit that kind of vulnerability to. And he hated that, more than anything. Because he hadn’t just made her his. He’d made her afraid.

She shifted slightly beneath the covers, just enough to catch him in the corner of her eye. Her gaze met his for a second—just a second—and that was all he needed. It was there. The tension. The guarded fear. The unmistakable flicker of dread. Not the kind that came from the threat of violence or cruelty. The kind that came from not knowing how to say something you shouldn’t have to say. From being a woman stuck in a man’s world, afraid he might ask something of her that her body simply couldn’t give tonight.

Tommy’s chest tightened. He was right. And that look in her eyes twisted something deeper than guilt. It was shame. And it didn’t belong to her.

He crossed the room slowly, keeping his movements careful. No swagger or sharpness. When he reached the edge of the bed, he didn’t touch her. Didn’t sit. Just stood there and kept his tone low and even. “You’re alright. I’m not here for that.”

He watched the emotions in her eyes shift—not into trust, not yet—but into something softer. Something closer to relief. 

As he turned to pull the armchair away from the corner, his hand brushed against soft fabric—a small bundle of Ada’s old dresses draped neatly over the backrest. Tommy paused, staring at them. They weren’t folded like someone had forgotten them. They’d been placed there with care. His jaw tightened as the realization sank in. She’d only had the one dress. Since she’d found herself in his world, she'd been used like a bargaining chip and told nothing, given nothing. He’d been so caught up in deals, territory, strategy, and her silence—he hadn’t noticed. She’d been wearing the same thing, day after day, too proud to say a word, too uncertain of her place to ask for more. 

Pulling the chair forward slowly, he sat down, and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He didn’t like all this said about him. Didn’t like that she’d gone without because he hadn’t made time to think about her comfort. Only her presence. Only her usefulness. He was so used to having everything handled for him once he made decisions. He took for granted that the girl would request what she needed and that Polly and his house staff would provide it. Careless.

She'd been surviving, and he—the man who claimed to have rescued her—hadn’t even noticed she needed something as simple as a change of clothes. And now, here she was, in pain, curled up and too afraid to tell him. He exhaled slowly, voice low as he spoke—not to her exactly, but into the quiet. “This isn't going to happen again.”

And he meant it. Because if he was going to keep her, he’d damn well start acting like she was worth keeping right.

His voice, when it came, was low—steady but softer than she was used to hearing from him. “Supper’s on its way up.”

She shifted slightly under the covers, still not facing him, but he knew she was listening. 

“You need to eat,” he added. “Not because I said so.”

Quickly, he cleared his desk of the few items on it. It would work as a makeshift table. Moving the armchair next to the chair at the desk gave her a seat. It would work.

“After you’ve eaten, I’ll give you something for the pain. Laudanum,” he explained as he walked back to the bed, his tone even, steady. “I won’t hide it from you. You’ll see me pour it. You’ll know what it is. Can you sit up?”

She swallowed hard, taking a breath that trembled just slightly before she carefully rolled onto her back. Tommy’s eyes swept over her in the simple white nightgown she wore—a soft, modest thing Polly must’ve set aside for her. His gaze lingered only long enough to register what he needed to: no blood, no visible distress. It eased something in him.

She had what she needed, then. Polly had seen to that.

He moved closer to the bed, one hand extending toward her, the other already steadying her shoulder. “I’m going to carry you over to the desk,” he said quietly. “Supper’ll be easier that way.”

Her eyes widened just slightly—not in fear, but surprise. Like she couldn’t quite believe he would.

“Hang onto me,” he added.

Her arms wrapped gently around his neck, tentative at first, like she was still waiting for some trick or test. But she didn’t pull away from him. 

Tommy lifted her with ease, careful with every step as he crossed the room to the armchair he’d moved by the desk. She weighed nothing. And yet, somehow, he’d never carried anything that felt so significant. Easing her down gently into the chair, he adjusted the cushion behind her back before pulling the blanket from the foot of the bed and tucking it around her legs.

When she looked up at him, there was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. The beginning of trust mixed in with the surprise. "Thank you,” she whispered.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, smoothing the blanket one last time before stepping back.

The knock at the door came softly, and a moment later the maid stepped in, carrying a silver tray neatly arranged with two covered plates, a teapot, and a small glass bottle—the laudanum with a small empty glass. If she thought anything of Tommy Shelby taking supper at his desk, with a girl tucked gently into an armchair beside him, she didn’t show it. Not a flicker of surprise, not even the briefest glance between them. Shelby business was Shelby business. She moved efficiently, placing the tray on the desk and uncovering the plates—sliced roast, buttered potatoes, greens, a bread roll each.

But Tommy’s eyes weren’t on the food. He caught the subtle flicker in his girl’s gaze—the way it locked onto the small dropper bottle, amber glass glinting in the light. She didn’t say anything, but her hands tensed in her lap.

The maid finished setting the table, gave a small nod, and slipped out without a word. The silence that followed felt heavier than before. 

She stared down at the plate in front of her, then glanced sideways at him. “I don’t think I can eat.”

Tommy didn’t push the food toward her. Didn’t sigh or scold or tell her she needed to try harder. He just leaned forward, his voice low, calm. “You have to.”

She blinked, unsure, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the blanket.

“Otherwise,” he continued, tipping his head toward the laudanum, “that’ll hit you like a punch to the gut and you'll feel worse than you do already.”

A pause.

“A little food first. Then the medicine.” Tommy watched her carefully, giving her the truth—not an order, not a demand.

And for a moment, he saw her shoulders drop, just a bit. He hoped she saw he wasn't trying to control her. He was offering help. And maybe—just maybe—she believed that now.

Tommy reached for his fork, slicing into the roast as if this were just another evening—ordinary, unremarkable. “It won’t be much,” he said, nodding toward the laudanum. “Just a little. No more than I gave Finn last summer when he broke his arm falling off the wall outside the Garrison.” He smiled at the memory. “Cried like a baby. The laudanum knocked him out cold after that. He slept like a prince.”

He felt her gaze on him as he took his first bite, still wary but not frozen anymore. Her fork inched toward the plate. Slowly, cautiously, she followed suit—a small bite at first, testing herself. Then another.

Tommy didn't react or try to praise her. He just kept eating, giving her time to do the same. Once her posture relaxed, he said, “Your brother came to see me today.”

Her fork paused mid-air. Her gaze met his—wide, searching.

“Rory,” he added. “Turned up at the betting shop.”

She swallowed, lips parting like she wanted to ask something, but the words didn’t come.

Tommy filled in the silence. “He wanted answers. He wanted you. He didn’t care who I was or what it might cost him.” He looked directly at her. “That’s loyalty.”

Her eyes began to shine, but she blinked quickly, holding herself together. She took another bite, listening with new hope shining in her eyes. 

“I told him you were safe. That you were being looked after. And I made sure he understood he’d see you again, just not yet.” He paused, then added—more quietly this time, “He reminded me a lot of someone I used to know.”

She looked up at him then, brows knitting faintly. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the distance, one hand still loosely holding his fork.

“Your father,” he said, finally. The words came slower than the others, like he’d turned them over in his mouth before letting them go. “I didn’t put it together until today.”

Her breath caught.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed on the edge of the desk, his voice quiet but firm. “Not until I saw your brother. The way he stood. The way he spoke. That edge in his voice when he talked about you—like there wasn’t anything in the world that mattered more. That’s when it hit me. He looked just like your father... Malachy Flynn was one of the few men I knew in France that I’d call decent. Quiet, steady, older than the rest of us. He wasn’t trying to be a hero, but he died like one,” Tommy continued, his voice rougher now. “I knew him. Not well—not in the way men know each other in peacetime. But well enough in France.”

He looked at her, and this time, there was no distance in his eyes. Only memory. She was making an attempt at eating something so he carried on. Maybe she thought if she kept eating he'd have more to say.

A pause, and then—“Your brother's got that same fire. That same kind of bravery that doesn’t need noise to be felt. That’s how I knew who I was looking at.” He continued, something like respect in his voice. “He’s his father’s son. I see his strength in you too.”

He didn’t say it for comfort. He said it because it was true. But as soon as the words left his mouth, Tommy saw the way she reacted—subtle, but real. Her eyes dropped, not in dismissal, but in disbelief. As if no one had ever told her she was strong before and meant it. 

Her fingers tightened slightly around the napkin in her lap, her shoulders rising with a slow breath that trembled just enough to give her away. He watched the flicker of emotion pass through her—a flash of something close to pain, maybe even grief—like the truth of who her father had been, and what she had lost, was only just settling in now. She blinked rapidly, lashes wet but holding back. No tears. Not yet. But her lips parted like she wanted to respond, say something—thank you, maybe. Or I didn’t know. Or I wish I remembered him better.

Instead, she gave the smallest nod.

And for Tommy, that said more than any words could. She’d heard him. And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

Her voice, when it finally came, was soft. Fragile. “Is he okay? Rory?”

Tommy nodded. “He’s fine. Angry, worried. But fine. Taking care of your mother.” And then—just to make sure it sank in—he said, gently, “I just wanted you to know you haven't been forgotten."

He didn’t mention the stepfather. He didn’t have to. Because the way she looked at him in that moment—a flicker of trust blooming behind her tired eyes—told him she already knew.

“I’m worried about Rory,” she said after a moment, her voice quiet but steady as she dabbed at her mouth with the napkin from her lap.

Tommy looked up from his plate, knowing where this was going.

“I’m afraid he’s going to…” She trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish.

Tommy knew what she was going to say. The moment Rory stood in the betting shop, shoulders tense, hand hovering near his coat pocket—he knew. Just like he knew that fire wasn’t going to burn out on its own.

“Sean O’Grady,” Tommy said flatly.

She nodded, her fingers curling slightly in the napkin. “He’s not the type to just let things go. And Rory—he doesn’t care what it costs. Not if it means protecting Mum or me. He hates him.” Her voice cracked just a little on the last part.

Tommy leaned back in the chair, his gaze meeting hers. “He’s already planning something,” he muttered. “Even if he doesn’t know what yet.”

She held his gaze, fear creeping into her expression. “If he does something stupid—if he goes after Sean—”

“He’ll either get himself killed,” Tommy finished, “or arrested.”

The room fell quiet again, but this time it wasn’t a peaceful kind of silence. She looked to him, eyes searching. “I have no right to ask you for anything but... Can you stop him?”

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. “I’ll talk to him again. I’ll find a way to keep him from doing something that can’t be undone.”

She nodded slowly, but the worry didn’t vanish—it clung to her like fog. But, something in her eyes softened when she looked at him. Like she believed him. That he had the power to fix the world she'd been pulled from, and maybe even the one she’d been dragged into. It wasn’t worship or naïve. It was hope, shining just behind her tired eyes like a candle he hadn’t expected her to light again. And it had his heart squeezing in his chest.

A look like that was dangerous to a man. Not because of what it demanded, but because of the emotions it stirred. What wouldn’t a man do to have a woman look at him like that? Like he could work miracles. Like he might be something more than what the world had carved him into. Tommy held her gaze with an unfamiliar ache curling in his chest. He hadn’t set out to earn her trust.

But now that he had a glimpse of it, he’d do whatever it took to keep it.

Tommy shifted in his seat, glancing at their plates. They’d eaten most of the meal. It would do. The moment had grown too heavy, and she looked tired—like the weight of the day, the pain in her body, and the emotion in her chest had all fused together. So, he reached for the small medicine bottle, uncorking it with practiced care.

“Alright,” he said gently, pouring a measured dose into the small empty glass Polly sent along with the bottle. “Just a little. Enough to take the edge off and help you rest.”

She didn’t protest, just watched him in that same quiet way. He handed her the glass and waited, eyes on hers as she took it. No tricks. No pressure. In that moment, she trusted him, swallowing it down with a slight grimace because of the bitterness. She handed the empty glass back with a soft “Thank you.”

Setting it aside, he rose from his chair. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Her eyes fluttered slightly, already dulled by the slow creep of laudanum, but she nodded.

He stepped toward her, careful and unhurried. “Arms around me, love,” he said softly.

She did. Lighter than she had been before, her body already relaxing, she melted into him as he lifted her—gently, like something precious. As he carried her across the room, he felt the faintest sigh against his neck, and for one brief moment, it felt less like an obligation and more like something sacred. He laid her down, pulled the blanket up over her with quiet precision, then stood there a moment longer, just watching. 

Still not knowing what to do with what she’d just given him. But knowing damn well he wouldn’t let anyone—especially himself—ruin it.

She was already fading on him by the time he finished at the washbasin, shrugging out of his shirt and unfastening the rest of his clothes. The laudanum had dulled the edge of her pain, and it showed—she wasn’t curled up anymore, wasn’t holding herself tight like she might break open. She lay on her side, eyes half-lidded, facing him. Watching him without fear or dread.

Just… watching. As if she didn’t quite know what he was yet—a threat, a protector, a man who’d claimed her or someone who might one day earn the right to be more. But there was no flinch in her gaze. No recoil.

He let out a slow breath as he crossed to the bed and stretched out beside her. The sheets were cool against his skin, the sound of rain whispering against the windows. It was a cold night and the air was heavy. It was one of those nights that settled into your bones if you let it. He looked at her once more—eyes barely open now, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks—then reached out and pulled her gently toward him. She didn’t resist him.

She came easily, her body soft with sleep, her head resting near his collarbone, one hand tucked between them like she wasn’t sure it belonged. He held her close, his arm curved around her back, his other hand resting lightly against her hip. Not to claim or to control. But to keep her warm, close.

To keep her.

And as the rain deepened outside, and her breathing evened out against his chest, Tommy Shelby—a man who never slept easy—let himself rest.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle

[jezebelblues]

I just started following you a while ago and I love your work so much, I was even considering restarting my blog to write!

I was wondering, can I request something about the reader being a college student? And maybe harry is taking a break from touring and writing music. He’d probably try to make jokes and distract her sometimes, but he’d also want her to teach him stuff and debrief after class. He might even get serious about her study sessions and be super quiet, but also bring her snacks here and there.

If you get to write this, thank you sm!! 😊

𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

summary: see request ^ basically that, but it’s a slight au because harry isn’t tooooo famous in this

| thank u anon <3 ur too sweet. i hope u got back into writing

cw: fem!reader, unedited. bf!harry, lhh

word count: approx 4.4k

| sorry this took so long to get to! i’ve been in a slump. i hope you don’t mind either that i made him more of an up-and-coming artist rather than the fame he has today :^) lhh just felt right for this too he’s so bf

masterlist

"you did what?" YN laughed, her fingers coated in the smooth, familiar feel of one of harry's leave-in conditioners as she worked it into his damp curls, gently coaxing through knots and tangles that told stories of long nights and late shows.

harry sat on on leg while the other hung lazily off her bed, shirtless, his skin glistening faintly under the dim dorm lights, still cool and damp from his shower. a well-worn towel hung low on his hips, clinging to him in soft folds, and he twisted the silver ring on his index finger, flashing that crooked, boyish grin that still managed to make her heart skip.

"yes—water," he said, a hint of pride in his voice as he looked up at her through dark lashes. "poured it right into the crowd. they went mental."

she chuckled, focusing on a particularly stubborn knot as his head tipped back, giving her a better angle. "do i even want to know why you did that?"

"beer," he replied simply, with a lazy shrug and a mischievous glint in his eye. he shifted, turning to face her fully, the mattress giving a soft creak under his weight as he adjusted. "they were flinging beer at me, so i figured it was fair game. bit of payback," he said with a smirk, his voice deepening in that low, conspiratorial way that she adored.

her lips tugged into a soft smile as she leaned in, her eyes tracing the ink on his skin, pausing over the small mermaid tail curling near his elbow. she felt the room go still for a beat, her fingers just barely grazing his tattooed arm. "tell me more?" she murmured, barely above a whisper.

but instead of answering, he caught her hand in his own, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he brought her palm up, pressing it gently against the warm, bare skin just below his left breastbone. his expression softened, and his voice dipped, tender and a little unsteady. "was thinking–right here. your initial." his gaze searched hers, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes that made her heart skip, lingering between them in a way that left her breathless.

a small, breathy laugh escaped her as she drew her hand back, fingers trailing down his chest as she settled back on the bed, her heart fluttering with that same familiar warmth that only he could draw out of her. "about the show, styles," she chided, though her cheeks had warmed at the idea. it was all she could do to keep her voice steady, even as that look in his eyes held her captive, that glimmer of something deeper, something unspoken.

with a lazy grin, he slumped back on her bed, folding his arms behind his head as if he owned every inch of this tiny dorm room. he was still her harry—the one who'd lean against her door at ungodly hours after a gig, smelling faintly of stale smoke and beer, his voice barely a murmur as he recounted the night's little victories and mishaps. but there was something else in his eyes tonight, an edge softened by the dim light, his hand inching toward hers, fingers grazing against hers.

he gave her a dramatic sigh, pretending to be exasperated, but she could see the way his eyes lit up, the pride he tried to hide. "alright, picture this—tiny, cramped stage, lights barely working, and a crowd that's already three drinks too deep."

she chuckled, already seeing it. "sounds like your crowd."

"my exact type.” he hummed, eyes glimmering. "i was halfway through kiwi when this guy in the front row starts singing louder than me. like, absolutely shouting every word—more like repeating guess, i don’t think he knew the lyrics—didn't care if he was off-key or not."

"oh no," she gasped, theatrics, biting back a grin. "how did you handle that?"

"well, first i tried to ignore him. y'know, be professional and all." he raised his chin, like he was already picturing himself on a real stage. "but then he threw his beer in the air, and half of it hit me, so i thought, why not join him?"

she felt the words settle over her, a quiet intimacy that wrapped around them, thick and warm. she let herself lean into him, their knees brushing, her hand finding his and lacing their fingers together. here, in this cocoon of her dimly lit dorm room, the outside world faded. it was just him-her’s, with his rough edges, inked skin, and soulful eyes that held a thousand unspoken promises.

"so," she murmured, her thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles, "it was a good show then?"

a soft laugh escaped his lips, his eyes dancing as he looked at her. "good? better than good, baby." he said, a certain fire in his voice as he recalled the night. "place was packed-should've seen it. they might've only been there for the drink deals, but by the time we hit the first chorus, they were in it." he paused, a flicker of excitement lighting up his face as he leaned closer. "even had this one bloke shouting for an encore, practically begged us not t’leave."

she could see the pride, the kind that was so uniquely his—modest, but bursting at the seams, a quiet confidence that only she got to witness in moments like this. her heart swelled, and she squeezed his hand. "sounds like a big deal," she teased, her voice softening as she held his gaze. "next thing i know, you'll be playing to actual crowds, not just randoms at pubs."

"don't tease me," he chuckled, nudging her gently with his shoulder. "could happen. could be my big break, y'know? today, it's a back alley pub with sticky floors—tomorrow, a real venue." he looked at her, his expression shifting from playful to something quieter, almost vulnerable. "maybe even a place you'd be proud to be seen at."

she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "h, i'm already proud of you." and she meant it—down to the core of her. there was a strength in his persistence, his dreams kept alive by late nights and small crowds, his music spilling into the shadows of empty bars and dim lights. it was the kind of resilience most people never understood, but it was something she loved about him, something that made him feel like home.

his hand shifted, cupping her face gently, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he searched her eyes. "how'd i get so lucky, yeah?" he murmured, almost as if to himself. he looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time, the weight of the night lingering between them, the quiet promise of everything they'd built together.

she tilted her face into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as she breathed him in-the faint smell of his shampoo, mingling with the scent of rain from outside and something warm, something distinctly him. her hand found his chest, fingertips resting over the steady beat of his heart.

"can i stay tonight?" he asked softly, his voice a low murmur against the backdrop of their shared silence.

she nodded, her lips brushing over his knuckles as she squeezed his hand. "wouldn't want you anywhere else."

with that, he leaned forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that felt like a thousand words, soft and slow, as if they had all the time in the world. harry's hand slid from her cheek down to her neck, his fingertips tracing a delicate line along her collarbone, sending a soft shiver through her. the playful glint in his eye had shifted, replaced by something deeper, a heat she felt all the way down to her toes. he inched closer, the rough rasp of his stubble brushing her jaw as his lips found the soft skin just below her ear.

"you're staring," she murmured, voice low, a smile on her lips as her fingers traced along his shoulder, her touch grazing the edge of his tattoo.

"can't help it." he whispered, his voice low and rough, leaving no question about what he wanted. his fingers trailed down her back, pulling her just a little closer as his towel slipped dangerously low on his hips, clinging to him in a way that left little to the imagination. "s'not every day i get my girl all to myself, undistracted." his fingers slipped just beneath the hem of her shirt, his thumb stroking slow, lazy circles along her hipbone, sending a faint shiver up her spine.

she felt herself melting into him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before wandering down to rest on his chest. his skin was warm, firm beneath her touch, and she felt the steady beat of his heart thrumming under her fingertips. just for a moment, she let herself get lost in it-the way his hands roamed, slow and sure, his lips brushing her neck, her jaw, her shoulder, each kiss igniting a trail of warmth.

but as his hands started to wander lower, his towel barely hanging on, she bit back a smile and placed her hand flat on his abdomen, feeling the firm, taut muscles tense under her touch. she let her fingers linger for a moment before giving him a light flick, snapping him out of the haze that had taken over.

he kissed his teeth, head snapping up, a shocked, slightly betrayed expression crossing his face as he met her gaze. she smirked, letting her eyes trail up and down him with a playful glint before meeting his eyes, her voice light and teasing.

"don't get too excited, styles. i've got an essay to write, remember?"

he blinked, looking adorably lost for a second, then let out a groan, throwing himself back on the bed in dramatic defeat, one arm flung over his face. "an essay, bunny? now?" he peeked at her from under his arm, a playful pout tugging at his lips. "you're really gonna make me lie here in agony while you write about... what? politics? shakespeare?"

"modern lit," she corrected, grabbing her laptop from the bedside table with a grin. she settled beside him, nudging his leg with her knee as he sighed in exaggerated frustration. "i'll make it up to you," she added, her voice sweet but her expression mischievous.

"is that right?" he asked, raising a brow, his mood instantly lightening as he leaned up on one elbow to watch her type. "what kind of 'make it up' are we talking, then?"

she rolled her eyes, though her smile softened.

"you're ridiculous, you know that?"

“mm-hm, i know,” he chuckled, unbothered. he kept his eyes trained on her as she adjusted the computer in her lap, fingers flying across the keys as she tried to ignore his gaze.

but she could already feel his fingers tracing idle patterns along her thigh, his head resting on her shoulder as he sighed dramatically, determined to make her work for it. “fine,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her shoulder, knowing she wasn’t going to let up. “but don’t say i didn’t warn you when i’m too tortured to focus on my next gig.”

she shook her head, grinning. “i think you’ll survive.” and despite his protests, she felt him settle beside her, his hand wrapped loosely around hers as he waited, patient and easy, for the essay to be done—and for the night to be theirs again.

after a few more minutes of him sighing and shifting beside her, nudging her leg with his knee, or letting his fingers brush distractingly over her shoulder, she finally gave him a pointed look. “lovey, come on. at least put some pants on,” she said, biting back a laugh as he gazed up at her with an exaggerated look of betrayal.

“y’sure baby?” he mumbled, the corners of his mouth tugging into a cheeky grin as he adjusted the towel around his waist, letting it dip low enough to reveal the line of his hip bones. he leaned in close, his face just inches from hers. “last chance to give up on that essay.”

she rolled her eyes, shoving him lightly as she tried to suppress a smile. “h. pants. now.”

he sighed dramatically, rolling off the bed and muttering under his breath as he crossed the room, as if she’d asked him to do something outrageous. “you’re cruel, you know that?” he grumbled, pulling on a pair of briefs, followed by his well-worn grey sweatpants. he shot her a mock glare as he snapped the waistband into place. “i hope that essay’s worth it,” he teased, flopping back down on the bed with another exaggerated groan.

but he couldn’t keep up the act for long. settling beside her, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her snug against him as he leaned over her, his gaze shifting to the screen of her laptop. she felt him press a quick kiss to the side of her head, and then he tilted his head curiously, reading the words on her screen. “alright, genius. what’re we working on?”

she grinned, knowing his curiosity was genuine—harry was the only person who ever asked about her classes, who remembered the details of her projects, who even stayed up late to help her brainstorm ideas when she got stuck. “it’s for my modern lit paper,” she said, turning the laptop slightly so he could see the opening lines. “i’m writing about identity in contemporary poetry.”

his brow furrowed, and he gave a thoughtful hum. “identity, huh?” his fingers started playing with a strand of her hair, twisting it absently as he thought. it still smelt like her lavender shampoo. “so, like–how people see themselves? or how they think they should be seen?”

she nodded, feeling a warm flutter in her chest at the way he genuinely tried to understand. “yeah, lovey, exactly. it’s about how people present different versions of themselves, depending on the world around them. how sometimes people feel like they have to hide who they really are, or adapt, to fit in.”

he was quiet for a moment, his eyes thoughtful as he took that in, a small crease forming between his brows. “guess i know a bit about that,” he murmured, almost to himself, then gave her a soft smile. “makes sense, though. we’re all trying t’figure it out, right?”

she looked at him, her heart swelling at the way he always found a way to connect with her world, to show up and care. he wasn’t just the guy who played guitar in pubs and poured water over the crowd—he was thoughtful and reflective, her safe place and her biggest support. she reached out, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead, her gaze softening.

he met her eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched her type a few lines, completely relaxed against her side. “y’really like this stuff, don’t you?”

she nodded, feeling her cheeks warm. “i do. and i like that you care enough to ask.”

he grinned, his hand resting over hers on the keyboard. “wouldn’t miss it, bunny. i want to know it all. even the boring bits,” he teased, pressing another kiss to her temple. “so… what’s next? how do y’wrap this thing up?”

as she dove into her explanation, she felt him settle in closer, his head resting on her shoulder, eyes flicking back and forth between her face and the screen. and even though he’d begun the night wrapped in little more than that towel and mischief, there was something about the way he lay beside her now—calm, engaged, just there for her.

after a while, she tried to concentrate on the closing argument of her essay, but harry’s hand found a lock of her hair again, twirling it lazily around his finger, his touch warm and gentle. every so often, he’d place a quick, messy kiss on her cheek, or the side of her head, each one more dramatic than the last, until she couldn’t help but huff out a laugh, nudging him back.

“alright, enough with the distractions,” she muttered, shooting him a mock-stern look as he grinned back, clearly pleased with himself.

but he was relentless. when she referenced another poet, he piped up, a mischievous look in his eyes. “ah, yes, that guy,” he said, tone teasing as he tapped his chin as though he were deep in thought. “big fan. wrote that one poem about… feeling feelings, right?”

she rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh. “harry, i’m serious.”

“hey, i am too!” he replied, the grin on his face only widening. “poetry’s got layers, YN. all about emotions and metaphors.” he lifted an eyebrow, giving her a wink that made her want to laugh and push him off the bed all at once.

she groaned, turning back to her screen, though the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. despite his teasing, she knew he respected her work and thought she was smart, even if he pretended to be clueless just to get a rise out of her.

a few minutes passed, and she found herself stuck, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she struggled to find the right words to tie everything together. she could feel harry’s gaze on her, his eyes flicking between her face and the screen, and right then, her stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl.

harry’s eyebrows shot up, and a playful, knowing smirk crossed his face. “oh, is that how it is, then?” he said, nudging her gently. “i’m over here pouring my heart and soul into supporting you, and you’re starving yourself for art.”

she laughed, rolling her eyes as she tried to wave him off. “it’s fine, i just need to—”

but he was already halfway across the room, grabbing his phone with a sense of purpose, tapping away with single-minded determination. “nope, not happening. i’m ordering us food. you’re no good to me fainting on the job,” he teased, tossing her a grin as he started scrolling through options on doordash.

she watched him, warmth blooming in her chest at the sight of his focused expression as he debated between a few late-night favorites. his finger paused on the screen, and he shot her a look over his shoulder. “what are we feeling? i know goodfella’s is open late.”

she hummed, folding her arms and pretending to think. “their pizza sounds good.”

“perfect. what kind?” he asked, giving her that soft, endearing look that always managed to make her heart skip.

“surprise me,” she said, her eyes crinkling with a smile as he turned back to his phone, murmuring thoughtfully to himself as he made his selections.

once he’d ordered, he slid back beside her, his arm slipping around her shoulders, pulling her close as he planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “alright, aristotle. you’ve got about twenty minutes to wrap this up before the pizza gets here.”

she grinned, feeling a rush of renewed energy as she settled back into her laptop, his warmth beside her and the promise of food on the way. and as she typed out her final thoughts, she felt his hand come up to her hair again, his fingers working through her locks in a gentle rhythm as he leaned his chin on her shoulder, watching her with a soft smile.

“think you’re about to blow the rest of the class outta the water.” he muttered, his voice low and genuine, cutting through the playful teasing of earlier.

she paused, glancing over at him, her cheeks warming under his gaze. “you think so?”

he nodded, brushing his nose gently against her cheek. “definitely. i knew you were brilliant the first time i met you. just, you know, don’t forget me when you’re off being some lit professor with a fancy office and your own bookshelf in every bookstore.”

she laughed, shaking her head. “you’ll be playing stadiums by then, styles. i think you’ll be just fine.”

once harry met the driver outside of the dorm and made his way back up the stairwell to the second floor of her building, they sat cross-legged on the bed, the pizza box open between them, warm and smelling faintly of melted cheese and marinara. YN took a bite, savoring the comfort of it as they eased into the rhythm of their usual conversations. she told him stories about her classes—about the professor who insisted everyone call him by his first name and the girl who always argued with the readings in ways that both amused and baffled her. he listened intently, his eyes focused on her like she was the most fascinating person in the world, laughing at all the right moments, nodding as if every small detail mattered. and for harry, it did.

soon enough, the conversation shifted, and he told her stories from his recent gigs—how the second-to-last venue had practically been held together with duct tape, how he’d overheard some guy loudly claim he could “totally play guitar better than that dude.” she laughed at the way he imitated the voice, rolling his eyes in good-natured frustration. “seriously,” he groaned, grinning through a bite of pizza, “the heckling never stops, even when you’re playing to like, fifteen people.”

she nudged him with her knee, a smirk tugging at her lips. “just you wait, one day those fifteen people are going to turn into fifteen thousand, and that guy will still be standing there with his pint, going on about how he should be the one on stage.”

harry’s face softened, his gaze lingering on her. “you’re just saying that because you’re in love with me.”

“maybe,” she said with a wink, brushing a crumb off his cheek.

they fell into their easy banter, and soon enough, poetry came back up. she was telling him about one of the poets she was analyzing, the language they used and the intricate metaphors she was supposed to decipher, when harry raised a brow, an amused look crossing his face. “you’re talking like i don’t write poetry myself, you know.”

“oh, really?” she teased, leaning back with her arms folded, a skeptical look on her face. “let’s hear it, shakespeare.”

with a grin, he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his notes until he stopped on something, looking a bit sheepish but handing it over to her with a small smile. “here. latest masterpiece.” he joked with a shrug, though he seemed a bit nervous. “study it in your lit classes ‘n all that.”

she took his phone, her heart skipping a beat as she saw the title: adore you. her chest warmed as she started reading through the words. it wasn’t like the love poems she read for lectures, full of flowery language and convoluted metaphors. no, this was simple, but sincere—lines that felt raw, real, and vulnerable in a way that only he could make them. each line felt like a glimpse into him, into the parts of himself that he shared only with her, the quiet moments, the late nights, the laughter and gentle touches that only they knew.

when she finished, she looked up at him, unable to hide the wide smile spreading across her face. “harry, this is—you’re so cute.” she said, her voice soft with genuine awe. “forget those old poets i read about. they’ve got nothing on you.” she squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles as she looked back down at the lyrics, rereading her favorite lines.

a blush crept up his cheeks, and he gave a little shrug, pretending to brush off her praise, but she could see the way his eyes shone, how much her words really meant to him. he nudged her playfully, leaning in with a grin. “you know it’s about you, yeah?”

she felt her heart flutter, her smile growing even wider as she met his gaze. “is it now?”

“obviously,” he chuckled, shaking his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “i mean, who else am i going to write about? you’re the one i can’t stop thinking about. the one who makes every line worth writing.”

she felt warmth bloom in her chest, reaching out to lace her fingers with his. “well,” she said softly, “then i think i’m the luckiest girl alive.”

he squeezed her hand, his expression softening as he leaned in, his forehead resting gently against hers. for a moment, they stayed like that, their hands intertwined, the world outside her tiny dorm room slipping away. it was just him, his steady heartbeat under her palm, his soft gaze that held a world of promises, and the quiet knowledge that he’d put it all into words just for her.

“so, poetry and pizza,” he murmured, his lips curving into a contented smile as he leaned back, pulling her into his chest. “didn’t think my night could get any better.”

“oh, really?” she teased, settling against him, her head resting just under his chin. “not even if i let you watch me struggle through the rest of my essay?”

“thrilling stuff,” he joked, his hand trailing gentle patterns along her arm. “actually, it’s all kind of perfect, YN. you, me, pizza, some poetry… maybe the start of a terrible song i’ll write when i can’t sleep tonight.”

“a song about pizza and poetry?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“why not?” he grinned, his eyes sparkling. “everyone needs a little inspiration, hm?”

she laughed, and the sound seemed to brighten the whole room, making everything feel light and carefree. “i’d listen to it.”

“i’ll dedicate it to you,” he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his voice softening. “after all, you’re my favorite muse.”

they sat like that for a while, the remnants of their pizza scattered around them, the warmth of his arms wrapped around her. she felt her eyes growing heavy, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soothing hum of his voice as he mumbled quiet words of nonsense, half-asleep, just for her.

“hey,” she whispered after a while, her voice soft, almost a breath. “thank you for being here. for everything.”

“always,” he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy rumble. “wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

[shuenkio]

Lover Demon — 제이크

Paring: Jake!Demon X M!reader

Synopsis: Summon the wrong type of demon consequences with something you never thought would ever happen.

Genre: Smut without plot. Cw: curse, smau.

Non proof read | Eng is not my 1st.

This is a work of fanfiction, do not throw unnecessary tantrums on this nsfw/sfw blog. ©Shuenkio

Witchcraft is a quiet, curious thing—something that seems to catch only your eye. In a world so full of technology and science, there’s little space left for whispered stories, magic, or the old myths that once felt so real. Those tales have grown faint over time, gently brushed aside by facts and reason, leaving behind a world that’s slowly forgotten how to dream.

Yet you can’t help but gather books on witchcraft—magic, power, rituals, spells, summoning—anything that catches your curiosity, even if most of them are likely just clever tricks for profit. But that doesn’t really matter. It’s enough to quiet your mind, to feel that familiar comfort in studying, in learning about the things that draw you in, no matter how unreal they might seem to others.

The sun sank below the horizon, leaving the sky to rest as a radiant full moon took its place, flooding the earth with silver light. It was the perfect night—the kind you’d been waiting for. Months of study led to this moment, the chance to perform a ritual, to summon a demon that haunted your thoughts. Wishes you’d longed for danced on the edge of possibility. Whether the books were lies or truth didn’t matter. It was worth the risk.

Behind your grandparents’ backyard, surrounded by trees that whispered in the night breeze, lay the perfect place for this ritual. Hidden from prying eyes and safe from interruption, it was the ideal spot to summon the demon that had lingered in your thoughts. Under the full moon’s watchful gaze, the air felt heavy with possibility.

“Finally, I’ve been SUMMONED—” the demon stretched, his body cracking with a sound that echoed through the small, broken-down house. He sighed, clearly relieved to be back in the human world. His glowing eyes scanned the room before landing on you. He blinked, his expression shifting from smug to surprised. “Wait... you’re a guy?” he asked, pointing at you with one sharp claw.

You stood there, clutching the book to your chest, heart pounding as you stared at the towering figure. His horns nearly brushed the ceiling, and his presence filled the room with an aura that made it hard to breathe. You swallowed hard but forced yourself to stand tall. Clearing your throat, you tried to keep your voice steady. “What’s wrong with being a boy?” You scoffed, turning your nose up just a little. “You know damn well you can’t do anything to me since I’m the one who summoned you.” You tried to sound confident, hoping he couldn’t see how your hands were trembling just a bit.

The demon looked at you for a long moment before rolling his eyes. “Ugh, fine. So what do you want? Must be something big if you went through all that trouble.” He crossed his arms, his muscles flexing under his dark skin. “Just so you know, my name’s Jake, and I’m the Demon of Love.” He paused, his face twisting into a scowl. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I know it doesn’t sound all that terrifying, but it’s not what you think. I’m no damn cupid.”

You stared at him, your mind blanking for a moment. Demon of... Love? Your stomach sank as the realization hit you. You’d summoned the wrong demon.

“Uh... hey, so... I think I made a mistake summoning you,” you started, your voice wavering as you tried to keep your composure. “I was... actually looking for a wish demon, not... um... a love demon.” You could feel your face heating up with embarrassment. “So... can you, like... go back by yourself? Or do I have to, uh, do another ritual or something?”

Jake’s glowing red eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable as he stared at you. For a moment, you were convinced he was either furious or just incredibly disappointed, but then he let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Of course. Should’ve known. A rookie,” he muttered, his voice echoing with that eerie double-tone that made your skin crawl.

He crossed his arms, his massive form leaning against the crumbling wall. “You humans never read the fine print, do you?” His eyes roamed over you, lingering just long enough to make you uncomfortable. “Alright, since you’re... kind of handsome and clearly clueless, I’ll tell you the truth. There’s only one way to send me back.”

You waited, holding your breath.

“Mating,” Jake said lazily, as if he were discussing the weather. “Since you’re my summoner, we’d have to... you know, perform a ritual of love. It’s my rule.”

Your jaw dropped, and for a moment, you forgot how to speak. “W-What?” you finally managed, voice cracking in disbelief. “You’re kidding... right?”

Jake just smirked, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Hey, don’t blame me. You summoned the Demon of Love. What did you expect?”

////

Right on the spot, your body was naked where your clothes had been torn into pieces by the love demon. The moment you couldn't even take time to react, that was when it changes to the state that you're in right now, completely butt out and length kiss the cold air. However that's just the beginning, The love demon— shape shift himself into the human version of his, in order to intimate the rule he just spit, for a better saying was to FUCK Jake to send him back.

A flash red light flickering, before Jake stands proud in front of you with his exposed flesh. His build masculine body makes you question whether this is a reward or a punishment? Not to mention in detail was that— even though Jake was a demon, he understood the human need... A bit all too well for how lustful they are in bed, and he isn't any better from humans, Jake likes it more than they ever would.

The 12 inches cock hanging between his legs, the balls are covered in a heavy skin stretching like a cauliflower. Jake's tense thighs only to fuel your desire to just kneel right there before him and begging for his to fuck your brain out of you.

Yet you made no move. In a blink of an eyes you find yourself on the red comfortable mistress to the unknown, the dark absorbed any surrounded which all you see is blank plain ancient walls around.

Jake wastes no time before Lough into your smaller frame which caused you to yelp in a surprise manner. As your back hits the cold bed before his hip enters your closet personal space. Your groin of course. The demon itself tends to know a lot of people's daily life and stuff, nevertheless he doesn't know how to kiss, to intimate more sexual love making, to bond more yet all he knows was to mate and fuck, that's all he's good at.

"If you dare to PUSH me off right now darling, I'll be forever stuck here with you for a century, and boy—I do not care if you have a manhood to make children, i fuck whoever summon ME!" Cool sweat dripping down on your forehead, with a shriek were heard inside the chamber once Jake's enormous largely cock entered the tightness of yours.

For once in his whole life— Jake could finally find pleasure for the first time in humans, resulting in him throwing his head back, goosebumps running down in his vein as his both reds glow eyes disappear into white. The pleasure of his cock burying the inside of your hole alone already turning Jake into a wild animal.

"Holy Demon— mhmm why is it SAUR GOOD I fucking love it, need to BREED with my fucking FERTILIZER SEED ARG" The demon shriek to the undeniable lust he felt in this moment, his growling alluring through your ear drum.

"Unghh... fuck! So goddamn tight...!"

Your eyes turn white of the intense pleasure, my ass hole is too taunt better than a vice, make him fold into two even though he was pounding me just like demon possessed. It was too much for us yet it was too overstimulated for Jake, to hold on to the point he needed something to hold on.

The taller frame grunts and pants harshly, sweat beading on his brow as he struggles to maintain his relentless pace, your incredibly tight hole clenching and fluttering around his pistoning cock like a silken vise. "Shit... M/n... your fucking ass... it's too goddamn tight!"

He snarls through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

His hips slap against your ass with brutal force, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room along with his animalistic grunts and groans. The couch creaks and shakes beneath you with the force of his thrusts, threatening to topple over.

Jake leans forward, his chest pressing against your back as he tries to find some semblance of stability. His hot, ragged breaths fall against your neck and ear, his lips latching onto your skin to bite and suck. He's quickly losing himself in the tight, wet heat engulfing his cock, his movements becoming more erratic and desperate.

Suddenly, he hilts inside you, grinding his pelvis flush against your ass, his heavy balls slapping lewdly against your taint. He stays there for a moment, just savoring the feeling of being completely sheathed in your clenching channel before he starts rolling his hips, stirring his thick cock around inside you.

His hand snakes around your body, grasping your own weeping erection, squeezing and stroking it in time with his relentless thrusts. "Unghh... fuck... I can feel every throb, every twitch of this greedy little cunt... like it's sucking me in fucking deeper...!" Whimpers sniff painted his face, he's absolutely destroying himself.

He changes the angle of his thrusts slightly, aiming straight for that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside you. With each snap of his hips, he grinds against that spot, determined to make you fall apart on his cock.

The pressure builds rapidly in his heavy, churning balls as he chases his pleasure, his strokes becoming shorter and sharper, his grip on your hips tightening. He's getting close... too fucking close. But he won't stop, not until he's pumped every last drop of his hot, thick seed deep into your guts.

His hips slap against your ass with brutal force, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room along with his animalistic grunts and groans. The bed creaks and shakes beneath you with the force of his thrusts, threatening to topple over.

Jake collapses heavily against your back, his entire body shaking and twitching with the force of his intense orgasm. A guttural, almost feral roar tears from his throat as he empties his aching, overstimulated balls deep inside you, painting your inner walls white with thick ropes of his scalding cum.

His cock jerks and pulses wildly as it pumps what feels like an endless stream of jizz into your spasming hole, the sheer volume of it causing some to leak out around his shaft and drip down onto the couch. He grinds against you, making sure to push his load in as deep as it can go, marking your insides with his essence.

But the overwhelming sensations and the intense pleasure pushing him over the edge also have an unintended consequence. As he's lost in the throes of his release, feeling your body clench and milk his spurting cock, he loses control of another bodily function. A warm, unfamiliar sensation rushes through his shaft, and suddenly, he feels a strong, forceful stream of piss erupting from his cock, mixing with the thick cum already flooding your ass.

Panic rises in his chest as he realizes what's happening, but he's too far gone, too consumed by the all-encompassing pleasure radiating from his core. He can only let out choked, strangled groans as he continues to empty his overstimulated body into yours, the heat of his piss momentarily startling you, even as it washes away the excess cum.

After what feels like an eternity, his release finally starts to taper off, leaving him slumped against your back, both of you coated in sweat and the remnants of his spending. His softening cock, still buried deep inside your cream-filled hole, gives a few last weak pulses, a few last drops of piss and cum dribbling lazily into you.

The man remains in place, his entire body heavy and sated, his breathing slowly returning to a somewhat normal pace after the intense workout. He nuzzles into your neck, pressing soft kisses to your sweat-slicked skin, a rare moment of gentle intimacy. He's utterly spent, but a part of him is still marveling at the incredible tightness of your body, the way it took everything he had to give and then some.

"cum... It's coming...."

Jake could feels the hot spurts of your release splattering against his fingers and your stomach, mixed with the sweat and other fluids already covering both of your bodies. A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his face, his chest rumbling with a deep, approving groan. "Heh... that's it, M/n... come for me just like the needy little slut you are. I can feel you fucking soaking my hand with it...— I guess I won't fucking leave this human world you're now forever mine— My you"

The slave mark appears on your lower tummy.

A/n: Some part might be confused so I'll left into your imagination. This was inspired by bff of mine— from my famous friend @angelsfat3

Funtalk: Dare to get rail by demon Jake?

[dfortrafalgar]

Withdrawal

Four days off your hormone birth control pill left you with one unexpected side effect.

Law x Fem Reader

Warnings: MATURE 18+, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS INTERACTING WITH THIS POST WILL BE BLOCKED, this is all smut like pureee smut, every generic smut tag needed is here, pinv sx, biting, dry humping, creampie, unprotected sex (dont), biting, wet and messy, etc etc bless

Also Posted on AO3

It had been a mere 4 days since you stopped taking a daily hormone pill to control your crippling period cramps.  After all, it was near impossible to get a hold of the same medicines aboard a submarine that spent ninety percent of its time hundreds of meters below the ocean’s surface.  As such, you exhausted the six-month supply of the tiny pills that you had brought with you when you joined the Heart Pirates, slowly counting down the days when you would inevitably run out.

You had discussed your waning pill count with Ikkaku on multiple occasions, and she relayed you with her own experiences in her teenage years.

“When I stopped taking hormone pills, my period lasted for, like, two weeks before it became regular again!” she had said, throwing her hands in the air in an exasperated display as she recounted her memories.  “It sucked.  My cramps were really bad, too, but they got a bit better overtime.”

You had assumed, due to very little knowledge otherwise, that your experience would be largely the same.  It made sense in the few biology books you had studied during your downtime spent on the floor in the crew library.  You would cease taking your daily pill, your hormones would fluctuate as your body adjusted to the lack of a steady balance, and eventually you would go back to living life as you did years before you began your regimen.  You read up on a few additional side effects along with heavier and longer bouts of bleeding and increased amounts of bloating and general discomfort.  Mostly changes in body mass and occasional reports of differing mental symptoms, which you had readied yourself for as your supply turned into a week's worth, and then down to a single pill, and then nothing at all.

You had Law, your sweet, awkward, broomstick of a boyfriend, to pull on his metaphorical physician’s coat and help you out when needed, as well.  He told you, based on his own research (that he didn’t start until after you told him you were down to only two months left of pills), that he could administer remedies if you had bad cramp flare ups or serious, debilitating bleeding.  He followed his reassurance with a tender kiss to your cheek as you smiled at him, thanking him for his generosity and understanding.

You swallowed your last pill 4 days ago.  So far, none of the symptoms you had prepared yourself for had made themselves known.  No bloating, no period (yet), no fluctuating mental state, no change in weight.

Instead, starting 24 hours after your first pill-less day, you were plagued with intense, irreparable horniness, which had now gone on for 3 entire days.

Three days.  72 hours of a persistent wetness between your thighs, a constant warmth fluttering deep within the recesses of your gut that had you clenching around nothing at all hours of the day.  You were able to perform your work just fine, but every time Law would pass by you in the hallway, his fleeting touches would leave electric sparks through your boiler suit, his metal-tinged smell lingering in your nostrils more than usual, his golden irises etching themselves into your eyelids.  You were acutely aware of the sensation of dampness increasing between your legs whenever he made contact with you, which was very, very often.

You and Law had fucked before.  You fucked as often as you could, which, given your respective roles aboard a pirate submarine, was only about once a week, twice if you were lucky (and this was already more often than Law could’ve ever anticipated).  You were no stranger to the primal want that made you salivate, endlessly craving the calloused touch of your boyfriend’s lanky fingers against your hips.

But this, the unabashed depravity that started after you stopped your hormone pills, was on a completely different level.  Each day seemed to get worse, more unbearable.  It was as if your body was screaming at you to pursue your lover and beg him to dick you as deep into his mattress as he possibly could.  The mere thought made your face flush with blood.  During the times where you were left alone in Law’s bed while he was out being a captain, you tried to tend to your needs with your fingers.  You managed once to make yourself cum three times in a row without feeling any sense of relief.  Post-orgasm euphoria would instantly be replaced with more intense lust and longing, leaving you frustrated and bewildered.

Had you told him about this?  No, of course not.  Had he asked you about your condition in the days following your cessation?  Yes, multiple times.  He was constantly pleased with your content, “I feel great!” responses, and didn’t press the issue further, knowing you would come to him if you started to feel discomfort.

But this was a ‘discomfort’ that made your pride as a pirate, as a strong, semi-independent woman, waver ever so slightly.  Simply because you weren’t really keen to beg like a pathetic animal in heat.  (That had only happened once in the bedroom between you and your stone-cold captain-turned-boyfriend, and not only had the words that left your mouth embarrass you to a previously unknown degree, but they left Law feeling unbelievably awkward.  The two of you ended up not having sex and instead simply falling asleep.)

Unbeknownst to you, however, your inner, wet, sweaty turmoil started to be noticed by the crew due to your wavering performance.  You were spacing out far more than usual, keeping your head bowed consistently, contrasting your former upbeat, hardworking, and friendly personality.  Multiple times, fingers had to be snapped in your face to grab your attention from the clutches of daydreams that had your eyes glazed over.

And what the crew picked up on, Law would pick up on, if he didn’t notice it first.

Four days.  Four days of this.

Your watch shift had ended for the day, allowing you to retreat to the captain’s quarters that you shared with Law, shedding your boiler suit for comfortable loungewear, excited to get off your feet and relax in bed with a book you had started in an attempt to distract your mind from your perverted thoughts.  You had just barely opened the page before the heavy steel door opened, revealing your boyfriend to you as he stepped into the room, closing and locking the hatch behind him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, plainly.  His face showed no expression, which was usual, but the aura he radiated sent a nervous chill down your spine.  It was somewhere along the tightrope between concerned and mildly frustrated.

“Yeah, why?” you responded, a fleeting attempt to match his energy.  You tucked your knees to your chest as the taller man approached the bed, flopping onto it and sitting cross-legged before you.

“It seems like you’ve been a lot more spacy these past few days.  Some of the crew told me it appeared that your work has been lacking, and I was wondering if it had something to do with your pill withdrawal.”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, anxiously digging through your scrambled thoughts for a proper answer.  Before you had a chance to respond, however, Law continued speaking.

“If you’re feeling any signs of negative mental health, I want you to tell me right away.  I’m being serious, any signs of depression, anxiety, intense stress, nightmares–”

“I’m not depressed, Law, I promise,” you reassured.  This wasn’t a lie, you really weren’t depressed.  You were slightly anxious, yes, and definitely stressed due to the constant feeling of a throbbing pulse within your clit every single time you sat down, but you weren’t depressed.

“Something is clearly bothering you, though.  I’m here to help you.”

His affirmations once again made you falter.  Your eyes stayed glued to his, afraid to look anywhere else.

“I…” you began, voice low and wispy.  “I don’t really know how to say it…”

Your response made Law’s eyebrows cock in confusion.  “Say… what?”

You finally discarded your book to the side table, leaving your empty hands to fidget with each other.  “Uhm… what’s been bothering me.”

“Is it something that I can help you with, or is it something that you feel you have to manage on your own?”

Curse Law’s analytical prowess.  Sometimes you wished his rare moments of being a dorky airhead were more common, especially in situations like this.  Swallowing your pride, you replied, “The first one, I hope.”

“You hope?”

“Law…” you grumbled, dropping your head into your curled legs so that your forehead rested on your kneecaps.  It really shouldn’t have been a hard conversation, you knew Law would understand.  But the four consecutive days of nonstop horny fantasy and masturbation sessions that only left you more desperate had officially started to melt your neurons into mush.

“Can you please tell me?  At least so I know that you’re not in pain?”  Law kept his voice low and calm, but his face clearly gave away his profound concern for your sorry state.

You drew in a deep, shaky inhale.  Refusing to lift your head to meet his eyes, you finally swallowed your pride and revealed the truth.  “I’ve been hornier than I’ve ever been in my entire life for the past four days.”

Your confession was not at all what Law was anticipating, judging by his prolonged silence.  You slowly lifted your head, apprehensively searching for his eyes, which, when you found them, were slightly widened.  The tip of his straight nose was flushed a rosy pink color.

“Ohhh,” was all he said in response to your confession.

This didn’t instill much confidence in you.  With a dry chuckle, you quipped back, “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

Law rapidly backpedaled, shaking his head frantically.  “No, of course not.  Your behavior just makes… a lot more sense now.”

Uncomfortable silence filled the space around the two of you.  You could almost see the gears working in Law’s head as he struggled to figure out how exactly he could best help you with your situation, without outright saying it.  It didn’t matter how many times the two of you connected between his sheets, the simple word ‘sex’ left Law flustered and fidgeting like an innocent schoolboy.

“Is there…” he began, voice low.  “Anything you want me to do?”

“Do you want my honest answer?” you asked back.

The staring contest you were currently partaking in had both of your hearts beating a mile a minute.  He simply gave you a curt nod as a reply to your question.

You lowered your knees from your chest slightly, still keeping your arms wrapped around your legs.  “I want you to fuck me until I can’t stand anymore.”

“Damn.”

“You said you wanted my honest answer!” you cried out.  You loved your boyfriend more than anything in this world, but his awkward, stubborn demeanor would really get on your nerves in the wrong circumstances, such as this very moment.

“I know, I know,” he reassured.  He bowed his head away from yours, hiding his eyes under the brim of his hat.  “I just… didn’t expect that.”

“In my defense, I told you I’ve been painfully horny.”

Law pinched the bridge of his nose, once again repeating an exasperated, “I know.”

You lowered your legs further, keeping your hands on your kneecaps as you hunched your shoulders forward.  “Can you please help me?  Please?”  Your voice was low, airy, almost coming out as a whimper.  “It’s been four days, Law.  Everything I try to make myself feel better makes me more and more uncomfortable.”

Your tone really did sound desperate, and Law’s chest clenched at your demeanor.  He glanced back up at your face, your eyebrows scrunched in an odd agony.  He could almost feel the burning of your face from where he sat.  Out of all the withdrawal symptoms the two of you had discussed before your medication ran out, this was the last one that he would’ve expected, and clearly that was the same for you.

“I’ll see what I can do to help,” he uttered.

“You don’t need to ‘see’ anything, Law, I need your dick in me.  Right now.  You know I don’t like begging, you have no idea how embarrassed I feel, but I’m desperate, Law, I’m desperate!”  You were pleading with him now, officially losing your grip on yourself as you began to crawl towards him, placing your hand on his thigh and pushing yourself forward to bury your face in the junction between his neck and shoulder.  “I would rather be depressed.”

A dry chuckle from his throat broke the awkward, stifling atmosphere.  “Don’t say that, I don’t want you to be depressed.”  He rested his arm around your waist, gently pulling you closer to him.  It almost didn’t register how you were beginning to straddle his waist, your fluttering breaths ghosting over his jugular.  

You let out a pathetic whimper, both of your arms now dangled over his shoulders as your hips slotted against his, an uncomfortable position on the bed for both of you, but you were clearly out of your mind as you searched for any semblance of friction to satiate the red-hot need in your core.  Your muscles gyrated on their own, a weary moan leaving your lips, hoping to use the stiffness of his jeans to stimulate your clit from under your loungewear.

Law truly felt bad for your beaten state, and with your body pressed against his, he could feel just how flustered you really were.  With a tender kiss against the shell of your ear, he pushed you back onto the bed, swiftly removing your pajama bottoms and underwear.  A deep crimson blush spread across his tanned cheeks at the sight of you, a persistent, heavy, glistening moistness coating your labia.

“You weren’t kidding,” was all he muttered.

“You thought I’d make this up?!” you pleaded.

“No, of course not.”  He rubbed a calloused hand across your cheek, smiling sweetly as you turned your face to nestle into his touch.  “I’m just sorry it’s been so bad.”

“Apologize with your body.  Please.  Don’t make me keep begging, Law, I can’t take it anymore.”

Somewhere deep inside the stoic captain’s mind was a perverted beast that quite enjoyed the sight of you practically weeping and writhing under him as your body subconsciously demanded any stimulation as soon as possible.  A sadistic side of him wanted to keep you begging, wanted to break you until you sobbed into his chest, losing your humanity to your instinctual, hormonal urges.

But he loved you too much for that, at least in your current worked-up state.  He didn’t want to prolong your suffering.

Without wasting any more time as you lay completely vulnerable and demanding beneath him, he took his hand and trailed two fingers through your folds, stifling a sharp breath at just how wet you really were.  Sticky yet thin and fluid, your sweet, musky scent traveled to his nose and made his stomach clench.  He bit back any other witty comments that sat on his tongue and instead slipped his middle finger into your cunt, using his thumb to stimulate your clit simultaneously.  Your hands flew to cover your mouth, your eyes clenched shut as you involuntarily bucked into his hand, encouraging him to slip a second finger into you to increase the sensation.

“Law,” you moaned out.  One of your hands grabbed his wrist, stopping his movements.  He gazed at you, waiting for your next move.  “I’ve been doing that to myself and nothing’s worked.  I need you.”

The raven-haired man bit the inside of his cheek at your words.  He pulled his fingers out of your cunt, haphazardly wiping your fluids on his jeans as he reached for his fly and tugged on the zipper, the metal button following suit.  He slipped off the bed to let his pants and boxers fall to the floor before discarding his shirt.  You salivated at the sight of him (you felt truly helpless in your hormonal, sex-crazed state).  You tugged your own t-shirt over your head and threw it to the floor beneath the bed.  Law once again positioned himself above you, an inked hand idly stroking his half-hard penis as he surveyed your pitiful form below him, sprawled out, legs spread, mouth hung open as you took in shallow breaths.  He rubbed the head of his penis along your sopping pussy, rubbing your slick down his length with his hand.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he muttered, reveling in the scorching heat that traveled to his groin as his cock filled with blood.  “I didn’t think it was possible for a woman to be this wet.”

“How do you think I feel?” you quipped back, your mouth curling into a meager grin.  “I’ve been constantly wondering if I pissed my pants without realizing.”

Your words made a bark of laughter exit Law’s mouth, which eased your stress and made your own chest feel lighter.  He continued stroking your fluid over his dick as he responded, “This isn’t going to help you, I don’t think.”

You reached a hand forward and trailed it along his shoulder, tracing his tattoo in the process.  “I can’t even care anymore, really.”

Law supported himself above you with one hand, dipping down to plant a sweet kiss against your lips.  You pushed yourself up on your elbows to deepen the exchange, parting your mouth and brushing your tongue along his lower lip.  Instead of opening for you, he pulled back with a mischievous grin.

“You’re already begging for this, you’re gonna have to wait for whatever sloppy kisses you want.”

“You’re an asshole,” you retorted, but shuddered out a sigh at the feeling of Law’s dick parting your labia and slipping into your opening little by little.  The excess wetness produced by your own body made the ordeal much easier, which also made it much easier for Law to tease you in his own, stubborn way, finally looking past the awkwardness of your hormone-driven desperation.  He removed the tip of his cock from your entrance, making you grumble under your breath.  “You said before you would do anything to make sure I’m okay!”

“Well, you’re not in pain,” he responded, voice low and rough.  The sound made your hair stand on end.  “Since you’re not in pain, I feel a bit better…” he interrupted his sentence with another tease of his tip at your warm pussy, “driving you mad.”

You groaned.  “What do I have to do to convince you to just rail me already?”

Your man smirked above you.  “You’re getting bold with your language, sweetheart.”

Your shaking hands gripped his shoulder blades as you scooted yourself down the mattress in a feeble attempt to get his cock inside you on your own.  Law merely chuckled, dipping his head into the crevice of your neck, leaving sweet kisses over your soft skin before using his hand to aid his dick in entering you completely, biting down on your skin at the same time.  The doubled sensations made you wail involuntarily, one of your own hands slapping over your mouth to muffle your desperate noises as your eyes squeezed shut.  Law sucked on the bite he made, gyrating his hips at just the right spot where his public hair brushed against your aching clit.  The hand that wasn’t covering your mouth raked down his back, making him shudder above you, detaching from your neck and licking his lips devilishly.  

“Feel better?” he asked, voice completely casual as if he wasn’t balls deep inside you.

“I’d feel a lot better if you just–”  He cut you off with a sharp thrust, the sound of wet skin slapping making hot embarrassment rush to your face.

“Just what?”

“What happened to, ‘I’ll see what I can do?’  Or, ‘I’m sorry it’s been so bad?’” you asked with a quivering voice.  “No more sympathy for your suffering girlfriend?”

“Of course I have sympathy for you, dear,” he replied, trailing the hand he had used to gather your slick on his fingers to rub down your cheek and neck, leaving a cold sensation behind.  “But when you use words like ‘rail me’ and ‘fuck me until I can’t stand anymore’ it gets kinda hard to not torture you a little bit.  Makes it more fun that way.”

You couldn’t fight the grin that crawled across your lips.  “You’re a sick, sick man.”

“And you’re a desperate, relentless woman.”

Your conversation finally halted with another deep kiss from Law as his hips began a steady pace, stroking into your cunt with deep, powerful thrusts that were as slow yet impactful and left your toes curling.  Law, despite all his uncoordinated emotions, was very good on the backstroke.  You didn’t quite know if it was simply the way his cock was shaped, or his physique, or perhaps his unintentional movements, but each thrust sent shivers down your spine and caused your back to arch into the growing flames brewing in the pit of your stomach.  His lanky arms allowed him to support himself while angling his thrusts to also brush along your clit, aiding in your euphoria.  The mixture of the head of his penis constantly brushing against your upper wall and his coarse pubic hair and firm torso stimulating your clit was addictive and made your legs quiver.  (If you ever told Law that he was, in your eyes, a ‘Sex God,’ however, he’d avoid making eye contact with you for at least a week out of sheer humiliation.  You had to keep some things to your deranged imagination.)

Amidst Law’s movements above you, you angled your hips upwards and wrapped your legs around his waist, keeping his thrusts deep and deliberate.  Your attempts to keep your sounds to a minimum were futile when Law hooked his hands around the backs of your knees, removing your legs from his body and holding them up in the air.  Your body curled for him and he kneeled above you, still fully inserted.  The new angle was deeper than before and had your eyes glued shut, mouth hung open and lewd sounds escaping your lungs with every shuddering breath.  You held your legs in the air while one of Law’s inked hands traveled downward to your clit, resuming ministrations on your swollen nub that this new position didn’t quite provide.

Law wouldn’t admit it, but the absolutely depraved sounds of your wet pussy sucking in his dick with every thrust had him painfully erect inside of you.  He was sure you could feel the way his cock twitched every now and then with the way your face would contort in immeasurable pleasure.  Half of him was concerned that the soggy noises could be heard from outside the bedroom, either through the heavy steel hatch door or through the walls, but the other half of him was too focused on the electric shocks that sparked through his dick that craved for him to keep chasing his release.

Your own climax was rapidly approaching, Law’s thrusts growing slightly unsteady as his own impending release slowly creeped up on him.  His calloused thumb rubbing counter-clockwise circles against your clit was the perfect stimulation you needed along with his perfect cock, and before you had time to suck in another deep gulp of oxygen, your body was convulsing around him, hips gyrating around him as you desperately moaned, still trying to stifle your noises.  The squelching sound that emanated from between your bodies only seemed to increase after your orgasm, more fluid from your seemingly endless arousal making Law’s dick slip easier and easier through your tight folds.  The feeling of your cunt clenching around him made his throat clench, swallowing tightly as a building pressure formed at the base of his dick.  He felt it as deep as his vertebrae.  

His calculated thumb never ceased its motions against your clit, staying consistent throughout your orgasm.  Your fingers clenched the bed sheets beneath you as you pleaded with the man above you to slow down, that the pleasure from your clit was so good it was almost painful, but right as you began to release another moaning plead, a second orgasm washed over you, causing your muscles to rapidly convulse as your hips shook against his body.

“Fuck,” Law groaned out, his own bubble growing closer and closer to bursting with each of your gyrations.

“Law…” you heaved.  “Please come inside me.  Please, please.  I need you to come inside of me.”

Law swallowed thickly, eyeing your trembling form beneath him.  “Are you sure?”  The implications were slightly more concerning considering this had all started after you stopped a controlled hormone pill.  Getting you pregnant wouldn’t be ideal on a submarine, and there would definitely be a lot of discussion should that consequence happen, but at the same time…

He groaned.  The feeling of your pussy keeping him glued to your body was too addicting to say no to.  Law bit back his inhibitions and nodded his head.  He could already tell his own orgasm was going to be one for the ages, your desperate horniness seeming to affect him as well.  His hips were starting to stutter in their pace as his climax creeped up his spine and through his pelvis.

You covered your mouth as a sob left your throat, climaxing for a third time on the motions against your clit and G-spot.  The involuntary gyrations of your hips finally did Law in.  His hips snapped forward, dropping your legs to the bed and placing his hands on your lower stomach, pressing downward as he desperately rammed into you, moaning your name among a string of breathless curses as he released his cum inside your drenched pussy.  You were in complete bliss, never having heard such noises leave Law’s mouth during any of your other intimate sessions.  You didn’t think you’d be able to get off without his deep, gruff moans anymore.

Law finally stilled both his hand and his hips, leaving you twitching and completely fucked out below him.  His aching cock slipped out of you as soon as he pulled away, leaving you both feeling cold and very aware of the crazy mess the two of you had made on his bed sheets.  

“Shit…” Law groaned as he flopped backwards.  His feet were up by your waist, while yours were still draped across his hips, both pairs of legs parted.  The smell of sex permeated the air and you were positive you’d be able to smell it in the hallway if the door was opened.

You didn’t respond for a while, only heavy breaths entering and exiting your chest as you fought to catch up on air that had been violently forced out of you.

“Are you okay?” Law finally asked, barely having energy to pick up his head to gaze at you.

“Yeah… I’m fine.  You?”

“Completely spent.”

You shared a breathless laugh that lingered in the air, a soft pink cloud above you.

“I feel disgusting now,” you finally said after some more moments of comfortable silence.

“Good disgusting or bad disgusting?” Law asked back.

“Good, I think,” you replied.  “I don’t think I’ll be able to fuck for at least a month now, though.”

“You and me both.”  Law finally mustered up the energy to sit himself up on his elbows.  You did the same, though your arms were much more shaky than his.  “Have I ever made you come three times before?”

“Never.”

Law pondered your response for a few seconds before flashing a roguish grin.  “Damn, I’m good.”

“You can be prideful after you clean me up,” you groaned.

You wearily held your arm into the air, letting your hand flop back and forth as you waved.  Law chuckled, tiredly swinging his legs off of the bed.  He ignored your arm, instead choosing to scoop you up by your knees and shoulders, holding you close to his chest.  Your head plopped onto his shoulder, eyes closed and breaths finally steady.  Law gazed at the substantial wet patch that now tainted his white bed sheets, but kept his mouth shut.  Maybe six months ago he would’ve been disgusted at the mess you two had made, but with you fucked out and blissful in his arms and his own body tingling with a hot pink sensation that he couldn’t get enough of, he didn’t think it was very important.

With a hushed whisper, a blue glow enveloped the two of you and a swift hand motion teleported you to the bathroom.  Where, despite your fatigue, your sex only continued in the shower.

[poisonmushdude]

Help Anas and Ahmed Evacuate

Anas (@anas-basilgaza) has reached out on the behalf of himself and his brother in the hopes that he could get help. Help to evacuate himself and his brother and rebuild their lives. Anas had hopes to peruse a degree in E-Business management. Being a high school graduate with a 93% average (An impressive feat), he had good prospects for the future. Except the occupation now stands between him and completing his education. Anas' little brother, Ahmed, was also in the middle of his education. Ahmed is 14 and showed natural talent in mathematics, so much so that Anas said "We've always called him "Doctor of the Future"". But now he's been able to get any education for 2 years. Below is a list of what Anas is hoping to raise funds for:

It is a fact that Anas and Ahmed will not be able to continue their education because of how the occupation has devastated Palestine. Anas and Ahmed both deserve a peaceful, prosperous life. That is just not something they can achieve right now. Right now they need to evacuate so they can continue their education, so they can move on to a brighter future. If they are able to do this, it would in no short measure be life changing. Anas has set a 29,000 Euro goal (as you've read), so far he has raised 13,209 Euros! That's nearly at the half way point of their goal. I know for a fact that more can be raised. It's only a matter of a few generous people and they will be moving on to look for schools to study at. That is why you must donate, if you have the means, you must donate. Anas' life can be permanently altered for the better, and so easily as well. Along with donating (or if you can't donate), share! Share Anas' story. Re-blogging, making your own post (I found this is a very good way), and cross platform posting all help spread Anas' story further. It helps keep a steady flow of income to Anas' GoFundMe and it makes sure that they aren't forgotten. We cannot let Anas and Ahmed fall through the cracks when it would be so simple to help them. Your efforts are not in vain if you do not let them be. Support Anas and Ahmed, we owe them that much. Vetted by gazavetters on line #83

Vetted by @90-ghost here

and by association here

[mysticalmallard]

With their drunk girlfriend

Finally finished I have been working on this on and off for a few days as work has been really busy. I hope you guys enjoy it I am not sure what topic the next group drabble will be so let me know what you guys wanna see next ♥︎

SoA Taglist: @arkytiorlecter @aimkatsz @ravennaortiz @darqchilddaydreamz @mischiefnevermanaged89-blog @hatersaremymotivators @theshynerdsworld

♥︎ If you wish to be added or removed from this taglist comment or message me ♥︎

SoA Masterlist 🌸 Main Masterlist

Chibs

Chibs looked across at his girlfriend as she laughed loudly at something one of club hangarounds had said. It was easy to see that she was thoroughly drunk, as she stumbled about and slurred her words. He watched her with a mixture of amusement and affection, shaking his head at how adorable she was when she got wasted.

As the night progressed, Chibs kept a watchful eye on her, making sure she didn't do anything stupid or get into any trouble. He even stepped in when some drunk guy tried to flirt with her.

By the time the club party came to an end, his girlfriend was stumbling around bumping into things. Chibs chuckled and steadied her, slinging her arm around his shoulders to support her.

"Come on, lass, you're wasted," he said, leading her towards the exit. She giggled and leaned heavily against him, her legs apparently made of jelly.

"I'm not drunk," she protested, slurring her words. "I'm just... a little impaired."

"Uh-huh, sure you are," Chibs said, humoring her. "Just hold on tight, okay?"

He guided her to the parking lot where his bike was parked. He helped her on to the back seat, making sure she was sitting securely. As he straddled the bike, she wrapped her arms drunkenly around his waist and rested her chin on his shoulder.

"Mmm, you smell good," she mumbled, nuzzling her face against his neck. "Like... leather and... and... danger."

Chibs chuckled and shook his head, starting up the engine. "And you smell like beer and trouble, lass."

The ride back to her house was slow and careful. Chibs kept a steady pace, mindful of the inebriated passenger clinging to him like a koala. She kept giggling and commenting on how fun it was to be on the motorcycle, her words a slightly slurred mess.

When they finally arrived at her house, Chibs dismounted and helped her off the bike. She stumbled a bit, but he caught her, holding her against his chest.

"We're here, love," Chibs said, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "You made it in one piece."

She looked up at him with glassy eyes, her face flushed from the alcohol and the wind. "I had the best night ever," she declared, grinning goofily.

He chuckled and shook his head again. "I'm glad you had fun, but you're going to have a hell of a headache in the morning."

He led her up to her porch, his arm around her waist to keep her steady. She leaned on him heavily, her steps uneven.

Once they got to her front door, he pulled her keys from her purse and slowly unlocked the door. He steered her inside, flicking on the lights as they entered the quiet house.

He helped her to the couch and sat her down. She immediately flopped onto the cushions, a contented sigh escaping her lips.

Chibs looked down at her, a mixture of amusement and concern on his face. "Stay there, okay? I'm gonna get you some water."

He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her on the couch. He rummaged through the fridge, finding a bottle of water. When he returned to the living room, she was already fast asleep, her body sprawled across the cushions.

Chibs couldn't help but smile at the sight of her asleep. He knelt down next to the couch, taking a moment to study her face. She looked so peaceful, a stark contrast to the wild laughter and stumbling from earlier.

He carefully placed the water bottle on the table, then reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes.

He sat down on the edge of the coffee table, his gaze never leaving her. He knew he should probably leave her to sleep off the alcohol, but part of him didn't want to go. He liked being near her like this, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath.

After a few moments, he let out a soft sigh. Reluctantly, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "Sweet dreams, love," he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur.

He stood up, giving her one last glance before reluctantly turning away. He switched off the lights as he left, shutting the front door behind him quietly.

Happy

Happy sat on the couch in his dimly lit apartment, holding a glass of whiskey, his eyes fixed on his girlfriend who was currently stumbling around, giggling to herself. She was clearly drunk, and had been for a while.

"Hey there, princess," he called out, setting his glass down on the table. "You need to sit down and rest before you fall down."

His girlfriend looked at him, her eyes half-lidded and glassy, a wide smile spreading across her face. "I'm fiiiine," she slurred, taking an exaggerated step forward, nearly tripping over her own feet. "I can totally walk."

Happy chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I've seen more coordination from a newborn deer," he said, standing up to approach her. "Come on, sit down before you hurt yourself."

His girlfriend pouted but didn't protest as he gently took her by the elbow and led her to the couch. She flopped down onto the cushions with a heavy sigh, looking up at him with a grin that was equal parts cute and ridiculous. "You worry too much," she said, waving a hand dismissively.

Happy sat down next to her, shaking his head again with a slight smile. "Maybe," he admitted, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. "But someone's got to keep an eye on you when you get like this."

His girlfriend snuggled into him, resting her head on his chest and letting out a content sigh. "You're so comfy," she mumbled, her words slightly slurred. "Like a big ol' teddy bear."

Happy chuckled again, gently running his fingers through her hair. "That's me," he said, his tone both dry and affectionate. "Big Bad Biker Teddy Bear."

His girlfriend giggled, nuzzling her face against his chest. "Mmm, I love your chest," she said, her hand slowly snaking down to rest just above his belt buckle. "It's so... hard and muscley."

Happy raised an eyebrow, a devilish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Is that so?" he said, his voice dropping a note lower. He gently took her hand in his, preventing her from moving it any lower. "You're very handsy when you're drunk."

His girlfriend pouted again, trying to pull her hand free, but Happy held it fast. "I'm always handsy with you," she whined, looking up at him with puppy-dog eyes. "Don't you like it when I touch you?"

Happy's grip on her hand tightened just a bit, enjoying the game. "I never said I didn't like it," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But you seem a bit too wasted to be playing those kinds of games right now."

His girlfriend huffed, looking for all the world like a petulant child being denied a treat. "I'm not that drunk," she protested, wriggling a bit in his lap.

"look I'll prove it" she said holding a hand up going to touch her nose with her pointer finger but misses completely.

Happy couldn't help but laugh at her failed attempt. "Yeah, you're definitely wasted," he said, amused. "If you can't even touch your own nose without missing, I think it's safe to say you're done for the night."

His girlfriend stuck her tongue out at him, a childish gesture made even cuter by her inebriated state. "You're no fun," she muttered, resting her head back against his chest. "You never let me have any fun."

Happy chuckled again, resuming his stroking of her hair. "Trust me, princess," he said, his voice dropping back to a deeper, huskier tone, "We can have plenty of fun when you're sober. And you'll remember it the next morning."

His girlfriend nuzzled against his chest again, her eyelids drooping as the alcohol began to pull her towards sleep. "Promise?" she mumbled, her hand once again trying to snake back towards his lap.

Happy gently moved her hand away again, though he couldn't help but smile at her persistence. "I promise," he said, his voice soft. "You get some rest, and we'll pick this up in the morning when you're not seeing double."

Jax

Jax glanced over at his girlfriend, who was slumped against his side, her eyes half-lidded and a goofy smile on her lips. She'd had a few too many drinks and was now completely wrecked. He couldn't help but chuckle seeing her like this.

"All right, come here," he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him. He could feel her body sway slightly, her head lolling against his shoulder.

"Yurrrr so strong," she slurred, giggling.Jax rolled his eyes, his lips curling into a small grin.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm a big, strong man," he teased, gently patting her on the head. "Let's get you to bed, yeah? You're completely hammered."

He carefully helped her to her feet, keeping a tight grip on her as she wobbled. "Come on, babe. You're not walking anywhere like this." He guided her towards his dorm, one arm wrapped around her waist to keep her steady.

Once they were in the room, he sat her down on the edge of the bed with a soft thump, then knelt down in front of her to take off her shoes. "You're a real light-weight, you know that?" he teased as he slid them off her feet, setting them aside.

"Am NOT," she tried to protest, but the words didn't quite come out right. She wobbled again, nearly toppling forward before Jax caught her.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there. Don't go falling over now." He gently pushed her down onto the bed, helping her get comfortable amongst the pillows and blankets. He sat down on the bed next to her, watching her with a mixture of fondness and amusement.

She let out a contented sigh as she settled, her eyes fluttering closed. She mumbled something incoherent, and Jax couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head in amusement. He leaned down, brushing the hair away from her face before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Get some sleep, babe."

He sat there for a moment, listening to the sound of her soft, even breaths as she started to drift off. He knew she'd be out for the night, and he'd have to look after her in the morning when she woke up with a killer hangover. But for now, she was safe and sound in his bed, and that was all that mattered.

Opie

Opie returns home late one night after a long day to find his girlfriend already on the couch in the house, a bottle of beer in her hand and a flush to her cheeks. He can already assume she is drunk and he has to bite back a smirk, knowing the kind of trouble you get into when she is inebriated.

As soon as she hears him enter, she jumps to her feet, almost toppling over, but just about saving herself by grabbing the back of the couch. “O-Opie,” she stutters, a goofy smile on her face. “You're home.”

“Yeah, I’m home,” he replies, unable to hide the amusement in his voice as he takes in the state of you. “And you’re a little drunk, aren’t you?”

"No....I have only had to beers" she whined frowning at the 2 bottles on the table.

Opie chuckles when he spots the bottles realizing she found the super stong home brew he got as a gift from Bobby. “Those ain't beer, baby,” he says, shaking his head and folding his arms across his chest. “That's Bobby's 'special brew'. It would get most people drunk within minutes. How are you feeling?”

"I'm totally fine," she mumbles, her words slurred as she tries to lean against the couch but misses and almost falls to the ground if it wasn't for Opie's lightening reflexes. He quickly catches her before she hits the floor and pulls her body up against his chest.

"Yeah, you're definitely not fine," he murmurs, holding her close to him. He can't help but feel amused by how adorable she is when she's drunk. "You're gonna have a hell of a headache in the morning, baby."

She groans and buries her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I feel funny,” she mumbled. “And spinny.”

Opie laughs softly and holds her closer against him, his arms wrapped tightly around her as he tries to steady her. “That’s because you’re drunk, sweetheart,” he says gently, running his hand up and down her back. “Just lean against me, okay?”

She nods and sighs contently as she leans against him more, burying her face in his chest once again. “You smell good, Opie,” she mumbles, her words still slurred and her breath warm against his chest.

He chuckles softly at her drunken compliment and tightens his arms around her, holding her even closer against him. “And you smell like a distillery,” he teases, his voice filled with affection.

She groans again and pouts up at him, her lips in a cute little frown. “You’re mean,” she sulks, her bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “You’re not supposed to be mean to me when I’m drunk, you’re supposed to be nice and tell me I’m pretty and buy me chicken nuggets.”

Opie grins, amused by her drunken requests. "You want chicken nuggets?" he teases, lifting an eyebrow. "At this hour?"

She nods enthusiastically, practically bouncing on the spot in her excitement. "Yes! I'm starving," she whines, her eyes wide and pleading. "Please, Opie, I want chicken nuggets. Please please please."

He laughs, unable to resist her adorable drunken plea. "Alright, alright," he says, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "I'll get your chicken nuggets, baby. But you have to promise me one thing."

She nods eagerly, her focus solely on the promise of food. "Anything," she slurs, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

He grins down at her, amused by her eagerness. "You gotta promise not to throw up on me, okay?" he teases, gently poking her on the nose with his index finger.

Juice

Juice leans against the doorframe, watching his girlfriend stumble around, completely intoxicated. She's laughing and swaying attempting to dance, clearly not in full control of her actions.

"How much did you drink, baby?" he asks, stepping closer.

"Dunno," she slurs, grinning sloppily at him. "A lot."

Juice chuckles, shaking his head.He moves in and scoops her up, pulling her into his arms with ease. She's lightweight to him, and he easily supports her against his chest.

"Let's get you to bed, you're wasted." he says, carrying her towards the bedroom.She giggles uncontrollably, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he carries her. She's making these little hiccup sounds that would be cute if not for the fact that they're coming from a drunk woman.

Juice sets her down on the bed, carefully arranging her head on a pillow. She's still giggling and murmuring incoherent words, clearly oblivious to the world around her.

"You're a mess," he says, rolling his eyes but there's a hint of fondness in his voice. He pulls off her shoes and lays a blanket over her.

She's attempting to say something but it's coming out as garbled nonsense. He leans closer to try and make out her words but they're not making any sense.

"Shhh," he soothes, smoothing a hand over her hair. "Just sleep it off."

He settles down on the edge of the bed, watching her as she fidgets and mutters to herself, her eyes fluttering shut and then opening again. She keeps reaching out for him, her hand flailing in the air as if trying to grab hold of something.

He can't help but chuckle at her antics, despite the situation. He reaches out and takes her hand in his, giving it a squeeze to reassure her.

She mumbles something that sounds like his name, her fingers wrapping around his.

"Yeah, it's me," he replies, his voice soft. He continues sitting there, holding her hand and stroking her hair until her breathing becomes steady, signalling she's fallen asleep.

He sits there for a few more minutes, quietly watching her. She looks so peaceful now that she's asleep, a complete contrast to the stumbling mess she was just a while ago.

Slowly, carefully so as not to wake her, he gets up and turns off the bedroom light, leaving the door slightly ajar so he can hear her if she needs him.

He goes to the kitchen filling a bottle with water and ice taking it back into the bedroom leaving it by her side going into the bathroom to find some painkillers.

He comes back into the room, carrying a couple of painkillers. He sets them down on the bedside table, making sure they're within reach for when she wakes up.

He looks down at her sleeping form, contemplating waking her up to give her the medicine, but decides against it. She's in deep sleep, and he doesn't want to disturb her. Instead, he pulls up a chair and sits down to keep an eye on her, just in case she wakes up and needs anything.

Herman

Kozik and his girlfriend had spent the evening at a party hosted by the club. As the night went on, his girlfriend had indulged in a few too many drinks, while he had remained relatively sober.

As the party began to wind down, Kozik noticed that his girlfriend had become quite drunk. She was stumbling around, struggling to speak clearly, and seemed on the verge of passing out.

Seeing her in this state, Kozik knew he couldn't leave her on her own. He made his way over to her, gently placing his arm around her to help her stand steady.

"Hey, sweetie," he said, his voice soft and caring. "I think it's time to get you home."

His girlfriend protested, insisting that she was fine and wanted to stay at the party longer. But Kozik gently but firmly shook his head.

"No, babe," he said, guiding her towards the door. "You've had a little too much to drink. We need to get you home and into bed."

His girlfriend groaned, but she was too drunk to put up much of a fight. Kozik led her out of the party and helped her into the passenger seat of her car.

As he buckled her seatbelt, he could see that she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

"Just hang in there," he said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We're almost home."

The drive was quiet, with his girlfriend dozing off in the passenger seat. Kozik kept his eyes focused on the road, his hand occasionally reaching over to pat her leg reassuringly.

When they finally arrived at her house, he helped her out of the car and guided her up the driveway. She stumbled on the way to the front door, but he was there to catch her, holding her steady against him.

Inside, Kozik helped his girlfriend into bed, pulling the blankets up around her and making sure she was comfortable. She mumbled something about wanting to stay awake and chat, but her eyes were already shutting.

Kozik chuckled softly, sitting down beside her on the bed. He brushed the hair back from her face and tucked the covers in around her.

"It's time to sleep," he said gently. "You'll feel better in the morning. I'll be right here."

His girlfriend nodded sleepily, her eyes closed now. Kozik stayed by her side, watching her breathing even out as she fell asleep. He leaned back against the headboard, content to keep watch over her until morning.

As the night went on, Kozik found his mind drifting. He thought about the party they had just left, his brothers back at the club, and the life they lived. But throughout it all, his thoughts kept returning to the woman asleep beside him.

He knew he was lucky to have her. She was feisty, spirited and beautiful. And she was all his.

Tig

Tig was watching his girlfriend's every movement from a safe distance. Not because he was worried, but because watching his girlfriend when slightly hammered was always fun. She always let her inner self shine when she's had a few drinks. She's not as shy and reserved when she's like that.

Right now she was giggling up a storm with some of the guys from the club. Her cheeks were a rosy shade and her eyes were bright. A little smile played on his lips as he took another long sip from his beer.

He chuckled to himself, watching as his girlfriend stumbled on her own two feet. She reached out and grabbed onto the nearest person to steady herself, who just so happened to not be him. His smile disappeared into a slight frown, and he took a few steps closer.

He quickly intervened and wrapped an arm around her, steadying her. He kept a tight grip, not too tight but tight enough to keep her from toppling over. "You okay there, sweetheart?" Tig asked, his voice holding a touch of amusement.

She looked up at him, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed with alcohol. A huge smile graced her face and she let out a small giggle. "TIGGY!! I'm good, just got a little dizzy." She replied, leaning a little closer to him, clearly tipsy.

Tig chuckled and instinctively tightened his arm around her. "Yeah, I can tell. You should slow down on the drinks, doll." He teased, looking down at her with a mixture of affection and mild concern.

"I'm fine, really. I can handle my boooze." She stated, trying to sound firm, but the slur in her voice gave her away. She stumbled again and Tig quickly caught her again, pulling her closer against him to keep her steady.

Tig rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, you're doing a real good job handling your booze right now.." he replied sarcastically. He let out a chuckle, his hand gently rubbing her back, soothingly.

She pouted and smacked his chest playfully. "Shut up, I'm not even that drunk." She retorted, her voice still a little slurred. "I had like, three beers and a shot then another one...Oh then Bobby made a toast so i had another few. I can handle that."

Tig raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider. "Oh thats all, huh?" He teased, his tone laced with amusement. "Yeah, sweetheart, that sounds mighty reasonable for a lightweight like you."

She huffed in mock annoyance, but couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of her lips. "I am not a lightweight." She argued, but her unsteadiness and rosy cheeks said otherwise.Tig couldn't help but chuckle at her denial. He continued to hold her close, enjoying the feeling of her warmth pressed against him. "Right, sure you're not. That's why you can barely stand up straight on your own."

"I can stand just fine, thank you very much!" She retorted, her drunken confidence taking over. She tried to step away from him to spin in a circle and prove her point, but she stumbles again, wobbling on her feet.

Tig quickly wrapped an arm around her again and pulled her back towards him. He chuckled, now finding her attempts to prove her point even more amusing. "Yeah, you're a regular ballerina on those feet, darlin'."

She went quiet too quiet. And has a weird look on her face

"Ah shit" Tig groans and quickly scooped her up with practiced ease, knowing what was about to happen. "Looks like it's a one-way ticket to the porcelain throne for you, sweetheart." He joked as he started to rush her towards the nearest bathroom.

Once they reached the bathroom, he gently set her down in front of the toilet just in time before she started to retch into it. He knelt down beside her, holding back her hair as she emptied her stomach. Tig winced in sympathy as he heard her getting sick.

"There you go, get it all out, doll." He comforted, rubbing her back soothingly. He was thankful that the bathroom was mostly empty, and he knew the guys would keep other people out.

Once she was done, she slumped against him, weak and shaky. Tig pulled her onto his lap, holding her close and letting her rest her head against his chest. He gently stroked her hair, trying to soothe her. "You're gonna be feeling like hell tomorrow, baby." He said with a playful hint of amusement. He knew she was in for a rough morning, but he was also secretly enjoying having her so dependent on him for awhile.

[pranabefall]

✸ — MISC NOTICE. ; minors dni. zhongli x reader. again, some pure fluff but as an mdni blog i'm holding repellent XD. mostly silly silly stuff ihgfghj reader is implied to have studied in the sumeru akademiya. not edited!!!

"You're awake."

It's more a statement then anything else, Zhongli's arm snakes round you, steady in it's grasp. "I know you are." he adds, in a way where the depths of his chest seemed to rumble slow, slow, slowly.

You crack an eye open and stare straight at him, a sheepish grin flickering across for a moment ( only for a moment. You're incorrigible, as Zhongli liked to say ). "I've been thinking." You begin, your breath half caught at the back of your mouth. An excited thrum dances over your fingertips and you're half dizzy from the buzz and the tire. So much, there's so much, your stomach feels like it's about to explode.

"It's too early." he glances over at you with a pointed raise to his brow. "You can barely hear the birds out. Go back to sleep now." His hands are gentle against your cheek and you're almost swayed by the rumbling timbre of his voice and the low cadence. It's lulling you, but by bit, deeper and deeper.

"I've been thinking." You repeat with a little more force, lifting your head up to state your point across. You collapse back down a moment later when the room spins a bit. Perhaps you were too hasty ( goddammit ) and you content yourself with settling into the mattress and pulling the blanket over your shoulders.

His lashes flutter. There is fond exasperation there, melting into his chest and his nearly-there smile like butter. Its the most Zhongli thing about him, the tiny moments and peeks in through. "Alas." He sighs, nudging you close, laying your head over his bicep. "Tell me then."

Zhongli watches the way your shoulders hunch and your lips quirk. "A willing audience? How grand..."

"A little too willing, I'm afraid. I spoiled you so."

Your hands splay against his shoulders. He's warm.

"It's only going to take a minute. In fact, it's only a question. All I need are answers and that will only take as long as you want it to."

Ah there it is, the narrowed squint, the subtle shift and the signs of a slightly more alert Zhongli ( the Zhongli who'd straighten his back and cattishly stare at someone who dares to mention the name of some obscure historic even or little known tea ). "Ask me, then."

You fall silent, looking for your words.

"I was wondering. Is geo resonance susceptible to tearing apart organic tissue? How little is needed for it to do so, and how little for it to...not...?"

You don't think there is a sane way of phrasing that, to be fair. But you'd ask stranger things, always digging and questioning and presenting the wildest little ideas on odd days of the week. It's a side effect of the Akademiya and a lack of sages sushing you into a corner with a pile of textbooks and dry edged annoyance. And maybe the very aforementioned abandonment of shame.

"And by organic tissue..."

"Human flesh, Zhongli."

"Ah."

"More specifically muscles, tendons, bones...maybe even neural tissue to be fair. Any of that stuff."

Zhongli has the grace to not react, or give much away in his contemplation. You knock your head against his chin in gentle assurance. "You don't have to answer of course."

"It's certainly a strange one." He admits.

"It is." You grumble.

"Well..." He trails off before a breathy little chuckle trembles past. "We'll, I can't say I know a proper answer to this one. It's quite specific isn't it?"

"Horribly so. Different tissue have different densities. You can afford to be a little rougher with bone, for example. But something softer like grey matter would require far more finesse."

His hand is steady against the small of your back. "And you ask this because..."

Your lips tug at the corners. "An old junior of mine sent a letter in. The boy graduated from the Spantamad Darshan in my absence and had plenty of news to share regarding a few new experiments with elemental energy and the like." You turn over a moment. "If we could find the precise frequency needed, we may just be able to utilize geo resonances for medical diagnostics."

Zhongli blinks. It's a slow, thoughtful thing.

"That is fascinating." He muses. "So you seek to map put internal injuries then? Or perhaps tumours?"

"Yes!" You eagerly nod at that. "There are Fontanian inventors...and skilled akademics. They're calling a few alumni in to aud in the research."

Your cheek tucks into the crook of his neck. You feel his warmth and the too-slow heartbeat carefully wrapped in his chest, between ribs and flesh — made of anything but stone ( You're filled with a hunger. Zhongli calls it endearing, your passion, as quiet as it can be sometimes ).

"You were invited too." He guesses.

"Yes."

His lips test against your neck. "How long?"

"A while." You look outside, to the balcony and the horizon in the distance. Then you see Zhongli's face, his hair undone and sweep against your temple as he kisses you proper.

"Then go, little love."

"Are you sure?" You suddenly feel awful, and small, and selfish. Liyue had stuck fast to the buttery feelings in your chest and Zhongli had made himself a home there as well. A part of you wants to sneak him into your trunk, sprit him away to Sumeru. It's greedy, immature ( he's always waited for you, patiently ).

"Quite." He kisses your cheek next. "What's a few months?"

"An eternity." You grunt.

Zhongli is silent for a long, long moment. "Right now...it would be, yes." He says in the afterthoughts. "And will miss you terribly. But I've waited before, and I don't see why I cannot now."

He laces his fingers against yours.

"I'll write to you every week." You promise.

"Every week." He promises and he smiles his almost smile. You kiss his forehead. He sighs. "For now...I will say it again. Go to sleep."

"Yes, yes." You mutter, snuggling in. Zhongli tucks his hand beneath your knees and swings one leg over his waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

Let me be greedy, he seems to say.

You let him.

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