#line for getting stepped on by her starts here

[drewsephrry]

Love Island: Episode 10 - This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

words: 5.3k

warnings: cuss words, sexual innuendos

series masterlist

“Islanders, could you gather around the firepit?” Ariana’s voice slices through the villa. Everyone freezes. Then slowly, they rise, nervous energy rippling through the group.

“That can’t be good.” Y/N mutters under her breath, smoothing her dress as she stands. Rafe trails behind her, his hand resting lightly on her waist. The Islanders take their spots beside their pairings.

“How has it been so far?” Ariana asks, smiling in her glittery dress.

“Good.” Maddy says, leaning into Kelce.

“Yeah, pretty fun.” Sarah adds.

“I’m sorry I didn’t visit sooner.” Ariana continues. “I wanted you to have time to settle in and get to know each other. But I’m not here just to check in.”

Smiles fade. A collective breath is held.

“As you all know, we have two single Islanders in the villa, Ryan and Abigail.”

They both nod.

“How has your journey been so far?”

“It’s been good.” Abigail replies, speaking for both.

“Any connections starting to spark?” Ariana prompts.

“Yeah.” Abigail nods and looks at Ryan then back at Ariana. “A few.”

“That's great.” Ariana grins. “Now, could all the girls, besides Abigail, join me?”

The girls exchange looks before rising and lining up beside Ariana, visibly tense.

“Abigail and Ryan, you came here to find a connection. So tonight, you’ll each have the chance to couple up with anyone in the villa, regardless of current pairings.”

Gasps scatter across the firepit. Y/N instinctively looks at Rafe. He’s trying to look relaxed, but she can see the tension under his calm.

“Abigail, you're up first.”

Abigail stands, her fingers nervously fidgeting as she stares ahead.

“I want to couple up with this boy because he made me feel really welcome. He’s funny, cute and I think there’s something worth exploring. So…the boy I want to couple up with is…JJ.”

Heads turn as JJ stands, grinning and gives her a hug.

“JJ, are you happy with Abigail’s choice?” Ariana asks.

“Yeah.” JJ says. “We’ve had some good chats. I’m happy to see where it goes.”

Ariana turns to Ryan.

“Ryan, it’s your turn. Who would you like to couple up with?”

Ryan rises slowly, lets out a breath.

“I want to couple up with this girl because…honestly? She’s been stuck in my head since the challenge. She’s funny, stunning and just...gets me. We’ve had really great conversations and I’d like to keep getting to know her.”

Rafe's eyes are locked on him now.

“So the girl I want to couple up with is…Y/N.”

There’s a pause. Then movement. Y/N swallows and steps forward. She glances at Rafe once, just once, then walks toward Ryan. They hug and sit together. Ryan drapes his arm lightly along the back of the seat behind her. She doesn’t lean in. 

“Y/N, how are you feeling about Ryan’s decision?” Ariana turns to her. Y/N hesitates. 

“Yeah. I’m okay with it. He’s…sweet. And I do want to get to know him more.” She replies, her voice is steady, but quiet.

Across the firepit, Rafe’s posture tightens. His head tilts back slightly, jaw clenched. 

“What the fuck?” Topper mutters under his breath. Ariana faces the boys. 

“Abigail and Y/N are taken. So now, I’ll call the rest of you to choose from the remaining girls.”

The recoupling continues with John B pairing with Sarah, Topper with Alyssa and Kelce with Maddy.

Pope steps forward, eyes flicking between Cleo and Kiara.

“I want to couple up with this girl because she’s really amazing and I was too much of an idiot to see it before. I’d really like another chance. So the girl I want to couple up with is…Cleo.”

Cleo walks over and hugs him. 

“Rafe.” Ariana says.

He rises slowly, scanning the group. His eyes land briefly on Y/N, who stares straight ahead at the fire, guilt pressing at her chest.

“I didn’t expect this tonight.” Rafe says, voice low but clear. “But I’ll couple up with Kiara.”

Kiara joins him with an annoyed expression.

“You could’ve at least tried.” She mutters as they sit. Rafe doesn’t respond. Ariana smiles, wrapping things up.

“Here are your new couples. I hope you all enjoy the rest of evening and I’ll see you very soon.” She waves and walks off, leaving the Islanders reeling. Rafe stands first.

“Fuck this.” He mutters, storming off toward the villa. Y/N watches him disappear, heart heavy. 

“You’re not even gonna follow him?” Topper’s eyes snap toward her, sharp and accusing.

“What?” Y/N blinks, thrown off.

“Why should she?” Cleo cuts in quickly. “He hurt her.”

“They made up last night.” Topper fires back, turning fully to face her.

“Wait, what?” Maddy’s eyes widen. “You two made up?”

“You didn’t tell them?” Topper glares at Y/N, the tension thick.

“I was going to.” Y/N murmurs.

“Do you even care about him?” He asks, in disbelief.

“Of course I do.” Her voice cracks.

“You’re so fake.” Topper’s voice drops, venom sharp. “He’s been busting his ass trying to fix things and you’re just stringing him along like it’s a game.”

Sarah immediately stands, anger flashing in her eyes.

“Don’t call her that.”

John B tugs on her arm, but she shrugs him off. 

“He’s been owning up, apologizing, giving you space, doing everything right. And you? You let him think you’re meeting him halfway. Then you turn around and say you want to get to know Ryan?” He looks at Ryan, who sits uncomfortably before Topper pushes on. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

Kelce stands fast.

“Enough, Topper. Walk it off.” He says, voice low but fierce. Topper flinches but sneers again, then storms off.

Y/N stays frozen, eyes on the flickering firepit. The silence is heavy.

“I’m sorry.” She whispers.

The girls just watch her.

Ryan gently squeezes her arm, then stands, giving her space. The boys follow him, leaving the girls alone.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Maddy asks quietly. There’s more hurt than anger in her voice.

“I wanted to.” Y/N says, voice trembling. 

“I really did. I just…” She inhales sharply. “I was scared you'd judge me…for giving him another chance so fast.”

“Y/N…” Maddy softens. 

“It’s your choice.” Cleo says gently. “We’d never judge you for how you feel.”

“Yeah. We’re here for you.” Maddy adds, reaching for her hand. “Always.”

Kiara crosses her arms. 

“So, what…just like that, you’ve forgiven him?”

“Kiara?” Sarah blinks at her, confused.

“What?” Kiara challenges.

“You’re judging her. This is exactly why she didn’t want to say anything.” Sarah says, defensive.

“I’m not judging.” Kiara snaps. “I’m being honest. He is a cheater, a liar and he has some serious anger issues.”

“Kie…” Cleo warns softly.

“I’m allowed to have an opinion.” Kiara says with a shrug. “And in this case? It’s the truth.” 

Without another word, she turns and walks off. 

“I need a drink.”

Y/N stays seated, eyes on the floor. 

“I messed everything up, didn’t I?” She whispers.

“For not telling us?” Maddy squeezes her hand. “Of course not. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“What about with…him?” Y/N asks, finally looking up. Maddy hesitates. 

“I think…when he heard you wanted to get to know Ryan, it hurt. And maybe now that you're giving him another chance, he’s scared the door's closed.”

The girls nod in silent agreement. Y/N sighs, then rises slowly to her feet. 

“I should probably find him.” She says but before she can go, Maddy catches her wrist. 

“Give him a minute. Let it sink in first.” She advises and Y/N nods slowly. 

“Yeah. You’re right.” She glances back at the girls before stepping away.

Confessional - Y/N "I don't know...everything just feels like a mess right now and it’s all my fault." She stares ahead, voice low, eyes flickering with regret.

In the kitchen, Rafe stands at the counter, drink in hand, Topper leans against the fridge and JJ rummages through the snack drawer.

“I told you, dude. She’s playing you,” Topper says, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “All that ‘I need time’ crap and now she’s all cozy with Ryan like none of it mattered.”

Rafe doesn’t respond, just stares into his glass, jaw tight.

“And the fakest part? She didn’t say a word to the girls. Didn’t even check on you. Like-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Rafe snaps, loud and sudden. Topper freezes mid-sentence, eyebrows raised. JJ snorts under his breath.

“You don’t get to talk about her like that.” Rafe continues, voice sharp. “You don’t even know the full story. So just stay out of it.”

“I am looking out for you.” Topper says defensively. “That’s what friends do.”

“Yeah? Then be a better friend. Because right now, you’re not helping.”

Topper sucks his teeth, shakes his head and stands up from the stool. 

“Got it.” He mutters before walking off. Rafe exhales, runs a hand through his hair and picks up his drink again. He reaches for a chip from JJ’s pile without looking. But JJ casually slides the bag away.

“Don’t even think about it.” He warns. Rafe snorts, grabs one anyway and JJ glares at him. 

“Rude.”

The night winds down faster than usual. After the emotional chaos of the recoupling, the villa feels quieter, heavier. In the makeup room, the girls slip into pajamas and slowly wash the day off their faces.

Y/N heads to the bathroom, to brush her teeth, only to find Rafe already there, drying his face with a towel. He hears the door and lowers the towel just enough to see who it is. 

“Just the man I was looking for.” She offers a small smile, as she walks over to the sinks. Rafe exhales and instinctively takes a step back, eyes dropping to the marbled floor.

“Can we not do this right now?” He mutters. Y/N’s smile fades. Her gaze follows his to the same spot on the floor.

“Yeah...yeah. Sorry.” She says quietly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He gives a slight nod and turns toward the door, only to nearly walk straight into Ryan.

“Oh, sorry.” Ryan says, then freezes when he sees who it is. His eyes flick from Rafe to Y/N standing behind him. “Shit.”

Rafe scoffs under his breath, glances back at Y/N, then at Ryan again. He shakes his head and walks out without another word. Y/N instinctively takes a step after him, but stops herself. He’s not ready. She knows that.

Ryan lingers awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps inside.

“Y/N, I'm sorry. I didn’t know you two were...figuring things out. If I had, I wouldn’t have tried anything. I swear.”

“No, don’t apologize.” She says quickly. “This is on me. I should’ve said something. To you, to the girls...to Rafe. I should’ve told him how I actually feel.”

Ryan nods gently, giving her space.

“Can I, um...ask you something?” She asks, fingers fidgeting at her sides.

“Yeah. Anything.”

“Would it be okay if we didn’t cuddle tonight? Or maybe even used a pillow barrier or something?” She asks, awkward but sincere. “I just...I don’t want to make things worse. And I do want to get to know you, Ryan. I mean that. But with everything going on with Rafe, I-”

“I get it.” Ryan says without hesitation. “Seriously. It’s completely fine. No pressure.”

“I feel awful.” She admits. “But it’s just...hard.”

“It is. But you don’t need to feel bad. You’re not doing anything wrong. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, ever.”

Her shoulders relax a little. She looks up at him, grateful.

“Thank you. For being so understanding about all of this.”

“Of course.” He smiles softly.

She reaches out for a hug and he leans in. As they pull apart, she squints up at him, sniffing lightly.

“Wait...is that Tom Ford? Tobacco Vanille?”

“Wow, okay. Yeah. You really know your scents.” He laughs and she grins.

“I have it back home. Harry Styles wears it, so...obviously I had to try it. But it suits you.”

“Noted.” Ryan chuckles, clearly amused.

They share a small look before Y/N steps back and grabs her toothbrush. Ryan moves to the other sink to wash his face, the tension in the room finally easing.

Back downstairs, everyone begins to settle into bed. Y/N and Ryan place a few pillows between them and she offers him a grateful smile, absentmindedly twisting the ring on her finger. Across the room, Pope and Cleo chat quietly, while Kelce and Maddy scroll through pictures they took earlier and John B and Sarah are tangled together, giggling and exchanging kisses.

“You guys are disgusting.” JJ calls out, launching a pillow at John B. John B groans and throws it back, but it accidentally smacks Abigail instead.

“Oh my god, Abigail, I’m so sorry!” He says quickly.

“It’s fine. It’s just a pillow.” She shakes her head, unfazed. JJ leans over to check her face anyway, then presses a soft kiss to her cheek.

Rafe enters the room, water bottle in hand and heads toward his bed, which unfortunately happens to be right beside Y/N and Ryan’s. Kiara is already under the covers, scrolling on her phone. When she hears him approach, she glances up and groans.

“Nope. No way. You’re not sleeping here.”

Everyone turns at her voice. Rafe stops mid-step, frowning.

“What?”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you.” Kiara replies, shaking her head. “You’re a liar and a shitty partner.”

Rafe lets out an exasperated sigh. 

“Look, I get it. You hate me because of what happened with Y/N. That’s your right. Honestly, I’m not your biggest fan either. But complaining won’t change anything. We’re stuck with this setup and I’m not sleeping in the doghouse.”

With that, he pulls back the covers and climbs in.

“Suck my dick.” Kiara mutters under her breath, aggressively placing a barricade of pillows between them.

Rafe lays on the very edge of the bed, just inches from Y/N’s. She watches him from her side, waiting, hoping for something. A glance, a word, a touch. Anything.

The lights go out and soft goodnights echo around the room as couples settle in.

“Good night.” Y/N whispers to Ryan before turning to her other side, facing Rafe’s bed. Her eyes stay locked on his silhouette. His eyes are closed, but his body is turned toward her. And she wonders if it is because he cannot stand Kiara or because he still wants her?

Eventually, her eyes flutter shut. Sleep taking over. But not for Rafe.

His eyes remain closed because if he looks at her, curled up in bed with someone else, it might break him.

Minutes pass. The room falls silent. Everyone is asleep now, except for John B and Sarah, whose movements under the covers betray them. Rafe slowly sits up, careful not to wake Kiara and gets out of bed. He steps between his and Y/N’s beds and leans down.

“Hey.” He whispers. “Y/N?”

She stirs but doesn’t respond. Gently, he touches her shoulder and she blinks awake, squinting into the darkness.

“Rafe?” She murmurs.

“Come with me.” He says softly.

“What?”

“Just…come with me. Please.”

There’s something raw in his voice that makes her sit up without thinking. She takes his extended hand and he leads her quietly out of the room. They stop at the staircase, where he sits down, gesturing for her to join him.

She hesitates, confused. 

“Why are we on the stairs?” She asks.

“Just come here.” He says again, quieter this time.

With a sigh, she steps closer and he pulls her gently onto his lap. His arms wrap around her and he presses his lips to her shoulder. She exhales slowly, her body melting into his, like this is the first place she’s felt at peace all night.

“How’s your new bed buddy?” Rafe murmurs, his lips brushing her shoulder.

“Rafe…” She turns slightly to face him, her eyes soft. “I’m sorry.”

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, giving her space to continue.

“I should’ve talked to you…about how I’ve been feeling. About Ryan.” She says quietly. “I was still trying to process everything that happened between us and I didn’t want to rush right back in after what happened.”

She takes a deep breath.

“And…Ryan’s nice. He is charming. And when he chose me…I didn’t want to just shut him down.”

Rafe stares into the darkness, silent, just nodding.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m forgetting what we have.” She adds. “There’s something real between us. A connection. A strong one. We’ve had our rough moments, yeah, but we always find our way back to each other.”

He lets out a sigh, scratching the back of his head.

“I just don’t get it. We’re the strongest connection in this whole place. Even after all the fighting, we’re still here. So why throw that away for…some guy?” His voice is laced with frustration.

“We’re not throwing anything away. This is what the experience is supposed to be. Getting to know new people and seeing what fits. That’s all.”

He nods again, but there’s a tightness in his jaw she can’t miss.

“You’re upset.” She observes gently.

“I’m not.” He snaps, too quickly.

“You are.” She says, calmer this time.

He sighs sharply and when she starts to move off his lap, his arms tighten around her waist.

“What are you doing?” He asks, brows furrowed.

“I thought…maybe you needed some space.”

“Don’t.” He says quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to do that.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I know I’m being a dick about this. And I’m sorry. But I…I like you, Y/N. A lot.”

“I like you too, Ra-”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” He cuts in, his voice low. She pauses, her shoulders dropping before she gently cups his face, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Rafe.” She says firmly. “Don’t doubt how I feel about you. What I feel is real, okay?”

His eyes lock with hers and in the soft moonlight filtering through the window, something shifts in him. She smiles, hands still cradling his jaw.

“Rafe-I-don’t-know-your-middle-name-Cameron…I like you. So, so much.”

He tries to stay composed, but his lips twitch.

“Alexander.” He whispers.

“What?”

“My middle name. It’s Alexander.”

“Rafe Alexander Cameron.” She repeats with a teasing smirk. “That’s kinda hot.”

“Actually Rafe’s short for Rafael.” He smirks.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the boys that tomorrow.” Her eyes light up.

“Oh my god, please don’t.” He groans.

She laughs, then leans in to kiss him, just a soft press of lips. They smile when they pull back, their foreheads resting together.

“Did I already say I’m sorry?” She whispers.

“One more time wouldn’t hurt.” He teases.

“I’m sorry.” She says again, sincere. “I never meant to hurt you. I should’ve been honest from the start.”

“I'm sorry too.” He says quietly. “I do believe you…about how you feel. And...you're allowed to figure things out with him. Or with anyone. I just-” He pauses, searching for the words. "I don’t like sharing.”

Her fingers gently trail through the hair at the nape of his neck, grounding them both in the moment.

“My head’s not that easy to turn, you know.” She says with a sultry voice. He grins, leaning in. They kiss again, deeper this time. Lingering. Their hands explore, their bodies pull closer. When she pulls back, her lips are flushed and her eyes searching.

“Just one more minute.”

She nods, letting him kiss her again. This time, it’s more intense. Mouths moving with urgency, fingers tangling, breaths quickening. When she eventually pulls back, breathless, she stands up. He exhales and looks away.

“Give me a sec.” He mutters. 

“Oh my god…did George wake up?” Her eyes widen.

“Just…give me a second. Please.” He repeats himself. She bites back a laugh and turns around, covering her face as he gets up. He places a hand on her waist, guiding her gently back toward the bedroom.

They return to their separate beds. But before she lays down, Y/N reaches out across the space between them. Rafe smiles and takes her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

They fall asleep like that, connected, quiet and just a little closer than before.

The sun rises over the villa, casting a warm glow through the bedroom windows as the lights flicker on. Groans echo from the beds as the islanders slowly begin to stir. Maddy is curled into Kelce’s chest, shielding her eyes from the brightness while he pulls her in tighter. Across the room, Pope and Cleo untangle from their cuddle, stretching and sharing an awkward smile. And Sarah sits up in her sports bra, her hair slightly messy but her grin intact.

“Good morning, islanders!” She chirps, scanning the room.

Her eyes catch on Y/N and Rafe, lying on separate beds but facing each other, sleepy smiles on their faces, fingers still loosely intertwined between the space separating them. She smiles but doesn't say anything. Not yet.

“We should probably move. My arm’s cramping.” Y/N mutters, wincing as she pulls her hand back.

“Yeah, same. But worth it.” Rafe chuckles, sitting up and rolling his shoulder.

Y/N stretches with a small smile. Maddy, who caught sight of their subtle hand-hold, raises a brow.

“Did you two seriously sleep like that?” She asks, smirking.

“Like what?” Y/N replies, feigning innocence.

“Oh, you know…holding hands.” Maddy teases. Y/N sighs, grinning as she tilts her head toward Rafe. 

“Well…Rafe insisted.”

“Wow, throwing me under the bus already?” He scoffs, amused. The room fills with chuckles.

“That’s actually so cute.” Cleo adds from across the room. Y/N turns to the other side of her bed where Ryan sits against the headboard, sipping from a water bottle.

“Did I kick you last night? I feel like I might have. On accident! I kick in my sleep.” She asks, to lighten the mood between them. Ryan lowers the bottle and smiles. 

“Yeah, my shin is practically shattered.” He jokes.

“Wait, really?” She asks, eyes widening.

“No, no. I don’t think your leg even made it past the pillow wall.” He nods toward the barrier they’d built.

“Right.” She says, a bit embarrassed but smiling.

The villa starts to come alive as the islanders head off to begin their day. The boys split up between working out and breakfast duty, while the girls gather in the makeup room, getting ready. Y/N buttons her denim shorts in front of the mirror, eyes on her reflection.

“So…me and Rafe talked last night.” She says, instantly catching the girls’ attention.

“Wait. When?” Sarah asks, eyebrows raised. Y/N turns from the mirror and heads to her seat. 

“After everyone fell asleep. He asked if we could talk and we ended up at the staircase.”

“The staircase?” Cleo repeats, skeptical.

“Yeah. It was actually...really sweet.”

“The staircase?” Maddy says again, incredulous and Y/N laughs under her breath. 

“Okay, yes, the staircase. But hear me out, he sat me on his lap, held me, kissed me…it was really sweet.”

“I’m gonna throw up.” Alyssa says, playfully gagging. Y/N smiles, but It doesn't reach her eyes.

“What did you guys talk about?” Sarah asks, shaking her head but clearly invested.

“Well, everything. The recoupling. Me and Ryan…” Y/N trails off.

“And?” Maddy presses.

“I told him I never meant to hurt him. That what I feel for him is real. But also that this whole experience is meant for getting to know other people, building connections and figuring things out.” She pauses. “He said he likes me. And I told him I like him too. But he also said he doesn’t like sharing. Which...I know might sound possessive but honestly? I found it kinda cute.”

“Aww.” Maddy coos.

“That’s…weird.” Kiara says flatly, applying mascara.

“What’s your problem, Kie?” Cleo shoots back, clearly frustrated. “You left in the middle of our talk last night. You don’t want to hear Y/N’s side. Why?”

“I heard her side. I just don’t agree with moving on with someone like him, after everything he’s done. To her and his ex.” Kiara says firmly. “He’s going to hurt you. It’s not an if. It’s a when.”

“He’s not going to hurt me.” Y/N replies, voice steady.

“How can you be so sure?” Kiara challenges.

“How can you?” Y/N snaps back, sharper than anyone expects. The room falls into stunned silence. She sighs, softer now. 

“Look, I know you’re trying to be a good friend. I get it. And I appreciate it, really.” She places a hand on her chest. “But me and Rafe…we have something. We went through it, yeah, but we’ve come out stronger. I’m not asking you to love him. I’m not even asking you to support us. I’m just asking you not to be mad at me for how I feel.”

Kiara takes a breath, her expression softening.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m worried. But…if he’s what makes you happy, I can’t stop you. Just promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t dive back in. Make him earn your trust.”

“I am.” Y/N nods. “I will.”

The girls head downstairs, most of them drifting toward the pool for a chill day. Y/N veers into the kitchen, Maddy trailing behind her as she starts pulling ingredients onto the counter.

“What’s on the menu, chef?” Maddy teases, leaning against the island. Y/N grins. 

“I’m making a cake for Rafe. Kind of an ‘I’m sorry, I like you and this is my specialty’ type of thing.” She explains making Maddy laugh. 

“Love that. Need a sous-chef?”

“Definitely.” Y/N nods as she grabs a mixing bowl. 

Maddy joins her at the counter, helping measure, asking questions about each ingredient as they go in the bowl. There’s a comfortable rhythm between them, until Y/N slides the cake into the oven.

“So…” Maddy starts, wiping her hands on a towel, “I wanna be real with you for a second. I love you, I respect you, I really value our friendship and I don’t want any weirdness between us.”

“Okay…” Y/N frowns slightly, hopping up onto the counter.

“I was kinda hurt that you didn’t tell me about you and Rafe.” Maddy admits. “Like, I know you didn’t owe me anything, but I thought we were tight. It just felt like…I don’t know, I was being left out.”

Y/N’s face softens. 

“Oh, Maddy. I wanted to tell you. I really did. I was just scared you’d react like Kiara did. Or worse, that all the girls would.”

“I get that. But I’d never judge you, Y/N. Kiara might. Alyssa? For sure. But me?” Maddy shakes her head. “Never.”

Y/N slides off the counter and wraps her arms around her.

“I’m so, so sorry.” She apologises as Maddy hugs her back tightly. 

“It’s okay. I understand why you didn’t say anything. Just…don’t shut me out next time, yeah? Whatever it is, you can always come to me.”

Y/N smiles and squeezes her tighter, both girls giggling quietly into the hug.

By the time the cake is out of the oven and cooled, Y/N is fully focused, carefully smoothing buttercream around the sides. JJ and Pope wander into the kitchen, finding her hunched over in deep concentration.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” JJ grins, dropping onto one of the stools.

“Don’t even think about it.” Maddy warns, holding up a cake pop she made from the leftover scraps. She nods toward Y/N, who’s still laser-focused, tongue slightly sticking out as she perfects the edges. “It’s for Rafe.”

“Maddy.” Y/N says sharply without looking up.

“Relax.” Maddy laughs. “Also? It’s literally perfect. I don’t even know why you’re adding another layer.”

“It needs to be smoother.” Y/N mutters.

“She’s a perfectionist.” Pope says, grabbing a drink from the fridge.

“Damn right I am.” Y/N steps back to assess her work, finally satisfied. She sets down the piping bag and picks up a bowl of sliced strawberries, arranging them carefully into a heart on top. When she finishes, she gestures for Maddy to look.

“Oh my god, that’s adorable!” Maddy swoons, clutching her chest. JJ and Pope lean over for a better look, both nodding in approval.

“Want us to call him over?” Pope offers 

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Y/N nods.

Pope heads to the couch under the terrace, where Rafe’s lounging with Kelce and John B. 

“Yo, Rafe, come with me for a sec?”

Rafe grabs his water bottle and follows. When he spots Y/N in the kitchen, he immediately perks up and heads toward her, a smile already forming.

“Hey.” He says, approaching the counter.

“Hey.” Y/N replies, wiping her hands on her jean shorts, flour dusted across her stomach and strawberry juice staining her fingertips.

“Ta-da!” She says, revealing the cake with a shy grin. Rafe looks it over, surprised. 

“What’s this?” He asks.

“A cake, bro.” JJ says around a mouthful of the leftover strawberries. Rafe rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, no kidding, dumbass.” He turns back to Y/N. “I mean…why?”

“To say I’m sorry.” She says softly. “And to let you know I meant everything I said about us last night.”

Rafe rounds the counter, his hands settling gently on her waist.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to.” She replies, placing her hands on his chest. He smiles, then leans in, kissing her sweetly. His hands rise to cradle her face, pulling her closer as everything else fades into the background.

“Okay, okay, you two can kiss later.” JJ interrupts with a grin. “Can we eat the cake now?”

Y/N pulls back, giggling, as Rafe gestures toward the cake.

“Yeah, babe, slice it up.”

She starts cutting neat pieces while Maddy helps plate them, then heads off to let the rest of the islanders know. 

“Y/N, I swear, you’ve gotta be a witch or something.” JJ groans, cutting himself off with an exaggerated moan as he shovels a second spoonful of cake into his mouth. Y/N laughs, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze in thanks.

Rafe grabs a slice for himself and trails after her toward the now-empty daybed, abandoned as the others crowd into the kitchen.

“Alright.” Y/N says, sitting cross-legged beside him and setting her plate down. “Try it and give me your honest opinion.”

Rafe digs in without hesitation. His eyes widen as he moans dramatically.

“Mm, fuck. That’s amazing.” He looks at her. “What is this?”

“Chocolate cake with cream cheese and strawberry filling, chocolate buttercream and strawberries on top.” She grins, while explaining.

“That combo is fire.” He says, already going in for another bite.

“It’s one of the top sellers at my shop.” She admits proudly, finally picking up her own plate.

“I fully get the hype. I love it.” He leans in, lips puckered expectantly. She laughs and gives him a quick kiss, both of their mouths smudged with chocolate.

“Oops.” She mutters, reaching to wipe his lips. He grabs her hand gently, shakes his head and licks his own lips instead. Then, with deliberate slowness, he wipes a smudge from the corner of her mouth and licks the tip of his thumb, eyes never leaving hers.

Y/N freezes for a beat, pulse quickening. She clears her throat and dives back into her cake, trying to cool the rising tension.

Before anything else can happen, a loud ping echoes through the villa. Abigail picks up her phone from the counter, eyes wide.

“I got a text!” She announces.

“Oh, god. Now what?” Rafe groans, already bracing himself.

“Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s hearts racing in tonight’s ‘Hearts on Fire’ challenge. #heartthrobs #showwhatyougot.” Abigail reads aloud.

Squeals erupt from the girls and the guys whoop in excitement. Y/N stares at Rafe in disbelief, a slow smile spreading across her face. He leans back on the daybed, smirking.

“I’m gonna go join the girls.” Y/N says quickly, pecking his lips before darting off. She throws herself into Maddy’s arms, the two of them hugging and bouncing excitedly as the rest of the girls pile in.

Confessional - Maddy “This is gonna get hot. And very, very messy.” She says, eyes locked on the camera with a knowing smile.

taglist: @cherrygirlfriend @judesgfirl @slickdickwitchbitchh @leather-n-velvet @alinavalentine @littlelamy @ts1mp0ne @starkeyslibrary @rafecameronsfavourite @rafesbuzzcutseason @lolharrystylesissexy @k4yr14 @drewslefttoe @angielvsnick @malibuhearts @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @harryweeniee @imawhoreforu @fastlovela @jjmaybankmylovee @nemesyaaa @drewsnr1slut @laniirackssss @oconnrs @cornliastreett @pvyden @swagmoneydrew @lerclec @rafecameronxxx @totalswag @xoxosblogsblog @julesbog @st8rkey @lewispool @silkylovey @heartlesslies @akobx @vdotcom @runawayrafetrain @stvrkeysgal @heartzshiftamy @xilatrxvmp @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @maybankslover @cameronsbabydoll @veesgrapejuice

[piastriprincess]

under  an  april  sky  ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  driver!reader  ,  she  fell  first  he  fell  harder  ,  first  kiss  . word  count  1.3k author’s  note  when  the  lovely  @tsunodaradio  requests  extras  i  give  them  extras  !  kae  you  are  an  angel  and  i’m  endlessly  grateful  everytime  i  see  your  name  in  my  dms  or  inbox  <3  this  scene  was  originally  written  as  the  last  part  of  the  birthday  build - a - fic  ,  but  i  liked  the  more  ambiguous  ending  at  the  photoshoot  .  i  was  so  sad  to  cut  her  originally  so  i’m  glad  i  got  to  rework  her  a  little  and  she’s  finally  seeing  the  light  of  day  !!  this  can  be  read  as  a  standalone  but  i  recommend  reading  orange  show  speedway  first  for  context  .  and  because  i  can’t  leave  these  two  alone  …  another  little  blurb  is  in  the  works  hopefully coming  out  this  weekend  heehee  !  title  is  from  apple  pie  ,  also  by  lizzy  mcalpine  !

You really shouldn’t be awake. 

It’s just past midnight — the witching hour, your mother used to call it. The term makes the crisp desert air feel heavy with meaning and magic, even if it’s just another chilly April night in a city that’s not your own. The hotel pool is empty this late, steam rising off the water as the underwater lights cast rippling turquoise motifs over the concrete. You sit at the edge, slipping your bare legs into the balmy water, and trace absentminded patterns over the surface with your fingertips. 

You have a race tomorrow. You have a curfew. You should be tucked soundly away in bed by now. But sleep has been elusive ever since the photoshoot, since Oscar’s words hung in the air between you like something fragile and precious you didn’t dare touch. 

You didn’t even have to try, and it was hard not to look at you. 

It’s hard to shut off your brain when the line runs through your mind approximately seven thousand times a day. Every time you manage to calm your restless thoughts enough to drift off, your dreams are still filled with blushing cheeks and phantom honey-brown eyes. 

It’s been nearly six weeks since the sentence that turned your world on its axis, and things between you and Oscar have shifted in a way that you wouldn’t have believed if you weren’t living it. The crush you once thought was hopelessly one-sided suddenly has company. Where you once got polite smiles and friendly professionalism, now you get the kind of attention that makes you a little dizzy. He lingers by the Racing Bulls garage so much that your engineers have started jokingly speculating he’s trying to commit team espionage. Sometimes, you catch him looking for you in the crowds, like he’s not quite settled unless he knows where you are. Your text conversations have evolved from race talk to everything and anything else — late night debates about music, complaints about the paddock lunches, inside jokes that make your heart kick wildly in your chest. 

Even with all the obvious affection, though, he hadn’t made a move. Not a real one. Sure, he’d let your knees knock together in driver’s briefings, brushed his hand over yours when he passed you things, smiled at you in that soft, boyish way of his. But there’d been no kiss, no confession. No moment you could point to as the stepping stone from almost to something more. It’s worse in a way, watching someone you’ve quietly pined over for months reciprocate at a careful distance, like he’s running the numbers in his head about whether or not it would ruin something to want you this much.

Still, you were trying very hard not to be greedy. Whatever you had with Oscar now was already more than you’d ever expected to get. 

“Thought I might find you here,” someone says, and for a moment you think you’ve really gone off the deep end with the feelings and started hallucinating his voice in your head. But when you glance over your shoulder at the door, there’s Oscar in an oversized hoodie and shorts, hair damp and curling around his ears the way you like it best, eyes warm and familiar. 

“How did you know?” 

“You told me you like hotel pools,” he replies, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it wasn’t something you mentioned offhandedly weeks ago when you first started texting, about how you used to sneak up with a book for peace and quiet while the boys you karted with drank warm beer and roughhoused in their hotel rooms. You never expected him to remember it. It makes something warm bloom in your chest. “Can I —”

“Stay,” you say a little too quickly. His eyes widen slightly, pleased, and you can feel your cheeks heat up under his gaze. “I-I mean, if you want,” you stammer. “You’re not bothering me.”

His smile is impossibly soft. “Okay.”

He sits next to you, feet in the water, close enough that you can smell the sweet scent of his deodorant. When his pinky brushes against yours, you don’t pull away, even when your heart beats so hard it feels like it’s chafing against your ribs. The silence between the two of you is comfortable, easy. The kind of quiet you could make a home in.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you ask finally, watching the waves lap against the wall. 

Oscar kicks at the water gently, sending ripples splashing over your legs. “Too wound up, I guess.”

“Big race tomorrow,” you say, swirling your foot in circles as you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “Chance for the championship lead.”

He sighs, ruffling a hand through his hair. And then his eyes dart unmistakably towards you, with an expression that looks almost longing. “That’s not what’s keeping me up.”

You try not to blush under his gaze, but it’s a losing battle. “Then what is?”

There’s silence, for a long moment. And then:

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Oscar says desperately, and his voice is so raw that it makes something in your chest twist and snap. “About this. About us. I mean, you hate the attention, and the media would have a field day, start dissecting every little interaction between us, and I don’t know how I could protect you from that. And there’s the team politics to consider. And what if I’m not good enough at striking the balance, what if I have to choose between being a good driver and being a good boyfriend —”

“Oscar —”

“— and I like you so much and I don’t want to do anything that would ruin it, and I keep thinking maybe it’s smarter to wait or keep things the way they are even if it kills me to pretend it doesn’t mean what it means to me, and —”

Enough is enough. You lean forward and press your lips to his. 

The boldness shocks you, even as you do it. Apparently it surprises Oscar too, because he stills completely for a moment before he melts into the kiss, letting out a soft sigh against your mouth that has your pulse going haywire under your skin. His hand comes up to cradle your face, the other resting on your thigh like he’s trying to steady himself. It’s everything you imagined and nothing like it at all. No dream could have captured the way his lips move against yours, hesitant at first and then deeper, more certain, like he’s been waiting for it as long as you have.

When you finally pull away, he looks slightly dazed, cheeks pink even in the pale blue light. “Oh.”

You smile at him broad and sublimely happy, forehead pressed against his. “Oh?”

“I — That was —” Oscar blinks, hard, like he’s trying to reboot his brain. “Sorry — what was I saying?”

His eyes are wide, awed nearly, and he’s looking at you like you’re something incandescent. You giggle, the soft sound echoing off the tiles. “You were overthinking a little bit.”

He grins sheepishly at you, pink creeping up his neck as the last dregs of uncertainty in his eyes give way to something steady. “I’d say I’m sorry, but… kind of hard to be upset with the result,” he says, intertwining his fingers into yours. 

You kind of forget how to form sentences at that. You’re sure you would blush or smile stupidly or say something terribly awkward, if he wasn’t leaning in to kiss you again, slow and sure like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of your mouth against his.  

Much, much later, you sneak back to your room with Oscar’s sweatshirt draped around your shoulders and the taste of his smile still on your lips. You drift off easier than you have in months, sleep sound and untroubled.

There’s no need to dream anymore. Not when you have the real thing right in front of you.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which your court vision will always have her back

Wings vs. Sky. Packed house.

It’s physical from the tip.

Not in a dirty way. Just relentless. Elbows, hips, pressure defense. You’ve got your tablet in hand, clipboard under your leg as you track every Paige rotation.

So far, she’s holding her own. You can see the fatigue in her legs—second night of a back-to-back—but she’s still moving with intent.

And then, it happens.

Paige is curling off a high screen when Courtney Vandersloot turns too fast on help.

CRACK.

Head to head. A collision that echoes through the arena.

Both players go down. But Paige stays down. Flat on her back. Clutching her head. Knees drawn in, fingers in her hair. You stand instantly.

Your clipboard falls off your hands as you step forward—only stopped by the out-of-bounds line. You're not allowed on the court unless summoned.

But the bench?

The coaches?

Coach Koclanes just… stares.

He’s barking orders. Trying to call out a substitution. Not once looking at her.

Not one fucking time.

Your voice cuts through the noise. “Hey.”

He ignores you.

The ref glances at Paige, who’s slowly pushing herself upright, dazed. A trainer finally jogs out late. Paige waves them off, wobbling to her feet.

You stare at Koclanes.

“Are you serious right now?”

He doesn’t turn.

You step closer behind him, voice low but shaking.

“She hit the floor hard. She held her head.”

“She’s up, isn’t she?” he snaps back.

You blink. “So that’s the bar now? She can stand, so who cares how bad it was?”

“Back off, Assistant,” he mutters without looking.

“Oh no,” you say, stepping fully beside him now. “Don’t you dare pull rank with me when your point guard just collapsed on national TV and you couldn’t be bothered to check on her.”

He finally turns, face tight.

“I’m the head coach. I manage the rotation. If she wants a sub, she can say it.”

You take another step. “She was holding her head, Chris. That’s not about rotation. That’s a player safety issue.”

“She waved off the trainer.”

“She was dazed. You saw the hit!”

“You’re way out of line—”

“And you’re not protecting your players!”

A couple staffers behind you start moving. The assistant next to you puts a hand on your arm, sensing the energy shift.

Koclanes leans closer, voice dropping venom.

“You know I could fire you, right here, right now?”

You don’t flinch.

“Do it.”

That stuns him.

You say it again—louder.

“Go ahead. Fire me. But I’ll walk out of this arena knowing I gave a damn when you didn’t.”

The bench behind you is dead quiet.

Arike is standing now. DiJonai has a hand half-raised like she’s ready to step in. Maddy's eyes are wide. Someone mutters, “Yo…”

Two staffers grab your arm, trying to pull you a step back. You don’t budge.

“She is not just your franchise piece,” you growl. “She is a person. A person who’s taken more hits this season than you’ve acknowledged, and all she gets in return is a stare and a substitution?”

Koclanes clenches his jaw. “Let. This. Go.”

“There’s a concussion protocol for a reason,” you fire back. “You’re lucky she’s upright at all.”

“Assistant L/N—”

“She is not going to keep sacrificing her body just because you’re afraid to sit your starters for two goddamn possessions!”

A whistle blows from the refs. Time-in. The game resumes.

But you’re still standing. Face-to-face with the head coach. Seething.

Only when Paige walks back toward the bench, face pale, head still shaking off the hit—do you back off. You meet her eyes. She gives you a small nod.

She’s okay.

For now.

You sit down. Not because you’re done.

But because she needs you calm again.

“Oof, looks like there’s some heat on the Wings bench. That’s… Coach Koclanes and Assistant Y/N L/N—yep, that’s definitely not just a standard rotation conversation.”

“Y/N has a long history with Paige Bueckers, dating back to high school. She’s not just a development coach—she’s been Paige’s personal trainer, recovery coordinator, and from everything we’ve seen, something much closer than just staff.”

“You hate to see that kind of public tension, but… she’s not wrong. Paige went down hard. Someone had to say something.”

@/user Y/N L/N is fighting for her life on that bench and honestly??? I’d take her as head coach right now

@/user She was HOLDING HER HEAD. That wasn’t a foul. That was a fucking red flag. Thank god Y/N stepped up

@/user Y/N: “Fire me then.” Me: “oop—”

@/user I’ve never wanted to be protected by anyone more in my life than I want to be protected by Y/N L/N

@/user Paige doesn’t need a bodyguard. She has Y/N

The room is tense. No music. Just a dull, quiet hum of postgame routine. Paige is sitting on the floor with ice on her neck, head resting against her locker.

You crouch down slowly beside her, finally away from the spotlight.

“You good?” you ask, eyes scanning her carefully.

“I’m alright,” she whispers. “Just… saw stars for a sec.”

You nod. “You told the trainer?”

“Yeah. They’re doing protocol now.”

You pause.

“I almost got fired.”

She turns, brows raised.

“Coach said he could fire me. I told him to do it.”

Paige stares for a second.

Then she reaches out, curls her hand around yours, and squeezes tight.

“You always fight for me.”

You lean your forehead to hers, quiet. “Every time.”

You're barely through the front doors when your phone buzzes again. It’s the third message this morning, this one from your department lead.

“League office just requested footage of last night’s hit. They’re reviewing it for unsafe play and delayed medical response. FYI.”

You stop in your tracks.

You stare at the message.

Then you exhale, mutter “Finally,” and keep walking.

The entire coaching staff is present. Assistant coordinators. Player development. Medical team. Even media relations.

Coach Koclanes walks in last, drops his notes on the table like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

But the tension is different today.

Because the email came from the league office.

The head of player safety.

And it wasn’t just about a Vandersloot’s head butt.

It was about him.

“The league is conducting a formal review of last night’s on-court incident,” says the director of team operations, adjusting his glasses. “They want full sideline audio, player testimony, and post-concussion clearance reports from our staff.”

Everyone’s quiet.

Then one of the assistants asks, “Are they looking into the contact… or the way it was handled?”

“Both,” the director replies. “And specifically, whether proper protocol was followed.”

Coach doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you.

But you’re already sitting straighter. Ready.

“Do they want staff witness accounts?” you ask calmly.

“They do.”

You nod once.

Coach finally speaks. “This is being blown out of proportion.”

You turn toward him slowly. “She hit the floor hard.”

“She waved off the trainer.”

“She shouldn’t have had to.”

Another assistant murmurs, “It was a concussion risk play. That’s automatic review.”

“And the broadcast picked up your argument,” the team director adds. “Social media lit up.”

Coach leans back in his chair, clearly annoyed. “I’m more concerned with winning basketball games than internet drama.”

You stare at him flatly. “I’m more concerned with protecting the players you rely on to win them.”

The room stays silent.

You lean forward, hands on the table. “If we’re not protecting our franchise players—our rookies—especially when they’re visibly shaken, then we are failing them. Period.”

No one interrupts you this time.

And this time, Coach doesn’t fight back.

@/user The league has confirmed it is reviewing the on-court collision between Paige Bueckers and Courtney Vandersloot. Sources say the investigation includes the Dallas bench's handling of the aftermath

@/user SAY IT LOUDER! we do not normalize letting elite players get concussed mid-game and left to shake it off. The league stepping in is the bare minimum

@/user So we all agree that Y/N L/N was the only adult in the room last night right?

@/user She said “fire me” while protecting the only rookie carrying the backcourt and the league listened. Icon behavior

You’re sitting on the floor of your living room, tablet on your lap, rewatching the collision in slow motion. Frame by frame. Over and over. You’re memorizing the exact second Paige’s head hits the floor, the way her hand goes up, the dazed blink, the delayed bench reaction.

You’re so locked in you don’t hear the front door open.

“Still watching it?” Paige’s voice is quiet behind you.

You glance over your shoulder.

She walks toward you slowly, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes are tired. She’s still on watch from the medical team—symptoms mild, but present.

“I couldn’t let it go,” you admit. “Not when no one else said anything.”

She sinks down beside you on the carpet, shoulder to shoulder.

“You didn’t let them look past it.”

“I couldn’t,” you say. “You could’ve blacked out. You could’ve gone down harder. It could’ve been worse.”

She rests her head against your shoulder.

“But it wasn’t. Because you stood up.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you turn your face toward her temple and press a kiss there.

“I’ll never stop standing up for you.”

Her voice is softer now.

“I think the league knows that.”

You exhale. “They should.”

She smiles faintly, murmuring into your shoulder, “And if they don’t… you’ll make sure they do.”

The apartment is too quiet for a game day.

The only sound in the living room is the faint hum of the pregame broadcast coming through the TV speakers and the soft pop of an ice pack settling against fabric.

Paige is curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, the drawstrings tied in a loose knot under her chin. She’s got a pillow behind her neck, and one bare knee propped over your thigh. Her eyes are locked on the screen, but her focus is scattered.

You sit beside her—shoulders straight, arms folded—wearing a Wings staff tee and warm-up joggers that feel more like salt in the wound than uniform. You haven’t worn anything else since the league issued the notice two days ago.

Temporarily removed from bench duties pending internal review.

Which was protocol, they said. Nothing personal. Nothing disciplinary.

And yet.

It felt like exile.

The game is minutes from tip-off.

The broadcast cuts to the court.

Blue lights dance across the hardwood. The crowd is on their feet, music thumping through the arena. The camera pans the bench, scanning down the Wings sideline.

You’re not in the frame.

Neither is she.

“The Dallas Wings are without two major pieces tonight. Rookie guard Paige Bueckers is officially in concussion protocol following last game’s collision with Courtney Vandersloot—”

“And for the first time this season, development assistant Y/N L/N won’t be on the bench either. The league is still reviewing the aftermath of that play, and how the coaching staff—well, how it was all handled.”

“There’s been a lot of conversation about that. Video of their sideline confrontation went viral. And I think what you’re seeing now is the fallout of a team trying to walk the line between accountability… and silence.”

“We’ve talked a lot about how close Y/N and Paige are. What that chemistry looks like on-court. What we’re about to see tonight is what happens when that link is missing.”

Paige reaches for the remote and turns the volume down.

“I can’t listen to them talk about it like that,” she says softly.

You glance at her. “Like what?”

“Like you’re a problem.”

You shift, laying a hand gently on her thigh. “I’m not worried about how they frame it.”

“You should be,” she mutters. “You were the only one who gave a damn when I hit the floor.”

“You gave a damn, too.”

She huffs. “Yeah. I gave a dazed thumbs up. Very heroic.”

You shake your head. “You just wanted to keep playing. You always do.”

Paige looks at you then. Really looks.

“Do you think they’ll fire you?”

You pause, then answer honestly. “I don’t know.”

She’s quiet.

You squeeze her leg gently.

“They might sideline me. They might suspend me. They might decide I crossed a line.” You exhale. “But if I had to do it again? I would. Exactly the same way.”

Her voice is a whisper. “Even if it costs you this?”

You nod. “Especially then.”

The first quarter tips off.

And from the very beginning, you both see that the team is off.

Spacing is clumsy. The pace is slower. The ball sticks longer than usual.

The rhythm’s broken.

Because the one who commands it—and the one who reads it—isn’t there.

“It’s worth mentioning, that even when Paige isn’t scoring, she orchestrates spacing. And Y/N’s feedback on the bench—non-verbal corrections, in-time tweaks—you can’t replicate that mid-season.”

“They’re not just player and coach. They’re… a feedback loop.”

“And the loop’s cut tonight.”

Midway through the second quarter, Paige shifts uncomfortably, eyes fixed on a missed defensive rotation.

“She would’ve had that,” she murmurs.

You nod. “I would’ve told her to switch early.”

She leans further into you.

“You’re really not okay, are you?”

You glance at her. “No.”

She hums. “Me neither.”

She adjusts the ice pack on her neck, then pulls your arm around her shoulder, tucking into your side like a puzzle piece. The screen glows quietly in the dark.

On the court, her teammates grind out the half. But here—on this couch—you both sit quiet. Bruised. Benched. Watching the game you love play out without you.

It’s a text.

From an unknown number.

“We heard you. The review is almost done. Hang tight.”

You show the screen to Paige. She doesn’t say anything. She just takes your hand in hers and threads your fingers together like she's anchoring herself to you—because if you're not on the court, not on the bench, then at the very least, you’re here.

And here? You’re still hers.

The meeting is private, unscheduled, and dead silent when Paige Bueckers walks into the room.

Her steps are soft, but her expression is anything but. She’s in a Wings hoodie and black sweats, hair pulled back in a bun. No press-ready smiles. Just the cold, steady fire of a player who’s tired of watching everything go down from the sidelines.

Across the table, General Manager Curt Miller. Two assistant GMs. And Coach Chris Koclanes.

None of them expected her.

“Paige,” Curt says, standing politely. “You shouldn’t be up. Protocol says—”

“I’m not here for a physical,” Paige interrupts, dropping into the empty chair like she owns the room. “I’m here to talk about Y/N.”

Coach Koclanes shifts uncomfortably beside the GM. “This isn’t—”

Paige turns her head sharply. “Don’t interrupt me.”

The room stills.

No one speaks.

Paige’s voice stays calm—but there’s weight behind every syllable.

“I’ve played this game since I was six. I’ve taken elbows to the face. I’ve blown out my knee. I’ve spent more hours with athletic trainers than my own family.”

She locks eyes with Curt Miller.

“But the only person who has ever watched over me like it mattered—on and off the court—is Y/N L/N.”

Curt exhales. “We understand your connection to her, and the review—”

“No, you don’t,” Paige says, louder now. “Because if you did, she’d be on the bench tonight. Not sitting in our apartment pacing the floor with a game plan that none of you even read.”

“She escalated a sideline situation,” Koclanes cuts in. “That could’ve—”

“She defended me,” Paige snaps. “Because you didn’t.”

That shuts him up.

Paige leans forward.

“I was clutching my head after a violent collision, and you didn’t even glance my way. You were too busy managing your substitution flow to check if your rookie could stand up straight.”

“You waved off the trainer,” Koclanes mutters.

“I was concussed,” she hisses. “I shouldn’t have had to make that call.”

Curt interjects, gentler now. “We hear your frustration, Paige. And we want to be sure you’re feeling safe within the team structure.”

Paige turns to her again. “Let me make it clear, then. If Y/N loses her job over protecting mine, I walk.”

The silence is immediate.

No one blinks. No one breathes.

Lisa finally clears her throat. “You’re serious.”

Paige nods. “Dead serious.”

Koclanes scoffs under his breath.

“She doesn’t get to dictate personnel decisions,” he says.

“She knows this roster better than you do,” Paige fires back. “She watches our feet, not just our stats. She tells us what’s off before the film catches it. You’re reckless with our bodies, Chris. You push starters past warning signs. You gamble with rotations and call it ‘intensity.’ But Y/N? She works to preserve us.”

Curt looks between them.

“Paige… you’re one of our franchise pieces. This team has invested heavily—”

“Then listen to me. Because I’m telling you now. If Y/N’s not here? Neither am I.”

The room is tense.

And Paige? She’s not backing down.

“She’s not your assistant,” she finishes. “She’s our protection. Our voice when we’re too scared or too trained to speak.”

She stands slowly. Her head is still aching from the concussion. Her balance isn’t perfect. But her voice never wavers.

“You want to talk about trust? I don’t trust a single system that punishes someone for giving a damn.”

Your badge scans in clean again.

You're back.

Officially reinstated. No fine. No reprimand. No apology from the league — but the silence is as good as an admission.

The rest of the staff pretends like nothing happened. You get polite nods. Familiar claps on the shoulder. Even a “glad you’re back” from one of the interns.

But you don’t come back for the pleasantries. You come back to do your job.

Paige isn’t cleared to practice yet, but she’s there — sitting off to the side with her arms crossed and a soft smile in your direction every time she catches your eye. She looks better. Brighter. But you still check her hands every time she stretches. Still watch her pupils when she blinks too long.

Because now more than ever, you’re watching what no one else does.

You’re mid-cone setup near the baseline, clipboard under your arm, when you hear it.

“Coach L/N.”

You turn, slow and sharp.

It’s Koclanes.

Standing just off the court. Neutral expression. Neutral tone.

But you know better.

“Got a second?”

You glance at your watch. “We’re two minutes from footwork warmups.”

He steps closer. “It won’t take long.”

You exhale through your nose and follow — just far enough off the court to give the illusion of privacy. But Paige is still watching. So are the assistants. The players may not be listening, but the energy around you shifts.

You keep your stance open, but your face is a locked door.

Koclanes speaks first.

“I just wanted to say I respect your fire,” he says. “What you did? It came from a place of care. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now.”

You don’t move.

“You’re a passionate voice for the team. For Paige. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. We both lost our cool.”

He waits. Watching you. Hoping for a nod. A hand-shake. A let’s-move-on.

But you give him nothing.

“Are you finished?”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

You tilt your head. “Was that supposed to be an apology?”

“I said I respect what you did.”

“No,” you say. “You said you see it now. Which is cute. But it doesn’t erase what you didn’t see when she was laid out on the floor.”

He stiffens.

You step closer — not aggressive. Just tired of holding it in.

“You want to patch this up? You want to shake hands and pretend we’re good?” You lean in slightly. “You should’ve done that then. You should’ve cared then. When your franchise rookie was blinking through a possible concussion and you didn’t move.”

Koclanes crosses his arms. “You don’t need to drag this out.”

You smile coldly. “I’m not dragging anything. I just don’t pretend.”

He exhales, trying to keep his voice even. “You’re not going to win anything by holding a grudge.”

You shake your head once. “This isn’t a grudge. This is a memory.”

You take a step back.

“And I don’t need to win. I just need to protect my players.”

You turn and walk away.

Paige watches the whole exchange.

Doesn’t hear every word. Doesn’t need to. She sees your shoulders square. Your jaw tighten. The way you walk back toward the court like nothing touched you.

She smiles to herself.

Because she knew you’d come back stronger.

And this time? They all saw it.

It was the second week of February and the third game in five days.

Hopkins was undefeated. Paige was averaging 26 points per game. She was already on the national radar, already getting SportsCenter highlights and whispered UConn promises. But that week? She looked… slow.

Not bad. Just off.

You noticed it before anyone else did. The slight hitch in her landing after every Euro step. The way she winced when she rotated off her left foot. She hadn’t said a word. Of course she hadn’t. Not Paige.

But you’d been training with her long enough by then to know her body better than she did.

So when Coach called another full-speed scrimmage the day after a back-to-back, you spoke up.

At first, it was just a glance.

You caught her limping slightly off a cut and you looked at him. Expecting him to notice.

He didn’t.

“Keep pushing!” he barked from across the gym. “You want to play D1, you play tired. No excuses.”

Paige’s jaw clenched.

You took a step forward.

Coach blew the whistle again. “Run it back! I want more pace!”

“Coach,” you said, calmly. “She’s limping.”

He waved you off. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not.”

Now he turned. “Y/N, this isn’t your lane.”

“She hasn’t planted off her left clean in ten minutes.”

“She’s tougher than that.”

You stepped between them.

“No one’s questioning her toughness. But if you keep pushing her on that leg, she’s not going to finish the season.”

Coach’s expression shifted — more annoyed than concerned.

“She said she’s good. That’s all I need.”

You turned back to Paige.

She wouldn’t meet your eyes. You watched her swallow, force her shoulders up. That brave little smile she wore like armor when she didn’t want to be seen through.

So you said it for her.

“She doesn’t have to say it. I’m saying it. Pull her.”

The gym went quiet.

Later, she found you outside the locker room, hoodie over her head, limping a little more now that the drills were done.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she muttered.

You leaned against the wall. “You always say that.”

“I would’ve been fine.”

You tilted your head. “No, you would've played through it. That’s not the same.”

She didn’t answer. Just scuffed her shoe against the hallway tile.

“You were protecting me,” she finally said.

You shrugged. “Always will.”

Paige looked up at you then. Really looked.

And her voice came out quiet, almost too vulnerable for her.

“Even if I don’t ask you to?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Especially then.”

[suigenerisisadiva]

If the Batfam had a Reality Show: Feat. Batsis!Reader <3

Pairing: Batfam/Batboys x Batsis!reader

Content: Swearing, use of Y/N, A/N: Isn't necessarily a part 2 to my previous posts...I just felt like writing this lmao, if my other posts get a lot of likes I'll post part 2's, but here are the links to my previous ones: - Who in the house would you not let your child date? - Crazy Shit Y/N Wayne has done: A list Also guys: I LOVE BANANA MILK

🖤 THE WAYNE FAMILY: TRAUMA, TRUST FUNDS & TIARAS 🖤 A luxury fuelled, espresso-stained reality series brought you by W! Entertainment (Do ya'll get it?)

[OPENING SCENE: Theme Song Over Slow-Mo Glam Shots]

Flashing paparazzi. Designer heels on marble floors. One (1) feral sibling wrestling someone off-camera. Cut to black SUVS, Steph falls into pool. Tim is asleep in the confessional booth. The screen reads:

They have money. They have issues. And now they have a camera crew.

NARRATOR (deep, petty voice):

“Gotham’s richest family is stepping into the spotlight — and out of therapy.” “With enough money to buy a continent and enough drama to fill Arkham, the Waynes are ready to serve trauma, trust funds… and tiaras.” “This… is their world.” [cue sparkly logo sequence: “THE WAYNE FAMILY: TRAUMA, TRUST FUNDS & TIARAS”]

SCENE - WAYNE MANOR KITCHEN (Camera pans to obnoxiously expensive kitchen, wherein Stephanie is trying to open a sauce bottle, Tim is aggressively typin away at his laptop, and Jason walks in.) Jason: The hell are you doing Steph? Steph: *Tryna pry open a sauce jar* Watch me cook Jason Jason: *Unimpressed* Tim: Why is anybody speaking it's like 2PM [Y/N]: *With the rage of a small chihuahua* WHO THE HELL DRANK MY BANANA MILK, IT WAS LABELLED WITH MY NAME AND A SKULL. Damian: *Pouring milk into Titus' bowl*

CONFESSIONAL CAM: [Y/N] (Your sat on a luxury chair, somewhere in the Manor Library, hoodie on, legs criss crossed, drinking Banana milk)

Producers: Y/N, how is it like living with your family?

You: Like living in a luxury zoo to be honest, people think we're elegant rich., but we're tacky rich, we have a private jet and a yacht, and Dad has like 7 McLarens but we have zero communication skills, I actually watched Tim cry because he thought Titus' ground beef kibble were coffee grounds.

CONFESSIONAL CAM: TIM

Tim: Okay, lowkey it wasn't even that bad-

CONFESSIONAL CAM: DICK (Dick is shirtless, exercising in the gym room)

Producers: So Richard, what's on the family agenda this weekend? Dick: Hopefully a family dinner I can plan and manage, because literally if I don't schedule this or brunch every week, we all forget we're related. And Stephanie doesn't want BatCow to be present because BatCow confuses Steph's hair for the premium hay Damian feeds her. You know sometimes I can't even with these people-

ENDING SCENE – DINNER (CHAOS)

(Dick is attempting to make a toast. Jason is drinking out of a wine glass full of Mountain Dew. Tim is asleep with his head on the table. Steph brought chips. Cass is gone. Damian is holding a sword. Y/N texting someone under the table.)

Dick: To family. (no one responds) Dick (again): To family?

You: Sorry I was distracted. My ex just got arrested and it’s literally not my fault this time.

NARRATOR:

“Next time on Trauma, Trust Funds & Tiaras...” – Bruce finds out the cameras caught him crying during Mamma Mia 2 – Jason crashes a golf cart whilst Y/N is gifted a new Mercedes-Maybach GLS 600 – Y/N and Steph start a petty war over iced coffee right before an important gala – Damian threatens legal action – Tim gets locked on the roof again

They're rich. They're reckless. And they're related. Gotham City's hottest messes aren't in jail.... they're in high society!

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT EPISODE OF THE WAYNES; TRAUMA, TRUST FUNDS & TIARAS!

MORE TO COME ON WN! ENTERTAINMENT

LMFAO I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THIS

Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources !-

Blue lines - @cursed-carmine

Bat dividers - @sister-lucifer

Batfam Header - Pinterest (Robin #6)

[beanarie]

@bucktommywhumpweek day 5: numb, depression. this follows from previous parts. check on #my writing to catch up.

~

The surgeon looks closer to Buck's age than Tommy's. When he raises his hand, she steps right up to him and takes a seat so they're on the same level. Buck appreciates that. "Thomas was in the early stages of hypovolemic shock, but we found the bleed and repaired it in time to avoid a crisis. We'll be keeping a close eye. As of now, there's no sign of organ failure, and we don't expect this to change his prognosis."

"Which was?" Eddie asks, shattering the invisible barrier between them and her.

"Cautiously optimistic."

He asks another couple of questions that Buck does not absorb at all, but Eddie looks open and approving, indicating he likes what she said.

Buck swallows. "Can I see him?"

"It should be some time before he's out of recovery and settled back in ICU. I'll have one of the nurses find you here?"

Buck nods, not trusting his voice. His eyes follow her progress out of the room and he gets stuck on the display of pamphlets, his vision blurring, his ribs lined with thorns. He can't control his limbs. He's shaking all over.

"He's gonna be okay," Eddie says. He slides one arm across Buck's back and begins to pull him in.

Buck lifts his shoulders to his ears and pushes out with his elbows. "D-Don't touch me."

~

Eddie hasn't left. It doesn't make any sense, but Buck refuses to ask him again. Every once in a while, Eddie says something that hits his ear and dissipates like smoke, as though Buck's physiology has decided Eddie's got nothing to say worth listening to.

Buck's phone keeps ringing and ringing, at least every five minutes, until he finally thinks to power it down.

Shortly after Eddie's phone rings, he puts it in Buck's hand.

"Hi," Maddie says, with a relieved exhale. "I'm so sorry I can't be there, Bobby's still a little warm."

Buck chokes on a sob.

"Buck? Are you okay? Talk to me."

"Could you please call him something else? Anything else?"

"You know Athena started that. It helped her start to heal."

"Yeah," he says in a small voice.

"And now it's just his name. That's who he is to all of us."

"R-Right."

She hums thoughtfully. "You know, you can give him a nickname all your own. We're not Mom and Dad. He doesn't have to go by just one thing."

"Great idea. I'll use his middle name." Buck snaps his fingers. "Oh. Wait."

"Buck. You were there for the middle name wars. You saw how much trouble we had deciding. This was the best compromise."

"Five minutes after they put him in the ground, you r-replaced him c-completely."

"Please stop. Why are you being like this?"

"You weren't even close to Bobby. N-Not like I was. But I didn't get a say."

"We're talking about my son."

"Bobby was basically my dad!" Buck says, not realizing how loud he's being until the elderly couple nearby move to the other side of the room. "The one who actually wanted the job, who wanted me. I lost him and n-no one gives a shit."

Eddie is saying something again.

"Hey, Buck. I know you're having a rough time, but what the hell. Why is my wife crying? She's been fielding calls about you this whole time, making sure you're okay even though she can't be there, and this is how you thank her, by making her feel guilty about our baby's name? You're doing this now?"

Buck wrinkles his nose and gazes up at the buzzing lighting fixture. "You know what, Interim Captain Han. Don't talk to me for another... two- two months or so. It might m-mess up your promotion if you punch one of your firefighters while- while they're injured."

He ends the call and gives the phone back to Eddie. "Give that to me again a-and I'll smash it."

~

Hen stands before him with an old-fashioned thermos in red and black plaid. "It's not a cupcake. But yours are better than the bakery I usually get them from anyway."

"What is it," Buck asks, more because he feels like he should rather than out of curiosity.

"Cheddar-tomato soup. Karen perfected it during Covid. Little Miss Nia never gave us a hard time when this was on the menu. She used to try to steal Denny's bowl, actually."

"Okay." She holds it out, but he shakes his head. He had a granola bar today. Josh slipped it in his hand at some point. Maybe Eddie did, he can't remember.

She sits next to him. "Any news on Tommy?"

"W-What are you asking for," Buck says. "You don't like Tommy."

"Hey, Tommy and I were teammates for years and I only fantasized about shoving him into an open flame, like, twice. I like him fine." She crosses her legs at the knees, unbothered. "I simply got to see him at his worst and I wasn't sure he'd be good for you."

"Bobby said he was. In e-exactly those words."

"Hm," she says. "You've been thinking about Bobby a lot."

"I can't stop, and- and no one cares," he says, feeling stupid and tiny and young, but also weirdly okay about that. There's something cleansing about giving up the filter.

"Of course we care, Buck. You just can't expect us to care more than we do about our own shit. It's not realistic. People don't work like that."

"Sure," Buck says, nodding. "Here I go again, making it all about me."

"It's okay for things to be about you sometimes. Necessary, even." She bumps her shoulder against his. "I'm sorry we let you fall through the cracks. Honestly. It was not out of malice or lack of care. Just-"

"Me not being a priority."

"And bad luck slash bad timing. Maddie's baby, Chim surviving in Bobby's 'place', Eddie's... Eddie-ness. Who ever knows what that dickhead's problem is."

"Hey," Eddie says, half-heartedly.

Buck lays his head back and throws an arm across his eyes.

Hen squeezes his wrist. "We love you. Stop hurting yourself and let us help, okay? I'm genuinely worried. You don't look good."

The thorns along his ribs twist, bringing tears to his eyes. "I don't wanna stay on Eddie's couch."

"No one will make you sleep on a couch. You can take Denny's room if you want. He spends half his nights on Mara's floor anyway."

Buck meets her gaze. "R-Really?"

"You'd do it for me, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, but- but you wouldn't need me to. You've got-"

She shrugs. "Why does that matter? You would. You did, in the beginning of lockdown."

~

"Oh, God," Maddie says, her face dipping into a sad, sympathetic frown as she rushes towards him.

Buck gives a start and hands the mostly empty cup of soup back to Hen. "Oh, I..."

"Shh." She occupies the seat Hen just vacated and takes his hands in her own. "Get over here." She pulls him in and he lets her, confused and ashamed under a thin layer of shock. "Has it really been hurting you all this time, every time we say his name?"

"No," he mumbles, letting his too long arms settle around her. "Not- Not every t-time."

"We didn't do it to replace Bobby," she says, low and urgent. "He died to keep our family going. He would've done that for any of you, but he did that for us. We honor him so we'll always remember and be grateful."

"I know. I- I know, Maddie."

She pulls away and kisses his forehead. "You feel warm, too," she says, with a watery sound of distress.

"Sleep deprivation sometimes does that," Hen says, motioning behind Buck. "Gimme your keys. We're gonna go pack you a bag. Then Eddie will bring you over mine after you see Tommy, okay? Eat some more soup or I'll get you."

Buck hands over his keys and waves them off.

Maddie turns his face to look at her. "Listen. If you're up at three am with bad dreams multiple nights in a row, you call me."

"I- I won't do that," he admits, resting his head on her shoulder. "I won't wake you up on purpose."

"Okay, we'll figure something else out, then." She curls her arm so she can stroke his hair. "Building your giant muscles until you sometimes, maybe pass out for a couple hours isn't cutting it."

Buck doesn't say anything. His eyes are stinging once more. He's missed her so much.

"You remember my glow worm doll?" she says and he makes a surprised noise.

"It lit up when you hugged it," Buck says softly. "You never let me hold it for more than f-five minutes."

"Because it was mine," she says, for the thousandth time. "He looked like that, a little bit, don't you think? When he was born?"

"Yeah, when he was swaddled up tight so it looked like he didn't have legs? He really did."

"We could call him Bug, you and me."

"Jee would want in on that action," Chim says.

[hearts4hughes]

DUE DILIGENCE ~ CHAPTER TWO

wallstreet!rafe x assistant!reader | no warnings

the invitation was printed on thick cardstock, embossed in gold, as if the weight of it alone should impress you. “cameron capital annual black-tie gala,” it read. located at some overpriced rooftop venue in soho. the dress code was formal, of course, with mandatory attendance for executive staff and key support. and you, apparently, are now considered key support. rafe didn’t ask you to go. he just forwarded the invite with a one word email, required.

typical.

you wear a black satin slip dress that barely passes the office appropriate threshold, but it’s evening, and you’re off the clock, and frankly, you want to see if it’ll make him twitch. your hair is up, your heels are high, your earrings catch the light when you flip your hair.

when you step outside, the car is already waiting. engine purring low, headlights casting long shadows across the sidewalk. it’s routine by now—rafe sending cars for you like it’s nothing. like your time is his to orchestrate. you never asked, and he never asked either. he just started doing it. no explanation, no conversation, just control, cloaked in convenience. you slip into the backseat and wonder, not for the first time, if his other assistants got the same treatment or if this is something he saves just for you.

you arrive late enough to avoid the worst of the small talk. the room is full of venture capital vultures and soulless financiers, their laughs too loud and teeth too white. there’s jazz in the background, champagne flutes in every hand, and the unmistakable scent of money—expensive perfume, leather, old scotch, and ambition turned sour.

he sees you before you see him. awareness pricks along your neck like static. his eyes follow your every stride across the ballroom. he drags his gaze up and down your figure, and can’t help but scoff at your outfit choice. not because he hated it—it was the complete opposite. and if he loved it, that meant every wallstreet douche in here did as well.

when you finally look, he’s across the room, in a black tuxedo that fits like it was stitched directly onto his body. no bow tie, collar open, one hand in his pocket, the other nursing a glass of something brown and neat. he looks like sin dressed to the nines. for a second—just a second—your breath gets caught in your throat. his eyes drag over you with the kind of precision that makes your spine straighten. and then, as if none of it happened, he looks away.

you talk to a junior partner for a while. he’s nice enough. says your name like he’s trying it on for size. you don’t notice how close he stands until rafe appears beside you, sudden and soundless like he was waiting to step in.

“excuse me,” he says to the junior, not bothering to smile. “i need her for something.”

the man’s face tightens. “sure. of course, mr. cameron.” not everyone had the pleasure of personally knowing rafe cameron, but everyone had the pleasure of fearing him. no one dared to contradict his commands. they simply do what they are told and steer clear of his wrath.

rafe doesn’t look at you as you follow him across the marble floor, but you see the tick in his jaw. the way his fingers flex once at his side, like he wants to do something reckless.

“you enjoying yourself?” he asks, finally, when you’re near the far end of the terrace, where no one else lingers.

you lean against the railing. “define enjoying.”

“you seemed pretty engaged.” he inhales a sharp breath, looking out into the city sky. he never cared much for these galas. there is always too many fake smiles and polite laughs; too many people all gathered together like they’re lifelong friends. the terrace was the only place he could hear his own thoughts.

“i was being polite.”

his gaze sharpens. “he was two seconds from asking for your number.” that bastard was lucky he didn’t cross that line. he would’ve went home with his two weeks notice and a black eye.

you smirk, not looking at him. the champagne glass twitches slightly in your grip, but your voice stays cool. practiced. cruel. “you’re jealous.” you say, lips curling into a faint smirk. there’s a pause—just long enough to taste. you don’t have to look to know he’s watching you. you can feel it, that shift in the air, the way heat coils behind your neck. his silence stretches like a taut string, like he’s choosing between biting his tongue or biting something else entirely. still, you keep your eyes forward, your smile sharp.

“i’m not jealous,” he says, throwing back the remnants of liquor in his glass. his fingers drag across the textured cup, memorizing the ridges instead of memorizing your beauty marks. “you see a handsome businessman, and i see a hawk circling its prey.”

you turn to him then, slowly. “well that’s just thrilling.” your eyes widen and lips press into a thin line.

he shrugs, lips pressing together as well. he puts his glass down and stands up straight. goosebumps rise on your neck and you’re not sure if it’s from the breeze or his gaze. the wind carries the sound of music from the gala. rafe closes his eyes and hums. “i like this song,” he murmurs, taking your hand in his. “let’s dance.”

his hand is warm against your waist. his palm settles along your spine like a question he hasn’t asked yet. you dance like two people who shouldn’t be dancing. not here, not now, not with this much restraint held between you like a noose. your eyes meet, and suddenly the room is too loud, too bright, too filled with the ghosts of decisions neither of you has made yet.

at one point, his head dips and rests against your shoulder. not deliberately, not dramatically—just a quiet collapse, like gravity had been begging him to give in all night and he finally stopped resisting. he exhales, slow and unguarded, and you feel warm breath fanning down your collarbone, the soft press of his temple against the curve of your body. like the weight of the world is stitched into the lining of his suit jacket and this is the first time he’s allowed himself to set it down.

you don’t move, don’t speak, you just let him be there, tethered to you in this impossibly fragile moment that neither of you will acknowledge come morning. but still, he stays. and that says something, even if neither of you are brave enough to say it out loud.

you shiver, but not from the cold. the night air barely touches you. it’s the proximity. the heat of him at your back, the way his breath ghosts the shell of your ear when he leans in to murmur something but doesn’t. it’s the tension that lives in his fingertips, the way his thumb sweeps once against your hip before he stills it like it never happened.

“cold?” he asks, pulling away from you to stare into your eyes.

“not really.”

but he shrugs off his jacket anyway. drapes it over your shoulders. it smells like him. and you hate how you keep inhaling just to catch his scent in the air. his hand lingers at the curve of your shoulder for half a second longer than necessary. your breath hitches. and just like that, the balance shifts again.

you look at him. he looks back. tension lingers in the air like humidity. he doesn’t stare at your lips or lean forward, he just takes in your appearance. it’s not long before he pulls away first—he always does.

later, you leave before him. you tell yourself it’s smart, measured, a way to keep the upper hand of not crossing that line.

he doesn’t blink as you disappear into the car he sent. he only wonders how long he can keep pretending the wolves aren’t already at the door.

taglist ~ @sweetstrawberrianne @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @wishfairies @kieeslove @jacklesluvr @futuremrscameron @rafesdaintyfawn @winterbarnesblog @starkeyszn @drphilssoulmate @xobimbobunnyxo @foolishseven @starsluvrr @luvonstyles @k4yr14 @hawkeez @sultryg0dess @restinpaece @leather-n-velvet @rafestoothbrush @katecokeed @her30910 @rafeeekam @rafesdearest @donaldsonsgirl @l0vest1les @bungurus @bambi-bvnny @strawberrymilk99

[vibewithma]

please more Sammie content. Please, girl! I ain't read anything that interesting in a while! I loveeeee it.

Say it again

Sinners Modern AU!

Preacher boy/Sammie x Black Church Girl!Reader

A/N: awwwwww thank you so much🥺🤍 y’all gonna make me cry ‘cause I thought about deleting my whole page😕. Here y’all go🫦🤍. Also the pics are running LOW😐💔

The smell alone could baptise a sinner.

The Church Fellowship Hall smelt like grease, sugar, butter and bragging rights wafted through the air like incense. Folks laughed and filled their plates like it was their last meal before glory. And you? You were shoulder deep in the custom apron tight, curls bouncing, spooning out mac and cheese like it was your ministry.

Doris stood at the head of the table, shaking hands and hugging necks, talking about,

“Oh that ain’t nothin’. Just a lil somethin’ I threw together while talkin’ to the Lord.”

Across the room, Sister Lorraine and her crew were watching y’all like hawks in blue lace. Her daughters had on matching blouses, stiff with starch and silent judgment. Her grandson just looked hungry and confused.

Your mama, cool as ever, manned the fried chicken, pork chops and catfish like she was born in a skillet. Dawn was three scoops deep into her dressin’ and potato salad, whispering sideways.

“He lookin’ again,” she muttered under her breath.

“Stack?” you asked, handing over a plate with an extra scoop of mac.

“Mmmhmm. He tryna act like he not but he is. I can feel it.”

You hummed.

“Maybe he’s just watchin’ your elbow. You heavy handed with the dressing.”

Dawn rolled her eyes but smiled like she was wearin’ a crown invisible to everyone but her. Then came the noise loud, clumsy, too many jokes at once.

Terrence. Josh. Paul.

They walked up like a pack of poorly trained puppies.

Terrence was the first one to speak. “Girl, y’all got pork and chicken? Is that even legal?”

Josh talking right after his friend, “you cooked this? No way you that fine and that talented.”

Paul just nodded while taking his plate full of food.

You kept it cute, kept it cordial. Smiled and said,

“Y’all enjoy. The Lord bless your appetite and humble your tongue.”

Then he came.

Sammie.

Walking in like temptation. Chain glintin’. Holding his plate like he didn’t even want food just you.

You didn’t say nothin’ at first. Just stared at him while scooping Mac and cheese, your curls bouncing a little as you worked.

He smirked, leaned a little on the table, voice low.

“You over here servin’ up deliverance?”

“Only to the worthy.” You side eyed him. “You tryna get fed or flirt?”

He chuckled.

“Why not both?”

You handed him a plate, firm in the grip, eyes locked.

“You still ain’t earn that kiss. Gas money doesn’t count forever.”

“Then maybe I need to work a little harder.” He tilted his head. “How ‘bout I help you pass out plates?”

“You gon’ wash your hands first?”

“I keep hand sanitizer in the glovebox, baby. I’m saved and sanitary.”

You laughed despite yourself and Sammie just grinned, soaking in the sound like it was his favorite hymn.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, low and close, “and I’ma forget we in church.”

“And if you keep talkin’ like that,” you shot back, “I’ma let Pops hit you with a paper plate.”

Sammie stepped back with a laugh, hand over his chest like you wounded him.

“Now that’s just disrespectful.”

Behind him, Smoke and Stack were elbowing each other, watching the whole exchange like it was their favorite show. Dawn smirked but stayed quiet.

Sammie gave you one more look like he wanted to say more, do more, but he had enough restraint to keep it Sunday clean.

For now.

“I’ma eat this plate. But save me some red velvet. I want mine from your hands.”

“You gon’ say grace first?”

“I already did, baby. Soon as I saw you.”

Soon as everybody finished the line for desserts starts forming like it was heaven’s gates. The folding table shook slightly under the weight of sugar and tension. Your red velvet cake sat center stage, iced to perfection deep red crumb, thick cream cheese frosting laid like silk. Right beside it, Sister Lorraine’s banana pudding gleamed in its glass dish like it had a spotlight and its own choir.

Doris stood behind the dessert table like a general.

“Y’all come get this red velvet before it’s gone. My granddaughter made it from scratch with love and the fear of God.” Gloria was nudging folks in the line with that mom voice, “that banana pudding lookin’ a little store bought to me.” Pops was perched nearby in his folding chair like a retired food critic. “Ain’t no boxed cake beatin’ my baby girl’s velvet. I done raised her on taste.” Your daddy was helping a kid balance a plate but still found time to say, “that pudding? It’s soup. Y’all want a real dessert, come get some cake.”

And Dawn? Dawn was passing out forkfuls like samples in Costco.

“One bite. That’s all it takes. Go ahead, see Jesus.”

You tried to stay cool, smiling polite, handing out slices like you didn’t notice Sister Lorraine scowling from her side, whispering with her daughters like y’all just launched a holy war.

The cake disappeared fast gone slice by slice, folks returning to the line talkin’ ‘bout “Let me just get one more for my cousin who didn’t come today.” One lady clutched her plate like it was gold, eyes rollin’ as she chewed.

“Mmmm. This got that back in the day taste. Somebody’s grandma touched this batter.”

You smirked, quietly sliding a thick slice under the table and covering it with a napkin. Just in time and you knew Sammie would want his serving untouched by fork or rumor.

Just as you handed off your last slice, your phone buzzed.

Sammie Meet me in the car, Y/N. I saved you a seat.

Your pulse jumped, not from nerves but from that specific brand of giddiness he brought around. You glanced around, made sure Doris was distracted swatting Lorraine’s grandson away from the punch bowl, then wiped your hands, grabbed that hidden slice and slipped out the back exit like a thief in the night.

The sun was dropping low, casting golden streaks through the windows as you slid into the passenger seat. His car smelled like cocoa butter, fresh leather and cologne. Sammie sat with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the headboard of the passenger seat.

He looked over with that crooked smile.

“Was startin’ to think you forgot me.”

“You? How could I when you’re always breathing down my neck,“ you lifted the foil wrapped slice like a prize “and I also got your blessing right here.”

Sammie chuckled and took the plate gently, setting it on the dash.

“What I do to deserve this kind of favor?”

You leaned back, watching him unpeel the foil.

“You kept your hands to yourself at the fellowship.”

He forked a piece into his mouth, closed his eyes, groaned low like it hit his soul.

A bite. A deep groan followed low and guttural.

“Mmmph… Lawd.”

You swatted his arm, laughing.

“Stop makin’ them nasty noises, Sammie. You gon’ get this whole parking lot pregnant.”

He smirked and leaned over, real close now, voice dipping into that dangerous space where reverence and ruin live together.

“If you think that’s nasty, Baby… wait ’til I’m between your legs, mouth full of you instead of cake.”

He smirked, eyes sparkling with mischief, while you hide behind your hands.

He glanced at you, slow and sweet. Than his smirk curved at the corner like a promise he wasn’t planning to break.

“Was lookin’ real popular back there, Church Girl.”

You shrugged, coy.

“People wanted a taste of God’s glory, I guess.”

“Mmm.” He tilted his head. “Terrence? Paul? Josh? They all want a slice of you, not that Mac and Cheese.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed.

“Don’t start, Sammie.”

But he didn’t drop it. He leaned back a little, tongue sliding across his bottom lip before his fork met the cake again.

“I seen the way Josh leaned in when he asked if you cooked all this. Like he could ever stand a chance.”

He pulled back, all proud of himself, licking frosting from his thumb. You shook your head, biting back your smile, heart tap dancing in your chest like it owed him rent.

“You so dramatic.”

“Nah,” he said, eyes still on you, serious creeping back in. “I just like what’s mine. Don’t like sharin’ not even with church boys who can’t hold a tune or their tongues.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing.

“Ain’t nobody yours, Sammie.”

He paused, looked at you, took another forkful slow this time and said around it, “not yet.”

Your stomach flipped and not from hunger.

He caught you watching him eat and raised a brow.

“You had a piece yet?”

You shook your head, shrugging.

“Nope. Gone before I could grab one.“

He stared for a second. Then scooped a bite on the fork, holding it out to you.

“Say ahh for daddy.”

“Boy if you don’t behave.” You smirked while swatting his arm.

“Come here, Y/N.”

You leaned in, elbows on the console, lips parting as he fed you slow. The cream cheese icing melted sweet against your tongue and he watched you like you were the miracle.

“Mm.” You blinked. “I did that.”

“Yes, you did, Baby.”

He ran a finger along the rim of the foil, licking it like you weren’t seconds away from climbing in his lap.

“See? I’m looking out for you.”

You settled back, resting your head against the seat, but your eyes never left his mouth.

You giggled, a heat creepin’ up your cheeks.

“If you keep spoiling me like this, I’m gonna expect dessert every time I see you.”

He leaned back, cocky but soft.

“Baby, with me, dessert’s always on the menu.”

The air between you thickened, charged with something sacred and electric all at once. You caught his eye, heart skipping. He leaned closer this time, hand grazing your thigh, thumb brushing over your dress. Not pushin’, not pullin’, just a reminder that he sees you.

“You gon’ let me earn it, Church Girl?”

You looked him square, lips parted like a prayer.

“You already are.”

And for a minute, everything stilled. Just you, him, the sunset and that half eaten slice of redemption.

He’s lookin’ out the windshield like the sunset is talkin’ directly to him, but every few seconds, he peeks at you. That little sideways glance like he ain’t sure whether to flirt or pray.

“You gon’ keep lookin at me like that, or you gon’ say what’s on your mind?” you ask, voice teasing but soft.

He hums low in his throat.

“I’m thinkin’ how you lookin’ too good for a girl who been servin’ mac and cheese all day.”

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow.

“And you look like sin in a suit and a fitted slacks.”

He grins, full and dangerous.

“Good. I’m tryna tempt you.”

You pause. Let your eyes linger. Let the moment thicken.

And then you smirk, sitting up a little, elbow resting on the console.

“I think you earned the gas money kiss now.”

He stills. Just a breath. Then leans in slow, hand lifting to cradle your jaw like he’s holding something sacred.

“Say it again.”

You blink up at him.

“You heard me.”

“Nah,” he says, thumb brushing your cheek, “I need consent, baby. Out loud.”

You smile. Whisper soft but sure.

“Kiss me, Sammie.”

And he does.

Slow.

Like Sunday mornings and old hymns.

Like every lyric he ain’t wrote yet.

His lips are warm and sure, tasting like red velvet and secrets. One hand at your jaw, the other sliding over your thigh, not greedy just claiming. Your fingers curl in the nape of his neck and for a second, it’s quiet. No choir. No elders. No cousins or competition. Just breath and mouth and the heat of something new blooming fast in the late afternoon.

BANG BANG BANG

You both JUMP as the backseat door whips open and Smoke slides in like he ain’t just caught a scene. “Y’all done? I’m tryna talk to you about the club.” Stack climbs in behind him, grinning like a devil in Jordans.

“I KNEW IT. Sammie been outside too long to just be eatin’ cake. I said he was tongue deep in somethin’, but Smoke said he was bein’ holy.”

Sammie groans, pulling back, arm still around you.

“Man, shut up. Y’all the reason the Lord gave us patience.”

You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, cheeks on fire.

“Y’all could’ve knocked softer—”

“We did, three times,” Stack says, deadpan. “Y’all just was preoccupied with… praise.”

Sammie glares at them both but pulls you in tighter, tucking you closer.

“Next time, I’m lockin’ my doors.”

“Next time?” you repeat, arching a brow and he looks at you with that same smile he wore before the kiss.

“Yeah. Next time I kiss you… I want more than a church lot and company.”

You blink, heart lurching again but before you can answer, Stack asks from the back.

“Y’all still got cake left or what?”

Sammie has his arm against your headboard while talking to Smoke and Stack about some club related things, so you opened the door of Sammie’s car with a soft creak and the last bit of warmth from his car wraps around your legs before the cool afternoon air takes its place. You slide one foot out.

Sammie doesn’t move.

“Why you rushing off?” he asks low, like he’s trying to coax you into staying, voice lazy and velvet slick. “You already gave me the kiss. Might as well give me the company.”

You glance over your shoulder. Stack is finishing the club playlist, using his headphones to check the songs, while Smoke still talks about all the things they need to do before opening up the club. You don’t feel like holding a full blown heart to heart with Sammie while his cousins play background extras.

“You know why,” you say, turning just enough for him to see the side of your face, the tiny smirk you’re hiding. “Ain’t no privacy with y’all stacked in this car like Sunday leftovers.”

Sammie huffs and leans back in the driver’s seat, frustrated but amused. “Still hate to see you leave, Y/N… but love to watch you go.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you step out fully, white dress hugging just right and you know he’s looking. It’s in the way you hear him mutter “Damn” under his breath when you close the door.

You walk to your car, unlock it, and slide in with a sigh. Your phone vibrates right on cue.

Ten seconds later, Dawn climbs in, hair still bounce curled.

She barely shuts the door before she’s talking.

“You saw Stack, right?” she says, twisting in the seat to face you. “Tell me he wasn’t lowkey peepin’. Like, every time I looked up, he was already lookin’. Or am I—”

“Delulu?” you finish, teasing but soft. You start the car.

Dawn squints. “Girl, I hate you. Just say yes or no.”

You shrug, smiling to yourself. “I ain’t tryna gas your head up just yet. He might’ve been lookin’. Might’ve just been stuck.”

You don’t even get to finish the next sentence before your phone starts ringing. It’s Chris.

You put the phone on speaker. “Hey, what’s up?”

Chris’s voice is all sunshine. “Yo, I’m in town for the weekend. Thought we could catch up maybe dinner tonight? Just somewhere easy.”

You glance at Dawn, raise your brows.

“Can Dawn come too?” you ask.

“For sure,” he says without missing a beat. “The more the merrier. I’ll send y’all the address.”

You hang up, shoot him a quick “okay” text and finally pull out of the church parking lot.

“Chris still cute?” Dawn asks casually, scrolling through her phone like she didn’t just plan your outfits in her head.

You roll your eyes. “He doesn’t like girls.”

Dawn smirks. “Mhm. Still fine, though.”

You both laugh, the car full of that Sunday tired peace. You drive home with the cake still riding in the back like treasure, change into something a little more laidback but still cute and by early evening, you’re parking outside the restaurant Chris picked.

He’s already waiting by the entrance, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s been standing there for a minute.

And somewhere in the back of your head, even with the light hum of gospel music and catfish memories still buzzing, you wonder if Sammie’s still sitting in that car… thinking about you in that dress.

Taglist:

@cosmicautomatonshark @fanfictiononly4 @pinkpantheris @andthatsonmaryhadalillamb @sweetalittleselfish-honey @bleufu1 @fruitypatooties-blog @heyyimmisunderstood

[solrburst]

this' my girl — tommy miller x reader

𝑅equest: “tommy miller x fem reader he like plays his guitar for her and like reader starts to get horny af watching him play and he’s like come here and he puts her on his lap and smut ensues 😇😩”

𝒮ummary: Watching Tommy Miller play his guitar on the porch does things to you—and by the time he’s done strumming, you’re in his lap, begging for more than music.

𝒲arnings: riding, light degradation, unprotected sex, praise & aftercare, dirty talk, tommy calls reader his girl!!, reader teases everyone, tommy loves it, age gap

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: fuck yeah i love him

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 4,7k

The sun had barely dipped below the treeline when Tommy picked up his guitar.

The day had been long—but the evening was calm, soft with the kind of golden hush that settled over the town like a warm blanket. You were on his porch now, arms draped over your knees, sipping lukewarm beer from a bottle and watching him tune each string with quiet focus.

He always looked like this when he played—half in the world, half somewhere else entirely. The porch creaked under his boot as he leaned back in the chair, one thigh lazily spread, fingers nimble over the strings. His brows furrowed slightly, not from frustration but from care, like he was coaxing something private from the guitar’s belly. A low, twangy chord shivered into the dusk air.

You didn’t mean to stare. But once you did, it was hard to stop.

The way his forearms flexed when he adjusted the tuning pegs. The line of his throat when he tilted his head, listening. The casual ease of him, shirt clinging to his back where the sweat from the day hadn’t dried yet, collar loose, a sliver of his collarbone showing through the open buttons.

Then he started strumming. Slow, deliberate. Something bluesy, with a drawl and drag to it that matched his voice when he murmured your name on quiet nights. His boot tapped a slow rhythm against the porch. And you sat there, mouth just slightly open, chest too tight, the beer suddenly forgotten in your hand.

It wasn’t just the music.

It was him—Tommy, lost in the song, unaware of how goddamn good he looked doing it. How his fingers moved like they could undo anything—clothes, thoughts, you.

You bit your lip, throat dry.

"Somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?" he asked, eyes still on the strings, voice dipped in that slow Southern ease that always made your stomach twist.

You tried to answer. You really did.

But all you could think about was those fingers on your skin instead of the guitar.

You didn't answer right away. Just took another lazy sip of beer, then let your tongue run across your bottom lip—slow and deliberate, like you knew exactly what you were doing. Because you did.

Tommy glanced up at that, eyes catching yours over the curve of his guitar. His gaze lingered, then dropped to your mouth. His fingers slowed, the song bleeding out into a low, unfinished hum.

"Mm-hmm," you hummed, voice syrupy and wicked. "Just thinkin' you might be better with those fingers off the strings and on somethin' else."

His brows arched, just a twitch, like he couldn’t quite believe how fast you flipped the switch—but not even close to annoyed. That was the thing about Tommy. Older, steadier, yeah, but you’d learned real quick that he liked how your mouth ran. He liked how you said shit that made his jaw clench and his hands curl.

He strummed another lazy chord, grinning now. “That right?”

You nodded, smug. “Might be the only instrument I ain't heard you play properly.”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head, setting the guitar aside with a soft thump. “Jesus, girl.”

You leaned forward, elbows on your thighs, chin in your hand. “What? Can’t keep up?”

That got him. Just like always. Tommy chuckled, deep in his chest, and leaned back in his chair, eyeing you like you were both a problem and his favorite pastime.

Then he patted his thigh. “C’mere.”

You didn’t hesitate. Tossed the beer onto the porch floor with a soft clink, then stepped over, sliding right onto his lap like it was the most natural seat in the world. His hands came to your hips instantly, rough and warm, anchoring you there.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he muttered, voice low against your neck. “Mouth on you don’t ever quit.”

You grinned, settling your weight so the pressure between your legs hit just right. "Wouldn't you miss it if it did?"

Tommy groaned, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. "Shit. I really would."

You were already grinding without meaning to, slow and lazy, lips brushing his ear as you said, “Told you. Those fingers should be on me.”

He didn’t argue.

His hand slid up, fingers pressing under your shirt, calloused tips dragging heat across your skin. His other hand held your thigh firm to him, and he looked up at you with that soft, amused smirk—like he couldn’t believe the things you said, but he loved every damn one of them.

“You always this needy when I play, or just tonight?” he asked.

You met his gaze, bold. “Always. But you looked too fuckin’ good this time. And I was sittin’ there thinkin’—‘if he don’t touch me soon, I’m gonna start humpin’ the goddamn railing.’”

He laughed, loud this time, mouth pressed to your throat. “Christ.”

“Don’t worry, I’d scream your name anyway.”

And that—that—made him groan again, deep and sharp, as his hand slid lower and his mouth caught yours.

His mouth was hot against yours—slow, deep kisses that made your toes curl in your boots. He kissed like he had all the time in the world. No rush, no hurry. Just the slow burn of knowing exactly what he was doing and exactly how it was affecting you.

His hand drifted down again, teasing the curve of your ass through your skirt. He squeezed once, hard enough to make you roll your hips into him, chasing friction, but he didn’t give you more. Not yet.

"Always talkin'," he murmured against your mouth, "but look at you now."

His fingers crept under the hem of your shirt, brushing over bare skin with maddening softness. Calloused fingertips circled just above the waistband of your jeans—never low enough. Just light, slow sweeps that made your breath catch and your thighs clench.

You squirmed in his lap, trying to grind against the growing heat between his legs, but his grip pinned your hips down. Not enough pressure. Not enough anything.

"Tommy—"

"Shh," he said, mouth trailing down your jaw. “You get me all riled up with that mouth, then act like I’m the impatient one.”

You huffed, hands in his hair, tugging a little. "Then do something, old man."

He just laughed, low and rough. “Oh, I will. Just wanna hear what kind of noise that mouth makes when you’re not usin’ it to sass me.”

Then he moved.

His hand slipped down the front of your skirt, slow as hell. Just the pressure of his knuckles first, sliding against you through your panties—barely grazing where you needed him most.

You gasped, jerking your hips, but he caught your wrist and held you still.

“Nuh-uh,” he whispered. “You wanted this, baby. Now you’re gonna sit right here and take it.”

His fingers finally dipped lower, dragging over the soaked fabric between your legs.

“Well damn,” he drawled, cocky grin curling against your throat. “You been sittin’ there this wet the whole time I was playin’?”

You couldn’t even answer. You just whimpered—high and sharp—biting down on your lip.

Tommy groaned, voice gone thick with heat. “Look at that. Little mouth won’t shut up 'til I get my hand on your pussy, huh?”

You nodded, desperate.

But he didn’t move faster.

He rubbed lazy circles, maddening and featherlight, just enough to make you twitch. You rolled your hips again, whining under your breath, trying to get him to push harder—but he just kept up the teasing pace, watching your face with dark eyes and a smug little smile.

"Go on," he murmured, “use that mouth again, baby. Tell me what you want. Beg for it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, panting. “Fuck, Tommy. Please—touch me for real. Don’t fuckin’ tease—”

“Oh, no, no,” he chuckled. “You don’t get to boss me around now. Not after runnin’ your mouth all evenin’ like that.”

His fingers pressed a little firmer then, just enough to draw a sharp, shaky moan from your throat. You clutched at his shoulders, nails biting into muscle.

"That's it," he whispered. "Sound like that again, and maybe I'll give you somethin' to grind on proper."

You cried out when he finally pushed your panties to the side and dragged two fingers through the slick heat between your thighs—slow, then sudden, plunging inside without warning.

"Jesus fuck," you gasped, hips jerking forward, voice cracking on the end of the curse.

Tommy groaned, low and dark, like he could feel it all the way up his arm. “Shit, baby… that pussy’s already grippin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”

His thumb found your clit, slow circles at first, but this time he didn’t hold back. He curled his fingers deep inside you, finding that spot that made your legs shake in seconds. Your back arched, your head dropped onto his shoulder, and you let out a broken, needy moan you couldn’t even pretend to control.

“Look at you now,” he muttered into your ear, fucking his fingers into you harder. “You talk all that shit, sit on my lap actin’ like you’re in charge—now you’re just whimperin’. Soaked through. Desperate.”

You clawed at his chest, babbling something between a moan and a curse, but he didn’t let up.

“Say it,” he growled. “Tell me how bad you need it. C’mon, baby. Use that filthy little mouth.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The slick sounds of his fingers working inside you were loud in the quiet porch air, and you were soaking his jeans, hips bucking against his hand like you had no shame left.

“Fuck—Tommy—I need it—need your cock—please—fuck me, please—”

He grinned against your throat, biting down just hard enough to make you yelp. “That’s more like it.”

He pulled his fingers out slow, wet and gleaming in the low light. You watched, dazed, as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean with a low groan.

“Taste like you’re already close,” he said, voice husky. “You gonna cum just from beggin’? You want me to ruin you right here on the porch, huh? That what you need?”

You nodded frantically, grinding down on the hard line of his cock through his jeans. “Yes—yes, fuck, just—need you inside me, now, Tommy, please—”

That broke him.

He was unbuckling his belt before you could blink, dragging his jeans down just far enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking. You whimpered at the sight of it, grinding harder.

“Goddamn,” he growled, gripping your hips. “You’re so fuckin’ needy. You think I’m just gonna slide into that tight little pussy 'cause you’re cryin’ for it?”

You nodded, breathless.

He lined himself up, rubbing the thick head against your dripping folds—but didn’t push in.

“Say it,” he snapped, voice low and mean now. “Tell me you want this cock. Tell me how bad you need it stretchin’ you open.”

“I want it,” you choked out. “I need it—I need your cock—please, Tommy, just fuck me already—I want you so deep,want you to ruin me—please—”

That was it.

He slammed into you in one rough, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and your scream echoed out into the dark.

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as he held you there, trembling around him. “Tight as fuck—so fuckin’ wet.”

You clung to him, nails biting into his back, mouth open and gasping.

He gave you no time to adjust—just pulled back and slammed in again, hard, fast, relentless.

“Take it,” he snarled, voice wrecked. “That what you wanted, baby? Huh? Talkin’ all that shit, grindin’ on me like a bitch in heat—now you got it. Now you’re gonna take every inch.”

You could barely answer. Just moaned, eyes rolled back, tears prickling from how good it felt. Your pussy clenched around him, sucking him in like it needed him, and he felt every twitch.

“You gonna cum for me?” he rasped, pounding into you. “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?”

He didn’t let you cum.

Not yet.

Right when your moans pitched high and your body started to tighten, that wave crashing just at the edge—Tommy grabbed your hips and stilled you.

"Uh-uh," he growled, breath hot against your neck. "You don’t get to cum like that. Not after all the shit you’ve been talkin’."

You whimpered, squirming, trying to roll your hips, but his grip was like steel. His cock pulsed inside you, thick and deep, and the stretch of him had your legs shaking.

"Want that release?" he asked, voice thick and cruel with amusement. "You’re gonna work for it."

He leaned back in the chair, spreading his legs wider, dragging you up just enough for your cunt to clench around the tip of him. Your whole body trembled at the loss of him.

"Go on, baby," he said. "Ride me."

You blinked at him, fucked-out and breathless. “W-what—?”

“You heard me.” His hands stayed heavy on your hips, but no longer guiding. “You want to cum so bad, you’re gonna bounce on this cock like the desperate little slut you are. Show me just how needy that filthy mouth of yours really is.”

You let out a choked sound—half a gasp, half a moan—but he didn’t give you time to hesitate. “C’mon. Be a good girl. Take what you want.”

You started moving, slow at first—lifting yourself and sliding back down with a whimper, your thighs already burning from how badly your muscles shook.

Tommy groaned, head falling back as he watched you. “That’s it. Fuckin’ hell, look at you. Runnin’ that mouth all night just to end up cock-drunk and grindin’ on me like some needy little thing.”

You moaned, bracing your hands on his chest as you picked up the pace. His cock filled you perfectly, every thrust down hitting deep, his thick length dragging along every spot that made your vision go white.

“You gonna cry for it now?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Beg me again while you ride this cock, baby. Let me hear that sweet little voice.”

You were panting, wrecked, tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you fucked yourself on him harder. “Please—Tommy—I need it—need to cum so fucking bad��please, I’ll do anything—”

He grinned, dark and proud. “Yeah, you will.”

His hands finally moved, thumbs brushing over your nipples through your shirt before gripping your ass, guiding your rhythm now—harder, faster.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Bouncin’ like a goddamn toy. Mouth’s not so smart now, huh? All you can say is please—ain’t even words anymore.”

You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think. Just the sound of his voice, the wet slap of your bodies, the brutal grind of your clit catching on the base of him with every desperate thrust—

“You close?” he hissed. “You better be. You better cum fuckin’ hard after makin’ me wait this long.”

Your nails dug into his chest as the pressure snapped all at once. Your orgasm hit like a goddamn freight train—crying out his name, cunt clenching around him, your whole body trembling uncontrollably.

Tommy cursed, hips jerking up into you as he chased his own release, growling through gritted teeth.

“Fuck, that’s it—milk my cock, baby. So goddamn tight—fuck—”

He spilled inside you in deep, heavy pulses, holding you down tight, growling into your throat as he came.

For a long moment, there was just the sound of your panting, the creak of the porch, the crickets in the dark.

Then—

“You always this mouthy,” he rasped, pressing a kiss to your temple, “or just when you’re about to be split open on my cock?”

You gave a breathless, dazed laugh. “Ask me again in five minutes. I might still have somethin’ to say.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled. “Then I guess I’ll just have to shut you up again.”

His breath was still warm on your skin, chest rising and falling beneath you, both of you coated in sweat and satisfaction. You lay slumped against him, spent and boneless, your forehead resting against his shoulder, lips slightly parted as you came down from the high.

Tommy didn’t say anything at first.

He just held you.

One hand traced slow, grounding circles on your lower back, the other tangled gently in your hair, fingers brushing through the strands like you were something fragile and precious. His cock was still buried inside you, thick and warm, twitching every so often with the aftershocks of release.

“Jesus,” he muttered into your hair, voice low and rough but sweet underneath. “You really tryin’ to kill me.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut, heart still pounding. “S’only fair. You do it to me every time.”

He chuckled, soft and warm, and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You okay?”

You nodded against his neck. “More than okay.”

Tommy shifted just enough to wrap both arms around you tighter, pulling you fully into his chest. You stayed like that—your body molded to his, your thighs draped over his lap, sticky and trembling and safe. The night air cooled your sweat-damp skin, but his body was solid heat beneath you.

Neither of you rushed it.

He didn’t pull out, didn’t even try. Just stayed there, letting you keep him inside you, like he knew the way it kept you grounded. You could still feel the dull throb between your legs, your muscles twitching every now and then with the memory of how hard he’d fucked you.

“Shit, darlin’,” he whispered, brushing a hand over your thigh. “Look at you. All used up and still clingin’ to me like I’m gonna disappear.”

You huffed a lazy breath. “Mm. Not lettin’ you go until I can feel my legs again.”

“I can work with that.”

His palm moved slowly along your back, kneading gently, checking you without saying anything. That was the thing about Tommy—he always noticed. The tremble in your hands, the way your breath hitched, the way you tried to bury your face a little deeper into his neck.

"You did so good for me," he murmured, voice dropping softer. “Took me so sweet. You always do.”

You didn’t answer—just sighed against his skin, your fingers curling into his shirt. You could feel his heartbeat now, steady and strong under your cheek.

Time passed.

Eventually, when your breathing evened out and your body stopped twitching, Tommy kissed your temple again.

“You ready?” he asked gently.

You nodded, just barely. He held your hips steady with one hand and slowly pulled out, careful and unhurried. You whimpered at the stretch and the emptiness, but he was already wrapping his arms around you again, cradling you back against his chest before you could move.

“Gotcha,” he whispered. “Still gotcha.”

And you believed him.

Because no matter how rough he got, no matter how filthy your mouth got or how loud the sex turned, after—it was always this.

Him. Holding you like you were the only damn thing in the world he wanted to keep close.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You mumbled something in protest—too content, too boneless to move—but he was already lifting you gently off his lap. You winced a little at the sensitivity between your thighs, and instantly his touch went even gentler.

“Easy,” he said, steadying you as you stood on shaky legs. “I got you.”

You did your best to walk inside, but your knees buckled a bit, and before you could catch yourself, Tommy had already scooped you up into his arms like it was nothing.

“Mouth works fine, but them legs? Useless.”

You smacked his chest lightly, hiding your face there as he laughed.

He carried you straight into the bathroom, setting you down on the closed toilet lid while he turned on the shower. Steam started to rise almost immediately, curling into the air, soft and warm.

You watched him move—still shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips, hair a mess, scratches on his neck from your nails. You should’ve been tired, but your heart swelled a little instead. Something about him, like this, just looking at you like he wanted to take care of every last inch.

When the water was warm enough, Tommy came back to you, crouched in front of where you sat, and reached for your jeans.

“Let me?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

He undressed you slow—gentle fingers unbuttoning your skirt, peeling the fabric down your thighs. You lifted your arms when he needed, letting him strip you bare. His gaze never left yours long, always checking, making sure you were okay. When he helped you up and led you into the shower, the warm water hit your skin like a breath of relief.

You stood under the spray, eyes closed, head tipped back, and when you opened them, Tommy was stepping in behind you, still half-clothed, pulling his shirt off over his head and letting his jeans drop to the floor.

“I can clean myself, y’know,” you teased, voice soft, lazy.

“Sure you can,” he murmured, stepping in close, hands already reaching for the soap. “But I wanna.”

He lathered the bar between his palms and ran them gently over your shoulders, down your back, over your hips. His touch was careful now, reverent almost. No more teasing. Just warmth. His hands lingered at the backs of your thighs, then slid between them with soft, slow care, cleaning you with practiced tenderness.

You hissed a little at the sensitivity, but he kissed the side of your neck, whispering, “I know, baby. I know. Just a little more.”

You let him care for you.

Let him wash your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp slow and soothing. Let him rinse the soap off your skin, trail his hands over every inch of you like you were something holy he’d fought to protect.

And when it was done, when the water ran clear and your body felt lighter again, he turned off the tap and wrapped you in a big, worn towel. Pulled you into his chest one more time, damp and soft, lips against your forehead.

“No more back talk tonight,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re sleepin’ the whole damn night in my arms.”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t talk in my sleep,” you mumbled.

He chuckled again, kissed your temple. “God help me.”

And he carried you to bed.

Still warm from the shower, still sore in all the right places, still held like you were something he didn’t plan on letting go of.

Not tonight. Not ever.

The smell hit you before your eyes even opened.

Something warm and buttery, eggs maybe. Coffee, definitely. The sheets were soft, still tangled around your legs, and the soreness between your thighs made you smirk into the pillow. Your muscles ached in that perfect way—like a reminder, like a reward.

You stretched with a slow groan and sat up, blinking in the early morning light pouring through the window. Tommy’s side of the bed was empty, but the faint clatter of pans and the low hum of a country song drifted in from down the hall.

You found your shirt on the floor—not your shirt, his, oversized and worn soft—and tugged it on without bothering with anything else. Your legs protested with every step, but you made it to the kitchen doorway and leaned against the frame, arms crossed, grin already in place.

There he was.

Tommy Miller. Shirtless. Hair still messy. Standing at the stove with one hand on the skillet and the other around a mug of coffee. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, back flexing every time he flipped something in the pan.

God help you.

“You know,” you drawled, voice still scratchy with sleep, “if I’d known breakfast was part of the aftercare package, I’d have let you fuck me stupid a long time ago.”

Tommy glanced over his shoulder, smirking the second he saw you. “Sweetheart, you did let me fuck you stupid. That’s why you’re walkin’ like you just got off a horse.”

You grinned. “Oh, shut the fuck up.”

He let out a low whistle, flipping an egg. “There’s that mouth again. Thought I broke it last night.”

You stepped into the kitchen, coming up behind him to wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his warm back.

“Nah. You just put it on snooze.”

He laughed—soft and low—and reached down to take your hands, lifting them to kiss your knuckles. “Sit. Food’s almost done.”

You let go reluctantly, padding over to one of the chairs and flopping down with a sigh, legs spreading instinctively under the hem of his shirt.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Eyes flicked down, lingered, then back up to your face with a slow shake of his head. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he admitted, scooping eggs and toast onto a plate. “But one of these days, you’re gonna sass me at the wrong time, and I ain’t gonna wait 'til we’re behind closed doors.”

You smirked. “Promises, promises.”

He slid the plate in front of you with a wink, then leaned down to kiss you—slow, like he wasn’t in a hurry. Just your lips, the faint taste of coffee, the warmth of his hand on your jaw.

“Eat,” he murmured. “Then maybe I’ll see if that mouth of yours is still good for anything else.”

You picked up your fork with a grin. “Spoiler alert: it is.”

Tommy sat across from you, his own plate in hand, watching you like he already knew exactly how the rest of the morning was going to play out.

And he wasn’t in any rush either.

You were halfway through breakfast, Tommy halfway through his second cup of coffee, when the knock came.

Three solid raps on the front door, followed by the familiar creak as it swung open.

“Tommy?” Joel’s voice, gravel-thick and unmistakable, rolled through the cabin. “You up?”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Just glanced toward the door, then at you, his brow arching.

You raised your mug and muttered, “Do I have time to put pants on, or are we just doing this full feral?”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “Think we’re past first impressions now, baby.”

Joel stepped into view just as you stood from the table—Tommy’s shirt hanging long over your bare thighs, no shame in your posture as you sipped from your mug and gave the older Miller a once-over.

Joel’s eyes flicked from you to Tommy, then back, a brow raising ever so slightly.

Tommy stood up behind you, easy as anything, stepping close to rest a hand on your lower back—warm and firm, right where the hem of the shirt barely covered.

“Joel,” he said simply, “this’s my girl.”

Your heart gave a little lurch, like a caught breath—but you played it cool, shooting Joel a smirk over your cup.

“Hey,” you said, voice dry. “Nice to meet you. Heard you were taller.”

Joel blinked, clearly recalibrating, but his lips twitched like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or leave.

Tommy, on the other hand, definitely laughed. “Told you, Joel. Mouth on her don’t quit.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you another beat—measuring, not unkind—and then he gave a slow nod, jaw ticking. “Well, ain’t she a handful.”

You flashed him a grin. “I prefer ‘a lot to handle.’ But I’m flexible.”

Tommy groaned softly behind you, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck. “God damn, woman…”

But his grip never left your waist.

Joel looked between the two of you again, something settling in his face—not approval, exactly, but something close enough.

“Well,” he said, “I was just stoppin’ by to drop off those spare tools. But I’ll, uh… let you two get back to your mornin’.”

You leaned into Tommy’s side, deliberately smug. “Oh, we were done with the mornin’.”

Tommy choked on a laugh and Joel just shook his head, muttering as he turned for the door, “Y’all are trouble.”

When it shut behind him, Tommy exhaled and muttered into your ear, “You tryin’ to kill me with that mouth?”

You turned, arms wrapping around his neck. “You called me your girl.”

He gave you that smile—soft, sure, the one that always made your chest tighten.

“That’s 'cause you are,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You think I let just anyone sass my brother with no pants on?”

[ateezlibrary]

stolen devotion (m) • psh

"if you knew what i am, you wouldn't be so kind." "maybe i already do. and maybe i still am."

pairing: assassin!seonghwa x sorceress!reader

tags/genre: fantasy, historical kingdom au, smut weaved throughout (18+/mdni), forbidden romance, seonghwa and mc are both morally gray, enemies with benefits, lots of banter & sexual tension

word count: 9.1k words

synopsis: in a kingdom where sorcery is sin, you hide your spellcraft under the guise as a village healer. when the king catches wind of your tricks, a deadly assassin is sent to bring you back to the capital. little does he realize the journey throws a bit of a wrench in his plans as you and the beautiful assassin grow closer ...

notes: really wanted to get this dark fantasy outta my mind before working on anything else! i know folks are itching for more street racer content, so i'll plan on alternating fic drops between random ideas and that au! will also likely do a part 2 for this, if people end up interested enough. :-)

“sit still,” you order, the words firm but laced with warmth. the boy laid across the cot grimaces, his little hands twitching at his sides. he’s no older than eight, with a mop of dark curls and an expression far too dramatic for the shallow scrape on his foot. “otherwise,” you continue, stirring the contents of a cloudy vial, “i’ll have to saw your whole foot off.”

“what?!” he squawks, eyes wide.

you bite back a grin and glance down. “you’ve got two. don’t be greedy.” the panicked yelp he lets out makes you laugh outright, a sound that fills the otherwise quiet stone room with unexpected lightness. “relax, evander. you’ll live.”

muttering a soft scolding beneath your breath, you swirl the vial once more, watching as the mixture of ground chamomile, lavender ash, and jojoba oil begins to warm in your palm. the spell you whisper over it is old—older than this village or the kingdom it was confined in. the liquid glows faintly gold between your fingertips, light flickering across the boy’s wide-eyed reflection. he flinches as you gently apply it along the angry scrape down his shin. he hisses, his muscles tightening.

“breathe,” you say. “magic only listens when you do.” he obeys with a dramatic sigh, his limbs slowly relaxing as the concoction sinks in and the pain begins to dissolve.

“there.” you lean back, inspecting the skin that’s already starting to knit closed. you set the vial aside and press your palm to his cheek with the faintest of tenderness. “better?”

evander nods solemnly, a forlorn, “yes…” slipping past his lips. his pout earns a ruffle of his curls and you rise to your feet, stretching the stiffness from your spine as you call toward the foyer.

“amelia, he’s all patched up!” his mother enters almost immediately, carrying a small satchel that clinks softly as she sets it on the side table near your herbs. gold coins, warm and worn at the edges.

“you know how evander is,” she says with an exhausted smile, watching her son dart past her to poke at the glass trinkets on your windowsill like nothing had ever happened. “thank you again for always coming to his rescue.”

“it’s nothing.” you wave a hand as you turn to snuff the flickering candles lining the room. “he’s good for business. keeps my potions from collecting dust.” you return her smile and begin sealing the open jars of crushed bark and burn balm back onto their shelves. the scents cling to your sleeves—medicinal, earthy, familiar.

“i still can’t believe i doubted you when you first arrived,” amelia muses, her voice softer now, but laced with regret. “but gods know we needed someone like you here.”

“i appreciate that,” you say at last, but your tone is equally as quiet. there’s only so much praise a person like you can accept before it feels like a lie. you are not what they think. at least, not only.

amelia steps closer, glancing over her shoulder though no one else is around. her voice lowers to a whisper. “did you hear? about the witch hunts in the capital?” the name of that city alone is enough to send a ripple down your spine. your grip tightens around the jar you’re holding, but she continues before you can speak.

“my cousin sent word. says the nobles are placing wagers, holding private demonstrations like it’s some kind of… bloodsport. they’re training the younger knights on how to spot them.” her voice trembles slightly on the last word.

them. you.

you force a shrug, sealing the jar a little too tightly. “sounds like nobles being nobles. and I can’t tell you the last i’d heard of a witch in the capital.” even the derogatory use of the word ‘witch’ and not ‘sorcerer’ feels filthy as it slips past your lips, but your mind is already drifting. the way they’d spoken of sorcerers like curses.

you turn back to amelia with a tired smile, masking the chill in your bones.

“thanks again for the payment. keep him off of rooftops, alright?”

“no promises,” she says, exasperated as evander bolts past her with a triumphant laugh. the house falls silent as they exit, save for the brewing pot of tea in the kitchen and the hum of the fireplace as the cold of the night creeps in. you reach for the satchel that amelia had left behind, counting each of the gold coins and sighing at the extra she’d added as a courtesy. you knew they were falling behind on their crop yield and had no means to continue to do so. making a mental note to put it towards evander’s future visits—and gods know there would be—you begin to dim the candlelights with a soft sigh.

and then, the flames nearest the door disappears in a hushed whisper. you freeze, heart hammering against your ribcage as you hover over the candle closest to you. the sound of low and steady breathing that doesn’t belong to you brushes past your ears, yet you don’t speak. the aged oak floorboards creak with every painful step the intruder takes, and you recognize the sound as coming from the windows you’d sworn were locked before your session with evander. without a second thought, you reach beneath your skirt for the dagger strapped to your thigh, fingers wrapped firmly around its hilt. you turn slowly, carefully as your eyes meet the stranger’s.

he doesn’t say a word as you drink him in, studying his features all while not letting go of the dagger in your hand. it matches the sharp gleam of metal on his hip, the glint in his eyes as if he were a predator circling its prey. if this were any other circumstance, you’d have found this to be one of the most beautiful men you’d ever laid your eyes on.

however, this man broke into your home with an evidently unfriendly motive and you weren’t keen on being a particularly gracious host.

“i don’t take visitors after hours,” you snarl, fighting against the fear and confusion in your mind. you think quickly back to amelia’s mention of the rising popularity of ‘witch hunts’ yet again, but you couldn’t fathom how someone could have found out about your whereabouts so suddenly. magic hums against your core, pricking at your skin to cast a line of defense around yourself.

“you’ve been hard to find, witch,” he says, his voice like honey despite the attempt to insult you. 

“whatever you think i am,” you warn, drawing the dagger to its ready, “you’re wrong.”

“oh, i’m sure a wrongfully accused person would whip their dagger out and be ready to slit my throat,” he lulls, stepping forward as if he wanted to have a regular conversation and not hunt you down. “right.”

within a breath, you thrust your dagger at him just as he dodges near perfectly. a hand closes around your wrist, twisting it with smooth, near-perfect precision. before you can summon any kind of protection—a spell, a ward, anything—he lunges forward, your back meeting the edge of the apothecary table. his body blocks your path forward, his weight pressing into yours as the cold steel of his blade meets your throat.

your breath mingles with his, eyes equally frantic as they search one another’s faces for some sort of recognition. nothing and no one comes to mind, your heart hammering against your ribcage as you groan in protest against his grip. his eyes finally settle on yours, dark and feline.

“get off of me,” you growl.

“if i thought you were harmless, i would,” he answers, arching an eyebrow.

“who are you?”

“someone you should stay in good graces with if you plan to arrive in front of the king alive,” he answers, the ambiguity making your blood boil. “which he’d prefer.”

alive?

the word echoes in your mind, etched with a growing confusion that melts quickly into suspicion.

“what does he want with me?” you ask, your voice low and steady. “a public execution? a demonstration for the nobles’ entertainment?”

“that’s not my concern,” he answers coldly. “said he needed you for a greater cause. i was told to bring you back alive. so i will.”

“and if i try to run?”

“you won’t get very far, witch.” it almost sounds like a challenge as much as it is a threat.

“you don’t know me.”

“well, lucky for me,” he drawls, faintly dragging the tip of his blade from the base of your throat down your arm, to your fingertips until it’s found its way to its sheath once more, “i’ve got plenty of time to on the journey back, don’t i?”

your mind is swarming with questions of who this man was, how they’d come to find out that you were hidden in your village far from the capital. you glance around at your home, now feeling shamefully exposed under the assassin’s eye with your sorcery on full display. outside of the village residents, no one had ever set foot in your home or knew what you’d turned the abandoned temple into.

in the short moment you’d lost yourself in your train of thought, your wrists were bound together with spellbinding rope that rendered your magic useless.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter, trying and failing to surpass the constraints that silenced your magic. it was like trying to breathe while being smothered with cloth—somewhat possible, but suffocating. satisfied with himself, the intruder steps back and admires his work.

“don’t take it personally.”

“don’t take—” your voice rises before you catch yourself. the silence is louder than ever as you glare at him with flames in your eyes. “you broke into my home, dragged a blade across my throat and bound me with ropes used for literal dark witches. i’m sorry, should i be flattered?”

pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, he scoffs. “would it be better if i smiled while i did it?”

“at this point, just kill me.”

“no can do.”

you fall silent for a moment, glancing around at the home you might never see again. “how did you find me?”

“anonymous confession delivered to the king’s royal guard,” he answers surprisingly honestly. “a wi—a healer that was a little too good at her job with no family ties. someone who didn’t originate from this village and had no real reputation in the capital. like a ghost, almost.”

“and who are you, exactly?”

“i was sent by the king to bring you ba—”

“i understand your job description,” you quip, rolling your eyes. “do you not have a name?”

“not one that i owe you,” he shrugs, glancing away from you.

“what do i refer to you as on the way to my likely death, then? the king’s esteemed assassin? let everyone know exactly what’s going on here?”

he pauses for a moment, eyes returning to yours as he runs a hand through his raven hair with a sigh. you knew you’d made a good point, one that he couldn’t counter. it couldn’t possibly bode well for the king to have a stealthy assassin dragging a sorceress through the provinces with her hollering that he was out for blood.

“seonghwa,” he finally shares, and you arch an eyebrow.

“seonghwa,” you repeat. he stiffens at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue, as if it were some sort of unholy incantation.

“get some sleep,” he orders, lifting himself from where he was leaning against the apothecary table and settling into the deep wine velvet arm chair that sat at the opposite end of the room. you glower at the sight, knowing you’d spent many nights curled up in that chair with a good book and a cup of tea. “we need to leave before dawn.”

“where? on the cot i use to treat my patients?”

“patients,” he repeats, though he says it in a haughty tone. “funny way to refer to innocent people blinded by corruption from dark magic.”

“oh, i’m sure it’s much more respectable playing into the role of the king’s puppet,” you hiss under your breath, earning no response as you settle onto the cot for the night with a huff.

* * *

the next morning is anything but civil between you two. in the wee hours of the morning, you thought it’d be a good idea to try to reach for the vials on your shelf with your foot in a pitiful attempt to draw up an antidote that would nullify the bindings on your wrists. needless to say, it went poorly and ended up with shattered glass and oil slicked across your living room’s floor. the assassin jumps like a cat at the sound, blade at the ready from your armchair where he was slumped.

“seems like you’ve got enough energy to hit the road, then,” he orders, and you glare at him in confusion. you’d gotten no less than a wink of sleep trying to make sure you stayed alive before the sunrise, leaving seonghwa to doze off momentarily when you thought you could be discreet. he lifts you by the binds, dagger placed back into his sheath as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. “try to be a little cooperative, would you?”

“cooperative?!” you cry out, shaking your bound wrists at him. “what am i going to do? does it look like i can reach for anything in this capacity?”

“well.” seonghwa’s eyes flicker down to your feet.

“oh, relax.”

for a pretty penny, seonghwa commissions a horse and carriage so that you could write more cautiously. you hadn’t ridden in a carriage in years … not since you’d been forced to flee the capital when your parents were murdered. the inner fabric is soft to the touch, with a delicate pattern that matched the drapes over the windows. funny—something that was meant to be for comfort was your one-way ride to your demise. seonghwa whispers instructions to the driver, something you can only make out as heading into the nearest port town in the direction of the castle. your mind wanders, eyes flickering to the exterior of your old, worn temple that you’d grown to call home. you think of the plush velvet chair, the fireplace, your shelves of ancient books and vials. all things you’d likely never see again.

“we’ll be on the road for a while,” seonghwa informs you, peering out at the sun rising in the distance. “you can probably get some sleep since you decided to be slick last night.”

“lucky me,” you mutter, fingernails digging into the bounds at your wrists. you glance up at the man across from you, studying him since you were rendered powerless for the time being. despite the sleepless night, he was still obnoxiously beautiful. his raven hair, loose in waves that framed his face, near-perfectly matched the shade of his armor equipped with leather straps and belts. his blade flickered under the dim light, reminding you that he’d forgotten to strip you of your own dagger on your thigh.

an idea comes to mind, one that has you smiling up at him manically.

“what the hell is wrong with you?”

“nothing,” you assure him, leaning back into the plush upholstery with a sigh. “i just imagine that you would have found me obedient by now considering i haven’t tried anything sneaky since you’ve bound me. we’ll be on the road for a while. i haven’t tried to run, obviously. is there any way you would be so kind as to untying me?”

“what kind of fool do you take me for?” he scoffs, turning his gaze to the outer world. you follow his eyes to the trees that flutter by, ones that sit on familiar hills and valleys where you’d foraged for ingredients not long ago. “you think i don’t know you still have your dagger?”

“do i?” you ask, feigning surprise.

his eyes locked on yours, seonghwa leans towards you. his hands come to rest beside your thighs, pressing into the seat as he arches an eyebrow. you can’t help but lean back into the cushions, narrowed eyes at him as you feel him tap exactly where your strap sat. you gasp at the action, scowling at him as he scoffs.

“i’d still say i’m a gentleman,” he argues, pulling away and settling back into his seat. “i’d have gotten that off of you myself if i were so determined.”

“i’d like to see you try,” you scoff, dropping your hands defeatedly into your lap. you turn back to him, changing the subject. “so, you’ve got no idea why the king wants me to be brought in alive? me, specifically? wouldn’t it be easier to kill the ‘wretched witch’?”

“like i said, i’m not entirely sure of the circumstances. all i know is what my orders are.”

“and if your orders are updated to you killing me?”

“well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

your mind racing sends you to sleep, tired from trying to rationalize the king’s objectives and how you’d be able to evade an assassin as swift as seonghwa. someone who’d been able to break past the magic wards that protected your home and knew of ways to cut off your magic wouldn’t be easy to get away from. and even if you did, would you plan to live your life on the run? the continent was only so big. you’d no longer be able to even be a healer, nothing more than a fugitive.

the carriage staggers, urging you from your racing thoughts as you blink through the sleep in your eyes. it’s already nightfall, the scent of salt in the air stinging your nose a sign that you’d made it to the neighboring port. seonghwa is alert, eyes darting around at the village as you draw close to an inn for the night. he realizes you’re awake, turning to you and glancing down at the binds on your wrist.

“are witches sensitive to water?”

“first of all,” you snap, shaking the hair that slipped into your face, “i’m not a witch, you asshole. i’m a sorceress. secondly, do i look like a vampire?”

“might as well be,” he shrugs, looking back out at the expanse of sea. “just wondering if you’d try to run away by any means possible.”

“yes, i’m sure diving into the ocean after being stuck in a carriage all day and having my wrists shackled with no food or water is exactly how i’d survive.”

“fair point,” is all he concedes, reaching forward to loop a finger through your binds. his skin is warm against yours, something you notice for only a split second before he orders, “i’ll remove the binds, only not to arise suspicion. no tricks.”

“no promises,” you retort, watching the way he slits the rope in one swift strike. you flex your wrists for the first time in a full day, groaning at the sensation as your muscles twitch. magic warms your veins, churning against your core as seonghwa glares at you cautiously.

* * *

“you realize that much of the continent could care less about those who practice sorcery?” you point out to seonghwa as you leave the inn room he’d booked for the night. he was gracious enough to allow you to sleep on the bed and not the cot. you’d been to this village a handful of times, typically to source out ingredients and visit the other practitioner in the area. the gentle sounds of the sea and the bustling market square always felt comforting to you—at least, it did when there wasn’t an assassin ready to hold a dagger to your throat while you were on a stroll for a warm meal.

“i’m sure the king is working to address the believers,” seonghwa scowls, making reference to the commoners that coexisted with sorcerers peacefully. he’s swept his hair up for the night into a half-up ponytail, one that lets you see his features more clearly.

“you really have no idea what the king does beyond your orders, do you?” you ask, guiding you both into a tavern for the evening. the scent of warm bread and ale fills the air, coupled with the rowdy clientele that brings a smile to your face. seonghwa grimaces at the sight, clearly very different from what he was used to within the capital walls. rolling your eyes, you lead him to the counter where the barkeep waited, rag on his shoulder as he bellows drink orders to his assistant.

“two stews and a pitcher of ale,” you call over the riff-raff with a commanding tap on the counter. the older man nods once, reaching for your order as you peer over your shoulder at seonghwa. “do you need to come closer and make sure i don’t poison you? my magic’s returned, you know.” he scoffs again, standing beside you with a weary expression. “chin up. food’s good here.”

seonghwa reluctantly confirms that the stew is sublime, finishing a second bowl with constant reminders that he was famished from the long journey. you roll your eyes at him, fishing for carrots and potatoes in the broth as he laps up his remainder. the two of you exit peacefully, headed back to the inn when you stop in your tracks.

“wait,” you call out to seonghwa, though he refuses to stop.

“wait.” there’s more urgency in your voice this time, something supernatural pricking at your skin as you ready yourself to throw up a defense ward. the bushes along the path back to the inn rustle, but not from the night breeze. seonghwa notices this as well, ears perked as he places a hand on his hip for his blade.

“don’t,” you order, watching as his fingers wrap around the hilt of his sword. the bushes go still, too still.

and then, they attack.

a masked figure launches towards you, one that unleashes twin daggers aimed straight for your throat. you dart across the path, muttering a shifty protection spell under your breath. the ward glows and churns under your skin, a supernatural repellant to the assailant’s weapons. another emerges behind seonghwa, but he’s faster as he draws his blade and slices through his torso with a hiss.

“they’re trained,” he huffs, eyes shifting to the bushes that continue to rustle. “they must have seen the crown’s crest on my armor.”

“yeah, you’re not exactly very welcome around here since the king cut off most of their trade routes outside of the continent,” you call out to him, moving closer to the bushes as you summon a rune into the air. the ancient symbol glows blue and iridescent, floating above your palm.

“you couldn’t let me know this before we chose to stop here for the night?” he yells, steel meeting steel as he clashes with another assailant that dashes out at him.

“now is not the time for conversation,” you bark, honing the sigil in your hands as you sense the energies of the other attackers that sat behind the bushes at the ready. a deep breath settles in your chest, one that you focus on as you slam your palm to the ground. a surge of raw force explodes outward, knocking the remainder of the troupe clear off of their feet and off of the neighboring cliffs.

only in the silence do you hear the sound of steel striking flesh and seonghwa yelping at the attack.

“seonghwa!” you shout, watching as he stumbles and clutches his side where blood soaks through his already dark armor. the assailant doesn’t pause, a wicked grin stretched across his face as he’s about to go in for the kill. in one swift motion, you run to his side and snatch his sword out of his grasp so that you’ve got the attacker cornered under the tip of his blade. the man growls in defiance, ready to attack when you’ve knocked the blade out of his hand and summoned another ward to coat the blade and strike him through his chest. he backs away, staggering as he gasps for breath and falls into the bushes.

a gasp for air beside you draws you attention back to seonghwa, his breathing ragged as he tries to steady himself. his knees hit the ground hard, a grimace twisting his features as he fails to put enough pressure on the wound. you freeze at the sight.

the path onwards is still open, quiet. seonghwa was in no shape for a pursuit. you could run, disappear into the woods and keep running until your lungs give out. it wouldn’t be the first time. even so, you haven’t moved.

a healer cannot leave someone to die.

your mother’s voice hammers against your skull, resounding in your ears as you fight against the moral compass that decided to take center stage. you hated that part of yourself, the part that refused to do what could save you instead of someone else. seonghwa groans softly, trying to push himself up beside you and you move before you can stop yourself. his eyebrows furrow in confusion, eyelids heavy as he blinks up at you through the injury. your face is stone, hand glowing and vibrating with the warmth of your magic as you summon a healing incantation.

“don’t move,” you order, pressing a hand to his wound over his.

the spell pulses through your palm, recognizing his injury as something that could have been fatal if the attacker had struck an inch deeper. you hum, the bleeding subsiding for now despite the wound remaining open. the very idea of the situation you were in dumbfounded you—helping the enemy when he’s everything you should be fleeing from.

the truth was, you could never leave someone behind in this state. even an assassin.

you let out a resigned sigh, offering him a hand as you stand. “let’s make it back to the inn.”

“i can walk,” he lies, grimacing as he fights to get onto his feet.

“just lean on me,” you snap, pulling his arm around you so that you could brace his weight. reluctantly, seonghwa allows your assistance as you take him back to the inn in silence.

“stay still,” you order once you’re back, pressing wads of cloth to seonghwa’s now bare midriff as you try to ease the bleeding. he hisses under your touch, his muscles tense as you prod and pry against his wound. the air is awkward from the fact that you’re helping him.

you don’t ignore the sheer absurdity of it all, knowing fully well he’d have killed you if he had the order. the only sound that fills the dimly lit room is when you dip the washcloth into the bucket of water, rinsing out his bloodstains so that you could clean his skin. as you do, you notice a myriad of scars and stitches along the side of his ribcage. some faint, some seemingly more recent. you can’t help but wonder to yourself where he’d gotten them from.

“why’d you help me?” seonghwa finally asks, and you still. “you had the chance to run. anyone in their right mind would have tried to escape.”

“i’m a healer.” you toss the rag into the bucket, assessing his wound with increased focus. your eyes never meet his. “i don’t harm people mindlessly. the opposite, actually.”

“hm,” is all he says, watching with gritted teeth as you summon another healing spell to your fingertips and trace along his wound. the skin stitches itself, rejoining under a faint scar as flesh is no longer visible. his eyes widen at the act, glancing up at your face with an expression you can’t exactly decipher.

“where did you learn to practice magic?” he asks. “or, at least, control it like this.”

“my parents.” the mention of them pricks at your eyes, the sound of the capital’s bells distant in your mind as you recall the way your mother screamed and begged for mercy as the royal guard dragged them away.

“and where are they now?”

“dead,” you reply plainly, looking out of the window in the direction at the capital. “long gone. it’s when i left—” you stop yourself. perhaps you’d let seonghwa in on enough for the night.

“left …?” he tries to finish, yet you focus on discarding of the bloodied bucket and handing him his shirt. he doesn’t say thank you, nor does he try to get under your skin with some snide remark. he just looks at you, his face unreadable as you glance down at him.

“try not to get stabbed again, will you?” you watch as he shuffles onto the makeshift cot, testing out the limits of your healing as you slip under the bed sheets for the night.

“yes, healer,” he replies, an exhausted smirk gracing his lips for a fleeting moment.

* * *

the next few weeks carry on seamlessly, with the two of you making little conversation along the way. the village you’d found refuge in was as far away from the capital as you could possibly get, making the journey back a tiresome drag. it became a monotonous routine—seonghwa binds your wrists, takes you into the carriage, you find an inn for the night, and so it goes. he makes no mention of the night you healed him, returning to the cold exterior he’d met you with.

you try to make conversation, to no avail. you ask about his upbringing, how he became an assassin, his life in the capital. nothing sticks and he doesn’t bother to ask you about yourself. one night, there’s no town or village for stretches of land. the carriage roads are surrounded by thick forests, leaving little opportunity for you to make it to a neighboring town in time for the night.

“we need to camp,” you suggest, looking out of the carriage and listening for the sound of running water. “it seems like there’s a river nearby.”

“camp?” he asks, disbelief underlining his question.

“for an assassin, you sure are quite pretentious.”

“god forbid i try to keep us inconspicuous.”

“oh, i’m sure the deer will go running their mouths the second they see us.”

you guide the driver to a nearby clearing, one close to running water and enough tree bark to start a fire. he follows diligently and you command seonghwa to set up camp, wrists bound and all. he mutters under his breath at your orders, starting a fire and clearing the area. you sit in front of the flames, hands in your lap as you sigh.

glancing over at seonghwa, you roll your eyes. he’s crouched near the fire, his blade unsheathed and sat across his knees as he peers into the woods. it’s as if he has to remain on high alert at all times. turning your attention to the fire, you watch as he fails to kindle it properly.

“you’re doing it wrong. you need to add smaller twigs before you go throwing on half a tree bark.”

he looks at you like you’ve offended generations of his ancestors, setting aside the bark in his hand and opting for smaller sticks. “didn’t realize sorcerers were also renowned survivalists.”

“comes with the territory of being hunted long enough,” you reply, hands fidgeting under your binds. seonghwa says nothing, the silence deepening but not uncomfortable as he continues to feed the fire. 

“this is strange,” he says suddenly.

“what is?”

“sitting like this with you in silence. you talk a lot.”

you smile softly, settling into another bout of silence. seonghwa stares at you from the corner of his eyes, something you pretend not to notice as you peer up at the starry night sky.

“i was told all sorcerers were dangerous,” he mutters. “that they were malicious creatures, selfish and cruel with their powers.”

“yes, i’m sure i was quite selfish and cruel when i saved you from imminent death.” you glance at his torso, clothed by the armor he’d been wearing over the past several weeks. you wondered how the scar felt to the touch, if the skin was bound and healed even with little aftercare.

seonghwa looks up at you, as if he’s hesitating for a moment. his gaze shifts from your face to the ropes around your wrists, settling on the ground as he sighs.

“if you couldn’t tell, i’m capital-born and raised. pardon me if being cautious comes with the territory.”

“oh, i know.” you shift, chewing on your bottom lip as you dance on the idea of sharing your past with seonghwa, even for a brief moment. it wasn’t out of pure desire, more so a sense of necessity after spending weeks together. after all, the man was bringing you to your demise. the least he could have is a little context. “i’m from the capital, actually. born and … well, sort of raised.”

“what part?” he asks, as if you were old friends catching up over drinks.

“the eastern quarter. near the gardens that follow the castle walls.”

“you mean where the grand oak tree is, the one that sits in the middle?”

“it’s still there?!” you exclaim before you remember that reuniting with your childhood home wasn’t under the best of circumstances. seonghwa lets out a soft laugh under his breath at your reaction.

“it is. my brother and i went there often.”

“brother?”

“yes, my older brother.” seonghwa stirs, the same internal dilemma of how much to share creeping under his skin. you imagine it wasn’t easy for an assassin to speak of their own past. “he’s a lieutenant with the royal guard.”

“and you’re the king’s assassin to do his dirty work?” you ask before biting your tongue.

“essentially. hard to be a credible royal guard when you’re constantly either compared to your elder brother or considered a child of nepotism.” his dark eyes shift to meet yours, and a strange flutter beats across your chest. you blink, fighting to shake off the sensation as he seems embarrassed by his sudden honestly.

“well, you don’t have to hold this position just to prove something to your family,” you point out, stalling before you add, “or yourself.”

“hm.” he looks away for a moment, returning to your gaze with a half-hearted smile. “what’s your favorite food?”

“huh?”

“might as well get to know you a bit better if the king wants to keep you alive and around.”

for the first night, seonghwa doesn’t keep your wrists tied before you both fall asleep, and you don’t run away.

* *

the carriage carries on through the forest, the most isolated separation between the capital and the continent’s villages. it takes several days to cut through the thicket, although the routine you and seonghwa had fallen into began to shift. seonghwa, despite being tense after the initial conversation by the campfire, had seemed to loosen up over time.

you trip over the sprawling branch that extends from the tall pine tree, nearly collapsing with the pile of firewood. an arm snakes around your waist, steadying you as you turn and find yourself faced with seonghwa. you stare into his eyes for a moment too long, color rushing to your cheeks as you look away. he doesn’t let go immediately, letting his hand linger before he clears his throat and ushers you on.

your mind races in the night, the dream so vivid you swear you’re back in your home at the capital. your body twitches at the memory, muttering under your breath as you’re silenced, watching your parents dragged into the depths of the capital prison. they scream for you, the entire town watching on as the sinners were brought to justice. you scream in reply, but no sound comes out. at least, so you think until you feel seonghwa shaking your shoulders in an attempt to wake you. he looks down at you, unsure of what to say as you fight to regain your breath. you turn to him with half-hooded eyes, not fully awake as you move to lay on your side away from him. you beg him to not take you back to the capital, a plea he ignores as he drapes his cloak over you and you lull back to sleep.

it’s the final night before you breach the capital walls and the carriage finally pulls into a trading post just on the outskirts of the main city. the area is frequented by off-duty soldiers, ones that willingly mix and mingle with mercenaries and hunters that scour the forests for their prey. seonghwa barters with the innkeeper while you enter, unbound for now as he’s gotten accustomed to having you roam free.

you enter the tavern wearily, cloak pulled tightly over your body as you approach the counter. never in the countryside did you feel so cautious. the last time you’d felt this kind of fear was when you were exiled from the city before they had the chance to murder you along with your parents. even though seonghwa—and the king, allegedly—knew what you were, who you were, these soldiers might not have seen you as more than a lowly witch.

“an ale,” you request, seated on your barstool with a frightening amount of caution. the men around you are haughty, garbling amongst themselves about the wenches they’d bed and the wives they left at home. one saunters over to you, his stench thick with whisky and his speech slurred.

“where’s a pretty little thing like you coming from?”

you keep your eyes fixated on the glass between your hands.

“don’t be like that, sweet,” the tallest of the group calls out, equally as drunk as he steps up beside his friend. “he’s just worried about you, is all. nice girl like you walking around with no escort sounds like you’re asking for trouble.”

glancing towards the front of the inn, you notice that seonghwa is still deep in negotiations with the innkeeper, gold in hand as he closes the deal for the night.

“i’m here for a night of rest and some supplies. that’s it.”

the two men circle you, eyes dragging uncomfortably across you as if they tried to decipher what your frame looked like beneath that heavy cloak.

“you’re not from around here, are you?”

“leave me alone,” you finally snap, trying to step away before they cut off your path.

“you reckon she’s got markings under that garb?” one asks the other, as if you’re not standing right in front of them. you freeze, fingers tightening around the fabric as they make reference to your tattoos. “i know that look. them wild, untamed eyes.”

panic rises and swells in your chest, a warning siren ringing in your head as you try to back away from them. the taller man steps forward, grabbing your wrist in a way that’s not particularly tight but enough to make your skin crawl.

“let’s have a closer look, hm? see if you’ve got the devil in you.”

“let go of me.”

“easy, love. just a peek.” his grin grows vicious. “for safety’s sake.”

just as his other hand reaches for the fastened on your cloak, a familiar voice interjects.

“let her go.”

the men look up, as do you. seonghwa stands in the doorway, his expression like stone as his eyes grow dark with a hand on his blade. the two men before you scoff, shaking their head at his entrance.

“relax, mate. we were just—”

seonghwa’s across the room before you can register his motions. there’s silence, his dagger at the throat of one of the men as he pins him against the wall. his eyes are fierce, commanding as he glares down at the man under his blade.

“try to touch her again and i’ll make sure you’ll never see that hand after this.” the room stills, even the barkeep shocked into silence as the soldier fidgets under seonghwa’s grip. he scoffs, pressing his weight further against the smaller man. “you know who i am? king’s assassin. you think i need to wait for orders to slit your throat for getting in my way?”

the taller man reaches gingerly for his own dagger from his belt behind you, to which seonghwa growls without looking, “i’d rethink that.”

releasing the shaken man with a final shove, he turns and takes your hand—not your wrists, your hand—fingers laced with yours as he pulls you outside and back into the night air. the door slams shut behind you, wind howling from the incoming storm as you wrench your hand out of his grip.

“you didn’t need to do that,” you scold, brushing past him.

“they touched you,” he replies almost too calmly, and you turn back to him with a merciless glint in your eyes.

“it’s not your job to care about my wellbeing.”

“well, it’s my job to take you back to the king unscathed, is it not?”

his words sting, and you can’t help but let out a dark chuckle. “right. just making sure i’m not damaged goods by the time we make it to the castle.”

seonghwa’s jaw tightens as he matches your glare. “don’t twist my words.”

“i’m not. i’m just making sure we’re clear about what this arrangement is.” there’s an obvious bitterness to your voice as you turn on your heel, storming past him and back towards where the carriage was originally stopped. the cold air bites at your skin but it’s nothing compared to the heat rising in your chest.

“where are you going?” he calls after you, exasperation in his own voice as he chases after you.

“anywhere that’s not with you.”

“stop,” he orders, but it’s nothing like the way he’s commanded you over the past several weeks. there’s a sort of panic in his tone, as if he’s worried that you’ll run out of his grasp.

“why?” you snap, turning back to face him. “so you can remind me that i’m a delivery to the king? you only care about someone getting in the way of that, is that it?”

his expression becomes stoic, jaw tightening at your words. “that’s not what i meant.”

“it’s what you said.”

for the first time in weeks, the silence that hangs heavy over you both is ripe with tension, growing uncomfortable by the second. neither of you say anything, staring at one another with an unrecognizable fury. the distance between you is closer than it’s been in weeks and it’s just enough that you swear you can feel his warmth radiating.

“i just thought—” you hear the crack in your voice and stop yourself, shaking your head. “forget it.” there’s a newfound rage brewing in your chest, one that forces you to turn away from him and back to the carriage. “stay at the fucking inn yourself. i’ll be in the carriage.”

“fucking unreasonable,” seonghwa finally snaps, but the door to the inn slams shut before you can even respond.

the hours of the night crawl by, seonghwa lying in bed but fully awake. the chaise across from him in the dimly lit room is untouched, where he should’ve been with you fast asleep in the room with him. the rain starts soft, twin to the wind before it picks up and turns into a full-blown storm. he sits up and stares out at the storm, jaw tight.

you’re out there.

he tells himself you’re fine, but the thought of you curled up and shivering under your cloak in the carriage gnaws at him. the assassin in him questions if you’d run, but the louder voice in his mind asks if you needed his help. he tells himself it’s only common courtesy to check on you as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

just then, the door creaks open. you’re soaked to the bone, the cloak wet and clinging to your frame as you stare at him with hair plastered around your face. his eyes widen for a moment, a forcibly stern expression washing over his face as he arches an eyebrow.

“thought you would have run by now.”

“tried to.” you stare down at your feet, shuffling against the floorboards awkwardly. “but we’re well past the countryside and the capital’s not exactly welcoming of a soaking wet witch.” with seonghwa remaining silent, you sigh and shove the cloak off of you so that it hits the floor with a dull thud. you don’t meet his eyes, but you can feel them on you.

“pretty fucking stupid to stay out there when a storm was clearly rolling in.”

you arch an eyebrow, standing closer to the fire at the further end of the room in an attempt to feel some warmth return to your body. even your magic had grown weak being so far away from your comfort zone, no real time to meditate and recharge your abilities—especially in the face of a particularly angry mother nature.

“that’s rich coming from you when you were able to slit a soldier’s throat for being irritating.”

he scoffs, tearing his gaze away from you. “they touched you.”

“and you tied me up,” you snap back, stern as ever. there was clearly unresolved tension that hung thick in the room as you faced the fire defiantly. “dragging me across the continent to do the king’s bidding isn’t much kinder, now is it?”

“you don’t understand.”

“then help me understand, seonghwa. go ahead.” you shift your eyes back towards him, arms crossed over your chest. the cold still bites at your skin, but you try your best to ignore it. “enlighten me.”

“you think i don’t want to let you go?” seonghwa’s voice is quiet, softer than you’d ever heard it. “i’ve wanted to set you free every fucking day since the night you healed me. every day i’ve thought about that possibility. but i have no control over what they’d do to you if you’d stayed on the run. they wouldn’t just chase you. they’d make an example of you.”

“and so this is your mercy?” you ask, your question caught in a laugh laced with sarcasm. you feel the rage rising in your chest again, this time with a mixture of emotions you can’t quite put your finger on. “dragging me from my home like livestock to be slaughtered? you’re no better than them.”

“you think i have a choice?” he rises from the bed, his voice strained as he leaves mere inches between you. “you think i’m any more free than you are?”

a roll of thunder strikes between you and you narrow your eyes at him, choosing your next words carefully.

“no. i think you’re a coward who hides behind duty. it’s easier for you to say that than admit you chose to be terrible.”

for the first time, seonghwa snakes his hand through your hair, tugging your head back so that your breath hitches. his eyes are dark, furious as his breathing becomes quick and shallow.

“you don’t get to say that to me,” he growls.

“or what?” you hiss back, lifting your chin. “you’ll punish me?”

“don’t tempt me, witch.” seonghwa spits the insult for the first time in weeks, a direct hit at your pride. it’s an obvious curse, his weak attempt at trying to get under your skin. it’s back on his tongue, filthy and bitter and something that should fuel you with undeniable rage.

but instead, you smile. something about it is thrilling, as if you know you’ve begun to get under his skin. realization dawns on him as he arches an eyebrow.

“you’re enjoying this,” he says, more to himself than to you. “you like making me angry.” his smile is twin to yours, hand still in your hair as the other reaches to unsheathe the blade against his hip. the hiss of metal stings the air as he brings it to rest at the edge of your throat, not quite on skin but close enough to make you hold your breath. you’re afraid to swallow out of worry that it’ll slice through your pulse.

“at least when you’re angry, you’re finally honest,” you manage, holding his gaze. the blade shifts ever so slightly, tracing the skin just under your jaw. you don’t flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“careful,” he murmurs, tipping the dagger just enough to nip at your skin. it leaves no mark but you gasp at the feeling, earning a lopsided smirk from seonghwa as his eyes drown in yours. “i’m not good at controlling myself when i’m angry. might very well kill you right here instead of taking you to the king.” he pulls on your hair, your neck fully exposed for him as he catches a glimpse of the way your eyes flutter shut against your will. “tell him you put up a decent fight.”

“will you mention to him what really happened here?” you ask, your voice steady as you bring your gaze to his once more. “his most trusted assassin, fucking a filthy witch?”

a deep darkness flickers across his eyes before he tosses the blade onto the table behind you, the clatter of metal against wood sharp as he grabs you and pulls you into a crushing kiss.

you can’t help but moan against his mouth, a messy battle of teeth and tongue as your fingers claw at the fabric covering the nape of his neck. his lips trail down to your jaw, biting and bruising the skin with a low growl.

“you hate me, don’t you?” you question as he slips his arms under you in one swift movement and throws you onto the bed.

“i fucking despise you,” he snarls, pupils blown wide as you resist against his every move. even as you bring your legs together, he forces them apart and presses you down into the mattress. he traps you under the weight of his body, knee firmly between your thighs as he presses against your core. you moan at the sensation, hands pinned above your head as seonghwa rests his forehead against yours.

“and yet, you still so desperately want to touch me,” you utter breathlessly, fighting against the urge to writhe under his touch as he grinds circles against your clit. “isn’t that right?”

“say the word and i’ll stop,” seonghwa groans against your lips, almost as if he’s begging you not to. you stare up at him, breaking the kiss to shake your head defiantly. he pulls your skirts up your legs, eyes raking hungrily over your bare thighs before his eyes return to yours. “let me show you just how much i hate you, then.”

you didn’t even notice when he’d unfastened his belt, positioning himself at your entrance. no part of you registered how badly you’d wanted this for the past several weeks against every waking sense in your mind. every part of your being was screaming at you that this was a terrible idea, that sleeping with the enemy would never end well.

even then, you can’t help but cry out, back arching when he pushes into you. he captures your mouth in another messy, heated kiss as he thrusts into you, his restraint snapping. every thrust feels like a twisted kind of punishment you only wanted more and more of, every movement hitting exactly where you needed it to as you rake your hands through seonghwa’s raven hair. there’s no gentleness to his touch as he presses your hips into the mattress with his lips latched onto your neck in an attempt to stifle his groans.

the sounds that escape you are unholy, nails raking across the shirt on his back as an idea flickers briefly across your mind. you throw your head back, fighting against the pleasure of teeth and tongue against your skin as you utter a soft incantation that wraps itself around seonghwa. the warmth of the spell surges against his skin, something he clearly notices as his eyebrows furrow in confusion, hips staggering into an uneven pace.

“what the fuck was that?” he growls, but it sounds like more of a whimper as he succumbs to the pleasure you’d brought on.

“just helping a little,” you reply breathlessly, arching your hips against his to meet his thrusts.

“don’t—” seonghwa chokes out, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he fails to keep his composure. his skin is burning against yours, a pathetic moan finally escaping him. “don’t use that fucking witchcraft on me.”

“doesn’t it feel good?” you purr, threading a hand back through his hair and pulling him down to you. he looks at you with half-hooded eyes, lips parted in a feeble attempt to steady his breathing. he slams into you harder, as if he could fuck the spell away and make you suffer for making him feel good with your pagan magic. it only makes him groan more, the sound strangled and desperate as you lean into the pleasure that rocks against your core. “let me hear how much you hate me, assassin.”

even in your attempt to twist seonghwa’s emotions, you can feel your own climax quickly approaching in a tidal wave. he thrusts into you more forcefully, forehead pressed to yours as your breath mingles with his. you lock your eyes on his, something in his gaze gnawing at your core as you feel your stomach tighten and twist into knots just begging to come undone. he picks up on this, catching your bottom lip between his teeth with a final groan as he releases into you. a gasp slips past your own lips as your breath is caught in your throat, a drawn-out moan following as you come soon after him.

the next few minutes were painfully silent as seonghwa pries himself off of you, directing you to the bathroom to get cleaned up while he drapes the wet cloak and sheets on the armchairs near the fireplace. he averts your gaze as you get changed into the clothes the inn provided, as if watching you change would be any more inappropriate than his cock buried in you just moments prior.

you settle onto the floor beside the fireplace, hands in your lap as you stare at the flickering embers. seonghwa does the same, not saying a word as his chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths.

it was quick, messy.

it never should have happened.

[nightmarenyxx]

𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓒𝓱𝓮𝓬𝓴 1, 2, 3...

->.. Where Y/N lands a job at JYP Ent. and gets assigned to work with Stray Kids, a popular K-pop Boy Band and accidentally starts off on the wrong foot with Felix..

Warnings: cursing, angst, fluff, (idrk what more rn but I'll update it as I go)

Trope: Enemies to Lovers

Italics are thoughts (tho I don't know how much ill actually use these)

A/n: I KNOW it's hella short this time BUT I promise that the next chapter will be much much longer than this, I just don't know how much more I can extend this chapter..

You were nervous and excited as you stand at the big building in Seoul, also known as JYP Entertainment. You miraculously landed a job with the company and had just come in for your first day to be assigned to a group as a staff member.

Entering the building, you immediately go to the reception giving the lady at the desk a wide smile and giving her your details so she could inform you about the group that you'll officially be working with and the directions towards where they currently might be.

Following the directions to what seemed like the dance practice room you spotted a vending machine with drinks, rushing over, you get a coke and spot the dance room right across.

Taking a slight peek inside before going inside you spot the staff members, but none of the idols.

It's alright y/n, you can do it. Just don't bump into anyone and you'll be perfectly fine..

You turn the doorknob and..

*THUD*

You fell on the floor.

Great job y/n, did JUST the thing I told you not to do.

You open your eyes and see Felix. fallen. right in front of you. And his boba all over the floor. Your eyes widen as--

"Oh my gosh, I'm really sorry let me help you---"

"Leave it. I just wanted one damned thing to happen properly and not have it be messed up and some fucking lady decides to mess it all up. God why can I just have one normal day!? "

He gets up and leaves to what you assume is the washroom to clean up.

Kinda rude.

You proceed to get up and compose yourself enough to introduce yourself to the rest of the members, even though you already know them. Who wouldn't in this day and age?

Right as you go up to the others, felix comes from behind and joins them in the line and they start introducing themselves.

"Hana, dul, Step out annyeonghaseyo Stray Kids Imnida! "

You smile at them and introduce yourself too

"Hello! I'm y/n and I'm joining as one of your staff members as one of them have been fired for doing some things which they shouldn't have done, but dont worry because I'll make sure to have you guys be comfortable! "

The guys then disperse to eat their food and you visibly deflate and look around the entire room when you notice the person you know as Han Jisung coming towards you with a buldak Tteobokki and chopsticks.

"Y/n right? I'm Han Jisung, member of 3racha which is the producing unit of Stray Kids. I hope you have a great time with us and dont mind Felix, he's usually a sunshine but his day has not been going good today so he's just really cranky"

He says all this while looking like an actual quokka with food stuffed in his cheeks. He actually does look like a quokka.

"Ah, that's why he's so different.. It's understandable, even I would be hella grumpy if my day wasn't going well.. "

Just as he finishes his Tteobokki, the kids have to go elsewhere for a meeting with the other producers.

"You guys have meeting with producers as well? " You ask Jisung confused

"Well yeah, since we have concerts coming up, the producers need our opinions on the tracks and beats in them. "

They have a concert coming up? How did I not know that? The hell?

You follow them to the producing room, trying not to piss Felix off and communicating with the other members while he just keeps staring at you.

Weirdo.

Taglist: @jisunggy @skyracha @staytinyarmy @niki788 @ilovetocas1 @d3kstar @velvetmoonlght @hash2013 @hwangjoanna @st4rv3lly @angel-writes-skz-here (open)

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

Hiiii

can you plz write future lookism AU where 1st gen kings + James find out that their daughter (high schooler) has a boyfriend I think it would be hilarious

thanks ❤

I don't know whether it's hilarious, but here we are, I had fun writing this❣️ hope you enjoy :)

Characters: James Lee, Kitae Kim, Jichang Kwak, Jinrang, Jaegyeon Na, Taesoo Ma, Seongji Yuk.

JAMES LEE

He will create a nurturing yet disciplined environment where enjoyment and growth coexist. His daughter won’t be spoiled, he loves her deeply, but to him, love also means ensuring her well-being and development.

So when a no-name, good-for-nothing loser ends up dating his daughter, James is absolutely stumped, how did this clown even manage to get near her?

He’ll give a cold, deadly stare and instantly dig up the guy’s full history, geography, and psychology like it’s a mission.

If this guy genuinely makes his daughter happy, and James believes she’s made an informed, mature decision, he won’t interfere. He wants her to grow as a person, and relationships, good or bad, are part of that journey.

But let me be very clear: if something goes wrong, Mr. Boyfriend might find himself mysteriously missing a few fingers... or limbs. Who knows? 🤭

KITAE KIM

Immediate axe-out!!! Mr. Boyfie , I hope your cardio's good.....run.

Kitae isn’t entertaining any cockroaches around his daughter. He knows how men can be, he’s seen it firsthand, starting with his own scumbag of a father.

No amount of begging will work. In his mind, his daughter is still way too young to even think about dating. There’s a right time for everything, and this is not it.

Now imagine a 6’7” giant charging with an axe in one hand, chasing down Mr. Boyfie… and the daughter running after him, trying to stop the madness.

Even in the rare event, he gives his approval, because no matter what, he doesn’t want to be the reason for his daughter’s sadness—he’ll keep a very strict eye.

Tears? Bad mood? One wrong move? That axe is coming out of his pocket again🤣

JICHANG KWAK

Think of how Manager Kim reacted when Minji brought a guy home, that will be Jichang. 😂

Now, he’s not the overprotective type at all. He believes his daughter should live her best life. But her well-being? That’s everything to him.

He’ll run a background check, not just for safety, but also for fun, and might even throw in a casual threat involving a bullet, just for laughs.

If the guy turns out to be kind, genuine, and respectful, Jichang has no issue.

But if he finds even the slightest red flag, he’ll push for a breakup fast. His daughter can hate him if she wants, but he refuses to sit back and watch someone else break her heart.

JINRANG

He’s got a solid head on his shoulders. Like a wolf: calm but overprotective. He knows choices like these shape a person for life.

First question he asks the guy after he hears she’s dating:“Are you James Lee’s dog?” LMAO.....yes, that’s real😂😂 He’s testing the guy’s character, strength, independence, whether this boy has his own backbone or just blindly follows others.

His daughter’s safety and well-being are his top priorities, but he’ll never suffocate her growth.

Instead, he gently makes her do a pinky promise: “No matter what happens, or who walks into your life, always remember, you can rely on Dad. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” A genuinely good father, with the right balance of care and protection.

He’s not against dating. Even if things fall apart, he’ll handle it with maturity and calm, but let it be known: if the guy steps out of line, he will vanish. Murder? Not off the table.

JAEGYEON NA

He will literally run his car over the poor guy, zero shame, zero fear. The law? Irrelevant. Because in Jaegyeon's eyes, this boy already broke the first and most sacred law: pursuing his precious daughter.

Now imagine this: his daughter is on a sweet little ice cream date with her boyfriend. Jaegyeon spots them by chance.

Suddenly, it turns into a full-on Bollywood scene, his car turns in slow motion, dramatic background music blaring, jaw dropped, eyes bulging, multiple-angle cinematic shots🤣 Then... he floors the accelerator.....full speed ahead, aiming straight at Mr. Boyfie. 💀

He’s hurling every curse and profanity that comes to mind. Mr. Boyfie is so traumatized that he might just beg her to break up.

Jaegyeon isn’t against love. He just won’t let some average Joe ruin his daughter’s happiness. Teenage hormones? He knows all about them. He’s certain she’ll find the right one someday. But definitely not right now.

TAESOO MA

Another one in the category of healthy dads with strong boundaries. When he finds out his daughter’s dating, he doesn’t lose it. He sees it as a natural part of teenage life, but warns her to stay cautious and alert to red flags.

He’s raised her with strong values and a clear sense of self, so he trusts she wouldn’t just fall for any random guy.

Not throwing shade at above men, but come on, have you seen how Taesoo treats Hudson?It’s a tearjerker....that perfect mix of discipline and motivation, of grit and love.

He won’t meddle unnecessarily in her personal life, but he’ll always be there in the background, offering a gentle yet firm nudge to make sure she’s walking the right path.

SEONGJI YUK

The chillest dad out of the entire bunch. Honestly, all he wants is for his precious, adorable little girl to be happy and healthy,that’s it.

He won’t throw tantrums or launch threats. His daughter would likely come to him herself and say, “Dad… I have a boyfriend.” He’ll probably just nod and say, “Okay. Just be careful. And make sure he respects you, not just as my daughter, but as a human being.”

But deep down… a quiet sadness will settle in. Time moves too fast. The same little girl who once held his hand just to walk straight is now slowly stepping away. He’ll have quiet moments where he mulls it over. He’ll sigh, smile faintly, and accept it.

Because at the end of the day, if she’s safe, healthy, and truly happy, then he’s okay too. That’s what being a father means to him.

[nogutsnogloria]

adding a reader into events that really happened in animal kingdom… because someone should have been there at all times to just give pope a hug. if you liked this let me know and maybe i can keep doing it?

andrew pope cody x reader

warnings: this follows the storyline of animal kingdom so if you don’t wish to be spoiled then don’t keep reading. however it also deviates from the original plot of the show a bit as well. contains violence, guns, blood, character death, mentions of suicide, swearing, angst, hurt, proud member of the j cody haters club.

you didn’t know why smurf asked you to come along on this job - you’ve tried to keep out of her family business since you’ve started dating her oldest son. but she insisted that you join this job.

however now sitting in the truck with her and andrew driving up some deserted farm area. she tells him to park the truck under a tree. the two of them hop out and she looks back at you telling you to get out as well.

you open the back door and slide out keeping your distance and keeping quiet.

you decided as soon as you were trapped in the truck with her that your actual mission was to make sure andrew can get out of whatever this is, unscathed.

you watch in your own version of silent horror as smurf tells andrew that his father is buried under the tree - you have an uneasy feeling in your stomach. a silent voice telling you that this feels like it won’t end well. soon you are being rushed by a couple of men with guns. they stop once they realize smurf brought you here.

you find yourself now up on the front porch of a house looking at old pictures of pope and julia’s father. smurf is asking about guns but you can’t keep your eyes off andrew, knowing how all this information must be rolling in his head. you want to just grab him and make a run for it out of this place.

discussions are made and you find yourself heading towards a bunker, and in the blink of an eye you find yourself in the middle of a fire-fight with no weapon.

sprinting you are able to hop into the back bed of the truck and lay low, as andrew picks up a kicking and screaming smurf and throws her into the passenger seat.

he’s racing down the road to where the meeting spot was.

once the truck stops you stand up in the bed and hop down staring at deran and craig wide eyed, and breathing through the panic attack bubbling up trying to somehow warn them silently to what is about to transpire here.

you have become close to them when they finally realized you weren’t a threat to the family - even helping deran run the bar most nights. you also knew about nick and have been helping craig and ren settle into new parent life the past couple of days.

you have never seen smurf like this. she was usually scary in a calm and calculated way, now she was absolutely off the rails going insane yelling at her boys and you have never felt more terrified of her. she grabs deran’s gun and starts waving it around. andrew steps in-front of you blocking her line of fire to you. she’s screaming at craig to give andrew his gun. “andrew, please don’t” you say to him and you watch the fire light up more into smurfs eyes, pope walks you over to craig and basically trades him you for his gun. craig and deran now becoming your human shields.

you feel tears prick your eyes and your breathing pick up as you watch what is unfolding. how smurf admits to this job being a suicide mission and how she, andrew and yourself by association should be dead in that field you just escaped from. she’s begging andrew to shoot her and he is refusing. you know he won’t pull the trigger. that is until she fires at him first and you instinctively jolt forward craig having to hold you back. this escalates things everyone yelling trying to get through to smurf and pope when a single bullet goes off shot by j, instantly killing smurf and splattering her blood all over the five of you. craig lets you go and you rush over to andrew who is bent over gagging up nothing. you place your hand and silently rub in between his shoulders. he stands up and looks you over making sure you’re at least physically unharmed from all this. you continue to silently rub his back as a hopeless attempt at comfort, as he reaches to his bullet grazed ear. the boys pick up smurf and load her into the suv and you all silently ride home. you upfront in the middle seat beside him and craig while pope drives you all to the house. he has a vice like grip on your left hand.

arriving at the house you head inside in a trance leaving the boys to process what just happened as a family. you shower off everything. scrubbing your skin raw to try and remove all the bad of the day, it’s useless. silently crying in the shower, the stream hiding your tears. you get out of the shower throwing on some sleep shorts and one of pope’s softest t-shirts and lie down in the bed curling into yourself making yourself as small as possible.

he comes in a short while later stopping at the door to watch you before heading into the bathroom to clean himself up before crawling in behind you wrapping his arms around you pulling you as close as he can.

“are you okay?” you murmur. he just leaves a light kiss on the back of your head and hugs you tighter. “are you?” he asks in his lowered rasp. you turn in his arms to look into his sad eyes and lightly shake your head. “no” you say as a slight whisper. he just gives you a kiss on your forehead and pulls you tightly into his chest where you fall asleep clinging to him.

you wake up into the morning to him gone from the bed. so you get up and head into the kitchen where you find j sitting at the island eating toast. you give him a nod and head over to the coffee pot pouring yourself a cup. “is pope here?” you ask him. he shakes his head at you giving you a look that lets you know he doesn’t know where he went either. you sigh and decide to get ready to head into the bar.

at the bar you start the opening tasks, you’re cutting limes when deran comes in and sits at the bar in-front of you. you stop what you’re doing and ask him if he’s okay. he gives a nod that doesn’t really convince you and asks you the same question back. “i’m fine”. you sigh and start back up slicing limes hoping he drops it. “have you heard from pope today?” you ask head down still cutting limes. he gives you the same answer that j did and you huff out a breath and nod. “how is he?” deran asks you. you keep slicing limes. “i don’t know, i have never seen him really like this, and i feel like the answer to your question is probably not good” you look him up into his eyes with a sad look. deran nods “yeah he’s been honestly really good since he met you back at the bar that first time you came in here” you bite your cheek nod back finishing up cutting limes.

the door opens and it’s craig. you try to hide your disappointment that it isn’t andrew. he comes and gives you a little side hug that you return. “how’s the little dude” you smile at him glad he has something good going on in his life right now. “he sleeps, he eats, he shits, he cries.” You huff a genuine laugh “so he’s perfect then” you look up to him smiling. he smiles back. “i kinda thought maybe you and pope would have been first.” you breathe in and exhale. “yeah, well.” you shrug. “how is he?” you really wish everyone would stop asking you that but you keep that thought to yourself. “i don’t know where he is right now… so” you say finally feeling a bit emotional now. “hey… he’s just out being pope all stoic and shit” craig says trying to calm you down. you work on pulling yourself together when deran speaks. “i don’t think he’s going to mess up coming home to you, i think he just needs some time.” you nod at them and turn to distract yourself some more making sure the kegs and taps are all set. you don’t see it but craig and deran share a look clearly worried about you as well.

deran says something has come up at the house so he’s asked you to close up the bar for the night. this is nothing new as you know a family meeting can be called whenever. so you lock everything up and get set to leave when you realize you’ve actually never had to leave the bar alone in the dark before. andrew is usually there stacking the stools and mopping the bar. you push down the feelings of being a bit nervous about what could be waiting and place your keys in your hands to make a bit of a weapon in case someone is waiting to attack and mentally prepare your route to the bus stop.

when you head down the alley after locking the back door you are met with andrew leaning on the hood of smurfs white jag. you don’t think you have ever been so relieved to see him so you walk a little faster over to him and hug him impossibly tight, his grip on you matching. “i really, really missed you today” you let him know from your spot against his chest. he runs his hand down the length of your hair smoothing it down your back and says. “i know, im sorry, i missed you too.” he leads you to the passenger side door and opens it for you to get in. he climbs in and starts the drive to the house. you couldn’t help yourself so you start playing with his curls right above his ear scratching his head with your nails as he drives and you don’t want to push him if he’s not ready to talk, but you know he can tell that you really want to ask him something. “i didn’t mean to completely disappear on you today, i had some things i needed to take care of” pope looks over to you. “i know, it’s okay.” still playing with the curls in his hair he reaches up to grab your hand so he can kiss your knuckles and pull your joined hands to his heart, playing with your fingers as he keeps driving. “it’s not really okay, but i promise to make it up to you” he murmurs into the dark of the drive. you want to argue but again choose not to pick a fight over something like this so you choose to change the subject. “deran had me closing the bar because a family meeting was called, so why did you come to pick me up? not that i would ever complain about that.” he looks over at you and gives you a little smile. “when deran showed up and told us that you were still at the bar alone i told them that they could wait for me to come back from picking you up to start the meeting, i wanted to punch him for leaving you but i didn’t. i just got up and headed straight to you.” something about him saying he just wanted to head straight to you made you feel a bit fuzzy inside. “i love you, i hope you know that” you say as he pulls into the garage at the house. he kisses your hand again. “i don’t deserve it, but i love you too. so much.” he gets out of the car before you can argue with him about it and heads to the back patio. you get out and follow him out back waving at the boys on your way inside.

when your inside you follow the same routine as the night before: showering, changing and climbing into bed. this time though you don’t close yourself off from the world. you actually are probably taking up too much of the bed now having migrated closer to popes side of the bed closest to the door. when he finally comes in he thinks you might be asleep hugging his pillow so just strips down to his boxers and climbs in pulling you close to his chest. you stir a bit in his arms and sit up. you put your hands on his face stroking his cheeks. “you deserve good things andrew cody, and i will tell you every day, ten times a day until you believe it.” he responds with a small nod and then by pulling you down to his chest and kissing the top of your head running his hands up and down your spine until you fall asleep. he drifts off with you in his arms, and your words echoing in his head. he’s allowed to have good things, but he already has the best thing that has ever happened to him and she fits in his arms on his chest.

[eraserbread]

ex-hubby!gojo for the sinners au next pls 🙏🏾 🙏🏾 i think he'd be a little unhinged ab needing to be w her again, but actually forever this time

it's just not in your nature to turn down your ex husband, gojo, when he shows up in the middle of the night ✧

→f!reader, relationsip angst, no curses vampire sinners!au, manipulation, sfw

yes, you're sleep deprived, but you're not crazy.

the tapping on your windows—rustling leaves outside of your bedroom—wasn't just a hallucination. now, that tapping and rustling have shifted towards the other side of the room, pausing every few seconds just to start again.

you ran and hid against the wall, tucked under the window where you heard the initial tapping. it yanked you from your sleep, now you're in pitiful pajamas, heart racing dangerously in your chest. it feels like you're about to have a heart attack—surely someone is scoping out the area to try and rob you... right?

a defenseless divorcee that wears her sorrow on her sleeve would surely be an easy grab, you don't even blame the assailant for trying.

"are you seriously hiding from me?"

the voice slaps you sideways—fucking satoru. the rustling stops, and the wind whistles against the cool glass. you're nearly shaking, fingers digging half-moons into your bare knees.

no, this couldn't be him... satoru is far too prideful to show up at your doorstep like this. after days of not answering messages or calls, he's back so entirely, it's like he never left.

you two haven't really talked more than a few words since he got the divorce papers. he's been hanging it over your head, telling you he'd sign them if you just give him a day... then another... next, he'd have to see you face-to-face. then a meeting forces him to cancel, and the papers go unsigned.

it's why you're so exhausted, and why he's so adamant.

"are you crazy? you scared the hell out of me." once you've gained your nerve, you're peeking up from your crumpled kneel, eyes just barely passing the jutting windowsill before you're seeing him.

towering over you, thin white hair ruffled like he ran all the way here. his eyes are bright, uncovered beams illuminating the darkness of your soul, but it's him.

unmistakably, satoru is standing outside your window—a flimsy pane of glass keeping you apart.

he doesn't answer you, instead he reaches straight-faced into the chest of his hoodie, pulling out a sickeningly familiar bundle of papers. you watch him flip through the drawn-out pages until he reaches the end, never once taking his eyes off those words. then, he holds the last page to the window, showing off the fresh signature he placed on the dotted line.

you heart drops... in a good way.

he lowers that paper and your gazes meet. he's not hiding emotion well, though he's not crying, his eyes are downturned. almost predatory in the way they're pulling you in for pity.

"why didn't you just call me?" you're trying to get anything out of him, at this point. why he's here when he could've just mailed it to you, or why he's knocking and tapping on every window in your space.

"you were asleep."

"then, just leave them right there. i'll get them in the morning."

gojo stares for a second, then glances down as if he's checking a watch. "sun won't rise for another five hours." he steps back, arm motioning to the tight squeeze he had to endure between trees just to get your attention. "and I don't have access to the building."

you sigh, fingers moving to open the locks on the window. he could walk all the way around to the front, but then so would you. you wish he'd just leave the papers and fuck off.

cold night air flushes forward as the window pulls open, making you step back and guard your warm skin. satoru's eyes take you in once nothing is keeping you apart, picking you down to the core. it's shameless, you're exposed.

"give me the papers." you bite, thrusting an empty hand into the night. satoru stands quietly for a second, looking down at your hand, then to your avoidant face and static appearance.

"just the papers? you don't want me to come in?"

"no." you decide, beckoning them into your grip with a curl of the fingers. you're staring stubbornly over your shoulder, completely blocking him out because you know how weak you are. just one turn of the mouth, and you'll be pulling him to your bed.

"i'm not giving you anything until you let me in." he's being strict—it's unlike him—but it's making you swallow down nerves, and your body temperature rises as danger sets in.

everything you see in front of you screams satoru gojo, but when he opens his mouth... god, it's so different.

"leave them outside." you're begging now, voice soft and nervous in your throat. still, you can't turn and look at him. you can see his bright reflection in the window glass, but you can't focus on it. your skin starts to break out in goosebumps.

when curiosity catches on, you flit your eyes towards him, pitching a surprised, little frightened whine when you see the stare he's giving you. his bright, blue eyes are opened twice as wide as they should be, reddened and exhausted in the corners, with pupils the size of saucers.

two hands pressed to the plastic of the sill, his muscles flex and bend like something is keeping him from jumping inside. his long fingers are red, dripping with craze as he grinds his nails down to stumps.

"you're tearing me apart, and you don't even care." he growls, manic reflection drawing closer as he kneels to your height. strangely, you feel safe behind this window. it's like he can't come in—he won't show you this unstable side of himself to your face, only through open windows.

"we settled on this divorce twice. you agreed." you're trying to be the calm voice of reason in this situation, taking a tentative step back. you don't want to look at him anymore, you just want him to go away.

"to have my money, property, and life stripped from me? did you even think about me once?"

"we aren't good together! how many times do we have to continue proving that?!"

"as many times as we need to, because this is a fucking marriage—

you're feeling brave enough to reach out and slam the window down on his sentence, not worried about his fingers or his uncanny reflexes. you wouldn't fight with him tonight, and you figure he must be strung out on something serious to show up at your door so maniacal.

it's like the slam lowers him back to earth, because he's fixing his posture, running a slow hand through his hair as he looks down on you. his stare has evened out into something more reminiscent of the one you studied so many years ago.

"go home, satoru." you finish, grabbing the curtain to yank it over his reflection.

you can't see him anymore, so you think that's it. you stand for a second, hands pressed to your hips as you try to come down from the ordeal. something's not right—your brain doesn't believe it, but your heart does.

as you turn around to leave him in the dust, a soft single thud falls onto the glass, then as soft as the night, you can hear him whisper, "all I need is one more night, and I think I can be okay without you."

you're peering over your shoulder like you heard a ghost, lips parted in utter shock. it's the first time in all of your years, that he's given you that tone. so pure—innocent right down to the bone.

"can't you see? i love you so much that I'm willing to let you go..."

he sits ignored for a few moments.

"i know nothing will ever be the same with us, but you're all I think about."

"our bodies don't deserve to suffer, lets give them what they need just one last time."

you're not sure which of his pleas hit you the hardest, but you're hesitating as you give in and pull the curtain back. he's still there, forehead pressed to the glass, splayed open palm kissing the surface.

in the moonlight, your satoru looks so pale and uncommon. he's glowing as he blinks up at you, porcelain reflection cracking at the edges when you're pushing attention onto him.

and that palm is twisting into a fist, his eyes bright like those of a happy puppy about to be reunited with his owner.

one last time couldn't hurt...

it's what you tell yourself to dull the feeling of your inescapable demise. you're pulling that window back open, biting over your bottom lip as you let him crawl inside, one long leg at a time.

when he's in your space, hunching over you like an entity, hands closed around your meek shoulders, you're warm. it's familiar, here, like it's where you want to take your last breath.

nobody can really blame you, after all. he knows just what you need— how to get you off so you can sleep the night away like a drunk. the shame in your bones has dissipated into steam, and the divorce papers are cold and lifeless as satoru fishes them out and presses them to your chest.

"i want to try something." his voice is deep, you can feel it reverberate through your body and into your soul. he's holding your chin at level, making sure you're not looking anywhere that wasn't where he needed.

right now his face is morphing into something that panned out so perfectly within his calculation that he was holding back a laugh.

mm—sweet mercy. now you're finally going to be together forever.

[posiescosycorner]

you, me and the guy from work

pairing: katsuki bakugo x reader/ shouto todoroki x reader

summary: You control the elements, live with your best friend and might be falling for your co-worker. It's fine. You're totally fine.

prologue

Bakugo was not not happy that Kirishima finally pulled his head out of his ass and asked Mina out. He had suffered enough the past four years, watching the moony eyed idiot pine and pine away for a person so clearly interested in him but did the idiot really have to move in with her. More specifically, leave him significantly roommate-less. 

He was a pro hero now. A damn good one at that, slowly creeping towards the top, just as he planned. Money wasn’t exactly hard to come by but he was used to Ei being in his space, used to not coming back to an empty home. It was a comfort. It was something to rely on after the hell he went through. 

Here he was in Ei and Mina’s new apartment surrounded by the idiots he called friends, absolutely shit faced in the name of a house warming. He grunted as Denki leaned on him, singing some god awful song in a god awful voice, smelling every bit as the bottle of whiskey he downed. 

The idiots. 

He places the blonde against the sofa, as he continues waxing poetic about true love as he goes to get some water in the kitchen. He sees Eijirou with his arms around Mina, pressing a kiss onto her forehead as they sway in the kitchen to the beats of Denki’s offensive singing. 

“I can’t decide whats worse,” he starts, “watching you two eggheads pine after each other or this.” Eijirou and Mina, burst out of their bubble, turn to him looking absolutely flushed. 

“Whatever blasty,” Mina says pulling his cheeks, “You’re just jealous you have to share your boyfriend.” 

A crash sounds from the hall. Mina sighs and goes to check on the damage. Not before pressing a final kiss to Eijirou’s lips as he watches her go with the most lovesick expression Bakugo has the misfortune of experiencing. 

He gags. 

“You’re so disgustingly in love.” he states, before going to the fridge to grab some water. 

It just makes Kirishima smile brighter, knowing the blonde well enough to understand he was happy for him. 

“Man, you just know. You know,” he breathes out, head still in the clouds, “ With someone you love so much, the big decisions don’t seem so big. You’re just impatient for the next step.” 

“God you’re such a sap,” Bakugo says, punching the red-head’s shoulders. 

“Hey man, I’m really sorry for skipping out on you so quickly.” Kirishima says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. He knew Bakugo did not cope well with change.But, he’d recently found a solution to Bakugo’s problem. 

“If anything, I’m glad I don’t get a front row seat to whatever I walked into” he quips back with no real malice. Kirishima could see the fondness in his eyes. He wishes more people could see what him and his friends could see in Bakugo. 

He wasn’t just gruff Pro Hero Dynamight (having dropped Great Explosion Murder God after the war), he was Katsuki Bakugo. Gruff, grumpy and soft in his own ways. 

Kirishima knew Katsuki would get lonely, and do absolutely nothing about it. He knew he wasn’t good at friend stuff. He knew he needed someone who could see past his rough edges and gruff demeanor. 

“(Y/N)’s moving back to Musutafu,” Kirishima says,”She’s looking for a roommate. Call her.” 

And just like that, Bakugo feels like he’s back in UA. Where for the first time, he felt weak, blasts useless against the water you wielded against him while vines crawled up his legs and paralyzed him. Where you sparkled like a goddamn star in the pretty pink dress you called your hero costume. Where you never backed down from his temper and shovelled your way into his heart with the flowers that grew on you when you were happy. 

He’d call you his best friend. But then the war happened, where he saw you float into the sky, glowing gold as the elements submitted to you as you tore through the enemy lines after you saw him collapse. You, beautiful, strong and ablaze with power he had never thought possible. 

He still considered you a good friend, occasionally talking to you on call. You wished each other on your birthdays. You had the occasional video call.

Why in the fuck would you not tell him you’re back?

authors note: this oc has been swirling in my mind for so long. I just wanted to write about flora, basically the lovechild of aang from avatar and flora from the Winx club. thank you for reading <3 I hope you are as excited for this story as I am. chapter 1 coming tomorrow ps: I'm still figuring Tumblr out lol but happy to be creating instead of consuming with love, posie

[airandyeah]

Footballplayer!Sukuna X Toughgirl!Reader Who Do You Think I Am? Pt.11

My Masterlist Series Masterlist (Yuji and Sukuna are brothers in this)

It’s a few weeks into summer semester, and the heat has finally driven most people to shorts, iced coffee, and complaining.

You’re sprawled across Sukuna’s lap under a shaded tree near the field, your fingers lazily combing through the soft pink ends of his hair as he scrolls through something on his phone. He suddenly perks up like he’s just remembered something very important.

“Hey,” he says, casually—but you know that tone. That I’m-about-to-drop-something-on-you tone.

You hum. “What?”

“My mom wants to meet you.”

Your hand stills.

He shifts, his palm gently squeezing your thigh. “I mean, I was already planning to head home once finals are over. Figured you could come with me for a bit. She’s been asking about you. So’s my little brother.”

You blink. “You talk about me to your mom?”

Sukuna huffs a soft laugh. “You think I don’t?”

It’s quiet for a moment. The thought of meeting his family makes your stomach flip. You're still getting used to all the attention—being Sukuna Ryomen’s girlfriend meant eyes were always on you. But his parents? His little brother? That felt like a whole new level.

“I don’t know…” you murmur, chewing your bottom lip. “That’s kinda big, y’know?”

Before Sukuna can say anything else, your phone buzzes.

Tiffany: Guess who’s going home with Gojo for the summer 😌💋 I’m gonna meet his whole crazy familyyyyy

You stare at the message.

“You okay?” Sukuna asks, noticing your face.

You sigh. “Tiffany’s going back with Gojo.”

Sukuna raises a brow. “So...?”

“So if I stay here I’ll be alone for weeks,” you groan, dropping your head back against the tree.

He leans in, voice warm with hope. “Come with me, babe.”

You glance at him—eyes soft, gentle, inviting.

Your chest tightens a little.

“…Okay,” you say at last, and the grin that splits across his face almost makes the nerves worth it.

“Really?”

You nod. “But if your mom hates me, I’m stealing your motorcycle and leaving in the middle of the night.”

Sukuna laughs loud and full, tugging you up into a kiss. “If she hates you, I’m disowning myself.” ~~~

Your thighs are sore, your hair is windswept, and your heart hasn’t stopped nervously flipping since you left campus this morning.

Sukuna parks at the base of a long driveway, the kind with tall trees lining either side, casting shade like a welcome embrace. A modest but well-kept house sits at the top of the hill, the front yard sprawling with flowerbeds and a basketball hoop crookedly nailed above the garage.

Before you can even pull off your helmet, a blur of energy comes racing down the driveway.

“Ryoooo!”

A high school-aged boy barrels toward the bike, all limbs and wild grin, nearly toppling Sukuna over with a hug as soon as he swings his leg down. You freeze slightly at the outburst.

The boy pulls back just enough to look up at him. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing your girlfriend, you asshole!”

Your eyes widen slightly as he turns to you with shining eyes and a mop of light pink hair—strikingly similar to Sukuna’s, just a little messier, a little softer.

“You must be her!” he beams. “I’m Yuji—Ryo’s much better-looking younger brother.”

Sukuna scoffs and slaps a hand to the back of his head. “Don’t embarrass me.”

“You mean don’t outshine you,” Yuji grins, stepping forward to help you off the bike, all gentleman-like. “It’s really nice to meet you!”

You give a small, grateful smile—nerves easing at the boy’s easygoing nature.

Sukuna catches your hand as you both start heading up the drive. “They’re gonna love you,” he murmurs low enough for only you to hear.

You squeeze his hand back. They’d better, you think. Because you’re already in love with him, and there’s no turning back now. The front door swings open before the three of you can even reach the porch.

“There you are!” a woman’s voice rings out—warm, bright, and brimming with joy. Sukuna barely gets a step up before a woman rushes out in an apron, flour dusting her cheeks and hands like she ran straight from the kitchen.

“Ryo!” she scolds, ignoring the two boys to beeline straight for you. “You must be the one he won’t shut up about.”

You barely have a moment to process before she pulls you into a tight, maternal hug that smells like sugar and warm bread. It's the kind of hug that makes your throat tighten unexpectedly, full of comfort and unspoken welcome.

“You're so much prettier than he described,” she says with a teasing grin, pulling back to cup your face gently in her hands. “You just let me know if this brute gives you any trouble while you’re here, okay?”

Sukuna groans behind you. “Mom, please.”

She swats at him without looking. “Hush. Let me enjoy this.”

Yuji snickers as he grabs a couple bags and nods you toward the house. “Come on in. Dad’s in the living room. He’ll probably pretend to be scary for five minutes, but he’s just a big softie.”

You follow them inside, stepping into a cozy, sunlit home. The scent of dinner wafts through the air—savory and inviting—and pictures line the hallway: childhood photos of Sukuna and Yuji, school portraits, and candid moments of a happy, chaotic family life.

In the living room, a man with a sharp jaw and silvering hair looks up from a book as you enter. His eyes meet yours, and they’re just like Sukuna’s—piercing and unreadable at first glance.

“So,” he says, closing the book and standing, his expression unreadable. “You’re the girl that’s managed to make my son act like a fool.”

Sukuna shifts beside you, but before either of you can respond, the man’s stern face cracks into a knowing smile. “Takes a strong one to wrangle a boy like him.”

He extends a hand, firm and sure. You take it, offering your name.

“Well,” he says with a nod of approval, “welcome to the family, then.”

Sukuna visibly chokes. ~~~

Sukuna’s room is exactly what you’d expect.

A little messy, a little nostalgic—lined with old sports trophies, band posters, and worn shelves stacked with manga. The bed is still twin-sized, sheets slightly wrinkled, and the curtains cast the room in a warm, golden haze from the afternoon sun.

Yuji dumps the bags by the door before announcing loudly, “I’ll give you guys a second!”—and immediately bolts down the hallway with the smugness of a teenager who knows exactly what he's doing.

The door shuts with a soft click, and the room falls quiet.

Sukuna stands near the bed, scratching at the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s kinda…small. Not what you’re used to, I bet.”

You smile, stepping forward and brushing your fingers lightly along a photo on his dresser—two pink-haired boys grinning up at the camera, one throwing bunny ears behind the other’s head. “No, it’s… nice. Feels like you.”

He glances over at you, and the teasing grin he usually wears softens at the edges. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a quiet stretch between you—comfortable, warm, brimming with everything that hasn’t been said yet. You step toward him again, slower this time, and your fingers brush against his as you both reach for the same bag.

Sukuna doesn’t move. Instead, his hand turns, fingers curling around yours gently. His grip is steady, like he doesn’t want to let go.

“I’m really glad you came,” he says, voice quieter than usual—none of his usual bark or bite, just bare honesty. “It means a lot. You… you mean a lot.”

Your heart stutters, lips parting to respond, but words don’t come.

So you kiss him instead.

It’s not hungry or rushed like the ones behind lockers or at parties. It’s slow. Reverent. The kind of kiss where time feels like it folds in on itself. His hand cradles the side of your face, and your fingers twist into the fabric of his hoodie as if grounding yourself there, in that moment.

When you finally part, his forehead presses against yours.

He murmurs, almost dazed, “I've fallen for you.”

You breathe a shaky laugh. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

He huffs through a grin and kisses you again, shorter this time—sweeter—before pulling you into his arms and onto the bed.

There’s barely enough space, but neither of you seem to care. ~~~

The dinner table is loud, filled with the clink of silverware, bursts of laughter, and the delicious smell of home-cooked food. Sukuna’s mom is all smiles as she dishes out second helpings, his dad leans back in his chair with a beer in hand, and Yuji’s practically vibrating with energy across from you.

You’re nestled beside Sukuna, your thigh brushing his, and every time someone brings up a new story, he groans under his breath like a man preparing for battle.

“So,” Yuji begins, mouth half-full of rice, “has he told you about the time he cried because Mom wouldn’t let him dye his hair neon green in eighth grade?”

Sukuna stiffens, chopsticks pausing midair. “Yuji—”

“She said it would ruin the family photos, and he swore he’d run away if he couldn’t look like the Hulk.”

You laugh into your drink, sputtering slightly as Sukuna shoots his brother a murderous look. “I was going through something! Leave it alone!”

“Oh, oh—wait!” his mom chimes in, eyes sparkling with glee. “What about the time you found his little notebook with all his practice signatures? He wrote Mr. Sukuna like five times—”

“Mom!” he groans, slumping into his chair. “What happened to betrayal not running in the family?”

Yuji smirks like a devil. “You started it when you stole my Halloween candy.”

“I was twelve!”

“And I was seven! That trauma’s still fresh, bro.”

You’re full-on crying now, clutching your stomach as you try to breathe. Sukuna throws his napkin over his face like a defeated soldier while the rest of the table roars with laughter.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he mumbles into the cloth, before suddenly leaping to his feet. “That’s it. He dies.”

Yuji shrieks and bolts from the table just as Sukuna rounds the corner after him. The entire house shakes with the sound of stomping feet and shouted threats.

You’re left at the table, laughing so hard your face hurts, as his mom gently pats your hand. “Welcome to the family, sweetheart. You’re handling this better than most would.”

Still catching your breath, you grin at her, cheeks flushed. “Oh, I’m not handling it. I’m thriving.”

Later that night, the house is quieter, dimly lit by the soft amber of old lamps. Sukuna and Yuji have retreated to the backyard, their laughter echoing through the cracked windows as they throw a football around and argue over rules like oversized kids.

You’re still in the living room, curled into the soft cushions of the couch, sipping warm tea when his mom returns with a thick, slightly worn photo album.

“I thought you might like to see this,” she says, voice calm, carrying that timeless kind of maternal warmth.

You sit up a bit straighter, accepting the heavy book in your lap. She sits beside you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours.

As you flip through the pages, you’re met with a cascade of memories that aren’t yours but feel like stories you’re being welcomed into—Sukuna with a bowl cut and scraped knees, his first soccer team, Halloween costumes ranging from a vampire to a mop-headed punk rocker. Pictures of Yuji as a baby tug at your heart, and in some frames, you can see the exact moment mischief was born into those matching eyes.

“He always looked so tough,” his mom murmurs, gently brushing her fingers over a photo of teenage Sukuna glaring into the camera with a black eye and an arm around Yuji. “But he’s always had a good heart. Even when he didn’t want anyone to know.”

You smile softly, still turning the pages. “He still pretends like he doesn’t care about things. But he really does.”

She hums. “I used to worry, you know? That he’d end up with someone who only wanted the wild side of him. Someone who’d take and take, and never give him space to be soft.” She looks at you then, eyes glassy with emotion, but her smile is genuine. “But then you came in, and suddenly I saw him change without even realizing he had.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“I see how he looks at you,” she adds, voice quieter now, sacred almost. “Like you’re something rare and beautiful that he’s scared he might break if he touches too hard.”

You swallow. “I’m not that delicate.”

She chuckles, dabbing the corner of her eye with a tissue. “I figured. He wouldn’t have fallen for you if you were. But I just wanted you to know—whatever this is between you two... I’m glad it’s you.”

There’s a pause. A silence filled with understanding and affection.

You close the photo album and rest your hand on top of it. “Thank you. For raising someone who makes me feel... like I finally found home.”

And when the front door creaks open and Sukuna calls your name, voice bright with laughter, his mom only squeezes your hand and gives you that kind of smile that doesn’t need words.

Tags: @nina6708 , @sherrieblossoms , @charlie-xo , @iloveredwineee , @kyo-kyo1 , @clp-84 , @book0fdr3ams , @enhasrii , @sanzuhoe , @strangelovedream , @keiva1000 , @tsumoorin Perm tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine , @nina-from-317

[captainuranium543]

Im actually dying rn (i have the common cold) so here's now i think team property damage would react to such ailments

Lucy

She gets dramatic. She is sick and she is dying. She is a beautiful flower wilting far too soon. She is sitting in her bed looking thoughtfully off into the fading evening sun and wondering if she might ever feel its warmth on her skin again. Occasionally, people come by and offer her tea and medicine, mere gestures she knows, it is far too late for her.

In all seriousness lucy takes pretty good care of herself and she will be fine in a couple of days, but during those couple of days she will spend her time alone writing and unironically make some of her best work. Something about being sick unlocks the inner Victorian in her. She is temporarily possessed by William Shakespeare as she feverishly writes the lines of her heart. Sometimes she lies about being sick just to get work done because it's the only time she can be left alone for more than a couple hours, not that it works really, because her team will SIT OUTSIDE HER DOOR and then occasionally knock and ask if she's feeling better yet (they do this at least once every hour without fail)

Gray

Gray also gets better in a couple days but inexplicably so because he does fuck all in terms of actually trying to get better. He refuses any and all medicine. All he does is lie in his house for hours in complete solitude (unfortunately for juvia). He doesnt even sleep he just fucking lies there. People will come by to check up on him, but he will always turn them away and insist he will be fine in 3 days. Nobody ever believes him, but somehow, he is spot on every single time and will show up back at the guild like nothing happened just as people are starting to qomder if hes dead. Nobody knows how or why he does this but hey man if it works it works.

Natsu

You might expect lucy to act like kind of a princess when she's sick given how she was raised but nah. Thats natsu. Natsu will go to the guild because he doesn't like being alone when he's sick and then immediately head for the medbay to make himself a pillow nest worthy of the dragon king. If anyone enters that room he will always make some kind of hyper specific request that needs to be fulfilled immediately or else he will explode. Some such requests include but are not limited to

- chicken soup at 94°C prepared by specifically lucy

- 18 entire rotissary chickens and one lime

- grays head on a silver platter (not delivered)

- for "everyone to shut the fuck up"

In all honesty, people go along with his demands because they know that his dragon sense make being sick and actual nightmare. He can't smell anything, which for him is a bit like going blind, and he's already so overwhelmed by all the things going on within his body that hearing everything within 100km radius starts to drive him a little insane. He needs to be in the guildhall because he wants to be close enough to sense everyone still, but he also cannot deal with the usual noise so he baracades himself in pillows and everyone tries really hard to be quiet for his sake. Luckily, natsu has a pretty killer immune system, so this doesn't happen often

Erza

I've already said this before but i have a hyper specific way I think she reacts. She starts off by ignoring it and going about her day, when it inevitably gets worse she will start treating it like shes fighting a war. She will go out of her way to take as many jobs as possible just to prove that she can, she will reject any and all help and it will take physically forcing it down her throat to make her take medicine. The only way she's resting is if she is tied to the bed. Her illness will go on the longest because she will work herself to exhaustion out of pure spite until she inevitably collapses and becomes weak enough that people can force her to rest. Once that happens, she will whine and moan and complain about it every step of the way because she is the worst. the only difference is now she's too tired to do anything about it.

Again, this is smth everyone only put up with because being sick is kind of awful for her. She doesn't like feeling weak. It triggers all of her worst trauma responses and everyone knows it. Luckily for the entire guild, she gets sick every couple of years so they only have to deal with that once in a blue moon.

Wendy

Wemdy also almsot never gets sick for obvious reasons, but every so often a particularly nasty cold will come along, and her healing will take a bit more time. Whenever this happens, she will go absolutely insane. She's not really used to being sick and that, plus her dragon slayer sense being fucked, will leave her convinced its her last few days on earth. She will go through the 5 stages of grief over the course of the next week until she eventually accepts her death and starts trying to find a way to say goodbye to everyone without bursting into tears. Like natsu she needs to be around people but she also needs absolute silence (even more then natsu does because where natsu has the best sense of smell of all the dragon slayers, she has the best hearing) and a constant slightly chilly air temperature or else she will actually lose it. They set her up a nest on the roof of the guildhall because the wind up there acts as natural white noise to drown out the people, and the altitude calms her down. She will only come down in the middle of the night to eat actual food. besides that, she survives off air for the foreseeable future. All things considered for a dragon slayer her demands are not that hard to meet, but even if they were the guild wouldent hesitate since shes always treating everyone else's injuries. Thank God shes not the one demanding grays head on a silver platter because then they might actually do it