#reply for your life! reply for the hills!

[favefandomimagines]

Daylight (r.c)

Summary: it takes Rafe some time to realize what he has

AN: this is very one tree hill code with JJ being very Lucas Scott esque lol and this was PURELY self indulgent, no one asked for this

Y/N Routledge sat on the edge of her bed, feeling like she could throw up at any second. The little plastic stick in her trembling hand bore the answer she had been dreading and hoping wasn’t true. The bold letters stared back at her like they were mocking her.

Pregnant.

Her mind raced. It felt as though the world had tilted off its axis. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think straight. What now? Who could she possibly confide in about this? How could she even begin to explain? The answer wasn’t simple, not when the father was Rafe Cameron.

For a year, their relationship—or whatever it was—had been a secret. Late-night meetings, whispered words in the dark, stolen moments when no one was looking. There had never been an official label on it. Rafe had made sure of that. “Labels complicate things,” he’d said, and Y/N, hopelessly drawn to him despite every red flag, had agreed.

But now? Things were complicated anyway.

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts. The door swung open, and there stood her brother, John B, looking confused and concerned.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, leaning against the frame. “You’ve been in here for a while.”

Y/N’s heart stopped. She shoved the pregnancy test behind her back, but she wasn’t fast enough.

“What’s that?” His eyes narrowed, the easy-going brotherly demeanor replaced with something sharper.

“Nothing,” she blurted out, but John B wasn’t buying it.

He took a step closer. “Y/N, what’s going on?”

The lump in her throat grew too large to ignore, and before she knew it, the words came tumbling out. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

For a moment, John B just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, with a long exhale, he sat down beside her.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “I’m not gonna ask who the father is. That’s your business. But whoever it is, he deserves to know.”

Y/N looked down at the floor, her chest tightening. “I don’t even know how to tell him,” she admitted. “What if he doesn’t want this?”

John B reached over, placing both hands on her shoulders. “Then you don’t need him. You’ve got me. And the rest of the Pogues. We’ll figure it out. This kid's gonna have a pretty cool life, Y/N. I promise.”

Y/N nodded her head. “I’m so scared, JB.” She whispered. John B nodded his own head before he pulled his sister in for a tight hug.

“I know you are. But you’re gonna be okay. I’m here.” He told her gently.

||

Later that evening, Y/N stood nervously outside Tannyhill. Her palms were clammy, her stomach a mess of nerves. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say a thousand times, but now that she was here, the words felt like they dried up in her throat.

When Rafe opened the door, his blue eyes scanned her face, immediately sensing something was wrong.

“What’s going on?” he asked, stepping aside to let her in.

Y/N fidgeted with the hem of her hoodie, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. “I need to tell you something.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed. “Okay…”

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out, her voice shaking.

For a moment, he just stared at her, his face unreadable. Then, as the realization sank in, his expression darkened.

“Pregnant?” he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, Rafe. I’m serious.” Y/N replied.

He ran a hand over his buzzed his hair, pacing the room. “I… I can’t do this right now,” he said, his voice rising. “I’m trying to get my dad’s business back on track, and now you’re telling me you’re pregnant?”

Y/N felt the sting of his words like a physical blow. “I didn’t plan for this, Rafe! But it’s happening.”

He turned to face her, his eyes cold. “Maybe you should just do it alone. I’m not raising a kid with a Pogue.”

That cut deeper than anything else he’d said. Tears burned in her eyes as she stared at him, her heart breaking. “Really? That’s how you feel?” She asked, her voice unsteady. “Yeah, that’s how I feel. Did you really expect we were going to play big happy family?” He snapped.

Y/N let out a teary scoff before her impulsive thoughts took over. She stepped closer to Rafe, the palm of her hand connecting with his cheek, the sound of the slap echoing throughout the foyer. Without another word, Y/N turned and walked out the door.

||

One year later, and Y/N had given birth to a beautiful and healthy baby girl. It wasn’t an easy feat, but Y/N had John B and Sarah. Taking their roles as aunt and uncle way too seriously.

Now, Y/N cradled her one-year-old daughter, Isla, as the Pogues gathered on the beach. The little girl was the spitting image of her father—Rafe’s blonde hair, his piercing blue eyes. It was a constant reminder of the man who had walked away.

But Y/N wasn’t alone. John B, Sarah, JJ, Kiara, Cleo, and Pope had rallied around her, becoming Isla’s extended family. JJ, in particular, had taken to the role of honorary uncle with enthusiasm, and Isla adored him.

As JJ held Isla over the waves, her tiny giggles filled the air, and Y/N couldn’t help but smile.

“Look at you, kiddo,” JJ said, spinning her gently. “You’re a natural beach bum.”

From the corner of her eye, Y/N noticed a familiar figure further down the shore. Rafe was there, flanked by Topper and Kelce, his gaze locked on her. Then, his eyes then shifted to JJ and Isla.

He’d have to be an idiot to deny that that one year old was his. Y/N had kept the baby and now he was feeling an influx of emotions. Anger, regret, jealousy. Jealous that another man was raising his child, jealous that another man was in his place.

Y/N froze, unsure of what to do. JJ walked back to Y/N, handing Isla to her with a smile. Y/N couldn’t help but smile down at her daughter. But then she remembered who was watching them. When she whispered something to JJ, he turned and saw Rafe, his expression immediately hardening.

JJ said something else to her and Y/N walked back towards the rest of the Pogues. Rafe and JJ were now walking towards each other, JJ not messing around when it comes to Isla and Y/N.

“You need to leave her alone,” JJ said, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s my daughter,” Rafe snapped. “I have a right to know her.”

JJ scoffed. “You don’t get to decide that. Y/N does and you left her. You told her you weren’t raising a kid with a Pogue. You don’t deserve a second of her time.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. “Just because you’re playing house with my girl and my kid doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.” JJ laughed bitterly. “I’m not with Y/N. I’m just picking up the slack from the coward who abandoned them.”

Rafe stood there, seething with anger and regret, as JJ's words lingered in the air. But before he could say anything more, Topper yelled his name.

||

Later that night, Rafe pulled up to the old Maybank property that was now the Pogues sanctuary. He hadn’t prepared a single thing to say to Y/N. He knew there was a very high possibility that she would slam the door in his face.

What he said to her that night was harsh. He knew that and he knew he couldn’t take it back. He knocked on the door and waited for someone to answer the door. Rafe could hear the laughter and the music playing from the other side.

John B was the one to pull the door open, Isla in his arms. Rafe’s breath caught in his throat upon the sight of the little girl. “What are you doing here?” John B asked. “I’m uh, c-can I talk to Y/N?” He stammered.

Y/N’s brother looked at the man with furrowed brows, not used to seeing him in such an insecure, uncertain state. John B hated Rafe for what he did to Y/N, but Isla deserves a father. No matter how that happens.

“Y/N!” John B called. He turned away and walked back down the hall and soon Y/N appeared in the doorway.

“Can we talk?” Rafe asked. Y/N was hesitant; their last conversation did not go well obviously. “Um, sure. We can talk down at the store.” She answered.

The two walked silently down the dock to the bait shop where Y/N knew no one would be eavesdropping on them.

“Rafe, before you say anything, I didn’t want this to be how you found out. I didn’t want it to come to this,” she said quietly, her voice trembling but steady. “But you can’t just expect me to pretend like you didn’t hurt me. You didn’t want this baby. You walked away. You made your choice.”

Rafe flinched, her words cutting deep. He opened his mouth to argue, but something stopped him. The way she held Isla, the way Isla smiled at her mother, the warmth between them—it hit him all at once. What he had lost, what he could have had, and how foolish he’d been to let pride and fear dictate his actions.

“I—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I screwed up. I was scared, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to be the kind of man you needed.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, but she didn’t look away. “You had a choice, Rafe. We both did. You made yours. I made mine.”

He took a step forward, his gaze falling to the water, as if he were gathering the courage to say what needed to be said. “I was wrong. And I know it. I’ve been trying to fix everything else, but I didn’t even try with you… with Isla. I was too damn proud. Too scared. But I don’t want to be that man anymore. I want to be a part of her life. I want to be a part of your life.”

Y/N blinked, the warmth in her chest slowly spreading, though the ache of everything that had happened still lingered. “It’s not going to be easy. We can’t just pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t want to,” he said softly. “I want to start fresh. As a father. As someone you can count on.”

A long silence passed between them, the weight of the past still hanging in the air. Then, slowly, Y/N nodded. “Okay. But you need to prove it. You need to show me you’re in this. All in. For her. For me.”

Rafe’s heart pounded, but he could see the flicker of hope in her eyes. Hope he thought he’d lost. “I will. I swear I will.”

||

The sun was shining brightly over the beach house, casting a golden glow over the yard where Isla’s second birthday party was in full swing.

The Pogues, along with Rafe, were scattered across the yard, setting up and getting ready to celebrate the little girl who had brought so much joy into their lives.

John B and Pope were hanging colorful decorations from the trees and the porch, adding the final touches to a vibrant banner that read, “Happy Birthday, Isla!”

Sarah and Kie were carefully bringing out a pile of birthday gifts, wrapping paper and bows sparkling in the sunlight.

Meanwhile, Isla was darting around the yard, laughing as JJ ran after her, pretending to be a superhero.

JJ scooped her up in his arms, making jet engine noises as he spun her around, keeping her distracted so she wouldn’t see the presents waiting inside.

Rafe stood off to the side, leaning against the window frame of the house, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him. His heart swelled as he watched Isla giggle, her little feet kicking in the air as JJ swung her around like a plane.

Her laugh was like music to his ears, a reminder of how much he’d missed and how far he’d come since that day on the beach.

Y/N, who had just finished setting the cake down on the table, noticed Rafe standing there, his eyes soft and full of affection. She smiled to herself and walked over to him, sliding her arm around his bicep as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“What’s got you all smiley?” she asked softly, her voice gentle but teasing.

Rafe looked down at her, a look of gratitude and tenderness crossing his features. “You,” he said simply. “Isla. You letting me back into your life and into hers.”

Y/N’s heart melted, and she lifted her chin to look up at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. Without a word, she leaned in and kissed him softly, the kind of kiss that spoke of everything they’d been through and everything they’d built together.

As they pulled apart, John B appeared at the doorway with a grin. “Alright, JJ, it’s time for cake and presents!”

JJ, who had been in the middle of a game of "airplane" with Isla, immediately scooped her up again, making exaggerated flying noises as he carried her inside. Isla squealed with laughter, her little arms flailing in the air as JJ pretended she was a plane about to take off.

As they entered the living room, JJ passed Isla off to Rafe with a grin. “Special delivery!”

Rafe smiled and crouched down to gently set Isla in her chair. He pressed a soft kiss on the top of her head, a tender moment of fatherly affection. Isla beamed up at him, her tiny hands reaching up to grab his face, a look of adoration in her eyes.

Y/N stood beside them, watching with a heart full of love as Rafe straightened up and looked at her with a smile. This moment was everything they’d fought for—a family, together, stronger than ever.

As Isla sat at the table, her little hands covered in frosting as she tried to grab a slice of cake, Rafe took a seat next to her, helping her scoop up a piece. Y/N joined them, wrapping an arm around Rafe’s shoulder as she placed a kiss on Isla’s cheek.

The room was filled with the sounds of laughter, chatter, and joy as everyone gathered around, ready to celebrate Isla’s special day. It was simple, but perfect. They were a family now, not just by blood, but by choice. And in this moment, surrounded by love and happiness, they all knew they’d found something rare and precious.

John B raised his glass, a grin on his face as he toasted, “To my niece Isla, the brightest light in all of our lives.”

Everyone joined in, lifting their glasses in unison, as Isla clapped her little hands, excited by the attention.

“Cheers!” Rafe said, glancing over at Y/N with a smile that said it all.

Y/N smiled back, squeezing his hand. “Cheers.”

As the cake was passed around, Isla sat contentedly on Rafe’s lap, covered in frosting and giggling with pure joy. And in that moment, as they all looked on at the little girl they had all come to love, Rafe and Y/N knew this was exactly where they were meant to be—together, as a family.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Foxglove Downs Chapter 1: The Stallion

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Lucius Verus x Female Reader Rating: Teen. (Eventual E. MDNI) Summary: As owner of Foxglove Downs, the prestigious stables and training grounds where world-renowned show jumpers Marcus Acacius and Lucius Verus practice, you find yourself caught between the two rivals, pulled into a world of fierce competition and unspoken desires. Warnings: Love triangle, horse talk, jealousy, pining, almost kissing, flirting, age gap (Marcus is in his 40’s, Lucius is in his 20’s). Reader is in her 30's, has hair, and has a nickname: Sunny. Words: 3,500

Foxglove Downs Masterlist Masterlist

A/N: I'm excited to start sharing this story with you. It's been rattling around in my brain for the past couple of weeks. This all started, as always, with @ohheypedrito and I talking about Marcus and Lucius. Thank you to @schnarfer for the show jumping idea when I mentioned how badly I wanted Marcus and Lucius to be rivals. Also, the biggest thank you to @devineconjuring who can not only translate my terrible typed messages to her... but also be the best beta who makes my writing 1000000x better.

Standing at the edge of the training arena, a gentle breeze from the rolling hills surrounding Foxglove Downs sends a chill across your skin.

These stables have always felt like a second home to you. Every day, you'd make the short walk down the sloping hill from your home to your favorite place, Foxglove Downs–the world-class stables your family has owned for decades. This is where your parents ran their prize business, passing down their love for horses and hard work to you. From a young age, they entrusted you with tasks like mucking out stalls, filling water troughs, and assisting with feedings. While other kids played video games and watched TV, you’d spent every spare moment watching the horses being trained and groomed, eagerly listening to and learning from the experienced employees. 

It was always evident that you’d follow in their footsteps. Horse riding was not just a hobby for you–it was a way of life, a passion that runs deep in your blood. After all, both of your parents were accomplished equestrians themselves, making horseback riding feel like second nature to you since before you could walk.

But professional riding was not the path that you took. Now an accomplished horse breeder, you also own Foxglove Downs. Passed down to you by your parents once they decided to retire, you happily spend your days caring for your beloved horses and overseeing the prestigious breeding and training operations. This is truly your idea of heaven.

Especially when the two hottest champion equestrians call your arena their practice grounds.

The sound of hooves hitting the ground echoes across the field. Blocking the late afternoon sun from your eyes, you watch as world champion show jumper Marcus Acacius glides his horse over a series of jumps. For such a large and intimidating force, his grace and ease are on full display as he and his horse easily clear each obstacle. Watching the way Marcus guides his horse through a trickier series of jumps, you find it hard to believe that he’d come from such humble beginnings.

“He’s pushing it today,” you whisper to yourself, noticing the tension in Marcus’s shoulders. The wooden fence is rough against your hands as you lean into it further to watch him as he nears where you stand.

His horse clips the top rail of the final jump, sending the pole clattering to the ground. You frown, watching as he circles back, his face set in frustration.

“Ouch.” A familiar voice catches your attention.

Turning, you see Lucius Verus, Marcus’s main rival. Casually leaning against the fence, his blue eyes twinkling with the mischief he’s famous for.

“Be nice,” you reply with a smirk. “Never seen anyone better.”

He moves closer with an air of superiority, clutching his chest in mock offense. His confidence on full display, that of someone who has never faced any type of hardship in his life thanks to his family’s wealth and status. “You wound me. And here I thought you had an eye for talent.”

You laugh, the sound carrying across the grounds. “I do… but that’s why I breed the horses and leave the jumping to you two.”

“So, what are you doing down here?”

“He asked me to be here,” you gesture towards Marcus. “He wants my opinion on his new filly.”

“Is that what it takes for me to get your attention?”

“Yep. That, or cooking me pasta alla vodka.”

“I can't cook. But I do know a great restaurant. Let me take you there,” he offers, angling more towards you.

You let out a laugh, tilting your head back. “Really? Again, it’s not going to happen. Just like the last five times you asked.”

Lucius–the ever-consummate flirt–leans in closer, his voice low. “Ah, yes. This is when you tell me to open up my phone and dial a random hookup.”

You straighten your posture, locking eyes with him. “Feel free to do so.”

“But there’s no fun in that. Especially when the prize is so… beautiful.” His eyes look you up and down.

"I’m not just another trophy to be won, Verus.”

“Oh, I know,” he whispers, now close enough for you to feel his breath.

Before you can retort, the sound of hoofbeats grows louder. Marcus brings his horse to a stop near the fence, dismounting with fluid grace. His dark eyes flick between you and Lucius as you take a small step, giving yourself some space. A slight frown creases his brow, no doubt having noticed your interaction.

"Sunny," he nods in greeting, then turns to Lucius. "Verus. I didn't expect to see you here."

“Looking good out there, Acacius,” Lucius praises, a slight edge to his voice.

Marcus sends him a singular nod before looking over to you. Your breath hitches at the sight of him–the sun highlighting the silver streaks in his hair, his denim shirt stretching across the muscles of his broad shoulders.

“It’s always good to see Barley again,” you smile, admiring Marcus’s trusty stallion you have worked with since he was a foal. “He moves like a dream.”

Marcus's lips quirk into a rare smile. “He does. He’s perfect.” You feel the heat creep up your neck as his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Well, Sunny,” Lucius interrupts your thoughts, his voice low, his Irish accent alluring. “Another satisfied customer, hm?”

His smirk and wink make your heart race, his eyes lit with playful mirth.

Rolling your eyes at his comment, you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “I aim to please.”

Marcus clears his throat, drawing your attention back to him. “The filly’s in the stables if you want to go take a look.”

“Of course,” you nod. As you turn to follow Marcus, you’re stopped by Lucius’s hand on your arm.

“Don’t forget about our dinner plans tonight, darling,” he says. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Still never called anybody. I’m free tonight.”

You pull your arm away and chuckle. “And you’ll continue to be.”

As you walk away with Marcus, you can feel Lucius’s eyes on you.

Tension seems to roll off Marcus as he leads you to the stables. 

“So,” you say to him, trying to focus on business. “What did you want to discuss about the filly?”

"I’ve been watching her. She’s got potential, but her left hind leg…”

As he walks into the stables, you watch the way he moves. Confident and graceful, yet so broad and strong.

“Have you tried adjusting her shoeing?” Your mind works through possible solutions as you pass by horses nickering softly. 

He shakes his head as he comes to a stop outside a stall, where a beautiful chestnut filly pokes her head over the door.

“Not yet. I wanted your opinion first,” he says softly. “This is Daisy.”

You reach out, stroking the filly’s velvet nose. She snuffles in your hand, looking for a treat. “Smart move. Let’s take a look at her movement.”

Marcus leads the horse out into the aisle. His strong hands handle the young horse gently. The filly prances, eager to be out of her enclosure, and Marcus smiles as she nuzzles his shoulder.

“Easy, girl,” his deep voice soothes.

You watch as he walks her up and down the aisle, your trained eye catching the slight hitch in her left hind leg. Barely noticeable to anybody else but you and Marcus.

“I see what you mean. It’s subtle,” you say, biting your lower lip in concentration. You move closer, running your hand down the horse’s leg. “It could become a problem. Let’s take her outside. I want to see her move on the arena ground.”

He guides the filly out into one of the smaller practice grounds.

“Let’s see her trot.”

Marcus nods, urging the filly into a smooth trot. Her hooves kick up small clouds of dust as she moves. You watch intently, noticing every nuance.

“There,” you point. “I see it.”

He brings Daisy to a halt, his brows furrowed in concentration. “What do you think?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.

You approach the two of them. “Here, feel this,” you say, rubbing your hand along her hip. “There’s tension in the muscle.”

He reaches over, his large hand brushing against yours as he feels the spot. His brows furrow in concentration, trying to locate what you feel.

“I’m not sure I…” he begins, his confused voice trailing off.

You place your hand over his without thinking, guiding it along Daisy’s flank. Something sparks against your skin when it presses on his, sending a shiver down your spine. Your hand looks so small above his large one.

“Do you feel that?” you ask softly, pressing his fingers gently into the muscle. “There’s a slight knot here. I think that’s causing her to favor.”

He leans closer, his chest nearly meeting your back as he concentrates. You can feel his warm, steady breath on your neck–it heats your body, a feeling for him that you’ve been trying to push away revealing itself.

Daisy shifts, causing you to stumble slightly.

Marcus's strong arm instinctively wraps around your waist to steady you.

"Careful," he whispers, his deep voice rumbling through you.

Your head turns to thank him, but the words catch in your throat. He’s so close, his face mere inches away from yours. From this distance, you can see the flecks of gold shine through the dark of his eyes.

He glances down at your lips for a moment before meeting your eyes again.

You clear your throat, stepping back slightly.

“Thanks,” you manage to say, your voice breathless.

He nods, his hand lingering on your waist a beat longer before dropping away.

“No problem,” he says, his voice gruffer than usual.

You take a deep breath, trying to steel your nerves.

“So… it’s not as bad as I feared. I think targeted massage sessions and stretching exercises could help. Maybe adjust her shoeing too, just to be safe."

Relief washes over his face. “Good to hear. Was worried we might have to retire her before she even got started.”

You smile at his obvious care for the horse.

You feel Marcus’s eyes on you as you continue to examine the horse and coo softly as she nuzzles your hand.

“Other than that, she’s perfect,” you admire, turning to him.

“She is,” he says, his eyes focused on you.

—-

“Great future ahead of her,” you say, breaking the silence as you and Marcus lead Daisy back to the stables.

He nods. “Thanks to your expertise.”

The warmth in his voice sends a flutter through your heart, and you quickly look away, focusing on the path ahead. Approaching the stables, movement in the nearby arena catches your eye. Lucius is there, leading his horse over a series of jumps as they move in perfect rhythm. You stop in your tracks when Lucius’s blue eyes meet yours and he flashes you a smile.

Marcus realizes your pause, turning towards you. Lucius’s eyes shift to Marcus, his expression faltering for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. He brings his horse to a halt, patting its neck as he watches you both. Even from this distance, you can see the tightness in his jaw and the slight furrow of his brow.

You nod towards him, offering a slight smile before heading for the stables. The air between you and Marcus tenses again. The rest of the walk is silent, save for the sound of hoof and boot steps.

You can feel his eyes on you as you open the horse’s stall.

After a long silence, Marcus clears his throat and asks directly, "How did Lucius do out there?"

You turn to face him, surprised by the question. His eyes search your face for any hint of your thoughts.

“He’s… talented,” you admit carefully. “So are you.”

Marcus nods, his expression unreadable as he leads the filly into her stall. He secures the latch, then turns to face you, his dark eyes intense.

"Lucius is flashy," he says, his voice low.

You raise an eyebrow at his comment. “Flashy, huh?”

He slowly nods. “All style, very little room for substance. He’s good, just… all about the show.”

“I guess everyone has their own style. I’d say you have a certain style that works well for you, too.”

A small smile lifts the corner of his lips. “High praise.”

You laugh, the sound easing some of the tension. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

With one last pat against the horse’s neck, Marcus closes the stall door and turns towards you, closer than you expected.

“I really appreciate you looking her over.”

“Of course. It’s my job to make sure they’re in top form.”

He takes a step closer. “You’re the best around.” His voice turns soft. “Truly.”

Stuttering, you try to find the words, overwhelmed by how close and handsome he is. You clear your throat, taking a step back from him.

"Well, I should probably get going. It's getting late."

Marcus nods, his expression unreadable. "Of course. Thank you again for your help."

As you turn to leave, Lucius enters the stables, leading his horse. His eyes flick between you and Marcus, a hint of tension in his shoulders.

“Heading out so soon?" Lucius asks.

You nod, offering a small smile. “Got some paperwork waiting for me back at the clubhouse.”

“The glamorous life of a horse breeder,” Lucius teases.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” you shrug noncommittally, trying to dissipate some of the growing tension. “I’ll see you guys later.”

As you make your way towards the stables’ exit, you feel both men’s eyes on you.

The gravel crunches beneath your boots, and you can’t help but look back. You catch a glimpse of Marcus and Lucius, their heads bent close in conversation.

Two men, both the top competitors in their field, always pitted against each other. The young and brash Lucius Verus, with his charming smile and devil-may-care ways, versus the dependable champion Marcus Acacius, with his quiet intensity. 

And you. Trapped in the midst of their rivalry, both in and out of the arena.

You shake your head, attempting to knock those thoughts aside as you step into Foxglove’s clubhouse. Leather and polished wood surround you. You’re used to the look and smell—old money—as a few members linger in the lounge.

You make your way to your office, your boot steps echoing in the empty hallway. Settling behind your desk, your mind replays today–the way Marcus’s skin felt against yours, the way Lucius looked at you. Two very different men, but both have captured your heart and mind equally.

Marcus, with his quiet strength and deep understanding of horses. Sometimes you think he knows them better than he knows people. You’ve always admired his dedication, the way he commands every second in the arena.

And then there’s Lucius, with his quick-witted ways and charming flirtation. He lights up any room he enters, drawing everyone—including you—in with his magnetic personality.

You let out a heavy breath and rub your temples. Now is not the time to be distracted by them. You have work to do.

Pulling out the files on your latest breeding project, you immerse yourself in the bloodlines and genetic potential. This right here is where you thrive–in the world of planned pairings and creating future champions, not being caught in the middle of some fierce competition between two champion horse jumpers.

—-

The next morning, you bring out a thick folder containing the breeding profile of the stallion that will arrive soon at the stables. You’re deep in concentration, your finger tracing over the names of past champions, when a soft knock at your office door startles you. Looking up, you see Marcus standing in the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says after nervously clearing his throat. “I wanted to thank you again for your help with Daisy yesterday.”

You smile, gesturing for him to come in. “No need to thank me. I’m glad it was good news.”

He steps in, closing the door behind him. Your office suddenly feels much smaller. “Still… I appreciate it.”

A flush creeps up your neck at his praise. “Anytime,” your voice breaks as you respond.

His hand taps against his leg as he tries to find the right words. He takes a deep breath, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. “I was wondering if…” he starts, his low voice hesitant.

“Yes?” you gently prompt, your heart racing.

He takes a step closer to your desk, his thick finger brushing against the polished wood. “I was hoping that maybe we could—”

RING

The shrill ring of your work phone soars through the air, cutting through the thick tension of it. You jump, startled by its intrusion. Marcus’s face falls slightly as you reach for the receiver.

"Foxglove Downs, this is Sunny," you answer, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice.

“Sunny, it’s George,” your head groom says, his tone serious. “The new stallion just arrived. He’s a beaut, but he’s giving the handlers a bit of trouble.”

Your eyes widen with excitement and concern. “I’ll be right there.”

You hang up the phone and turn your attention back to Marcus. “The new stallion just got here, he’s being a bit difficult. I need to get down there to help George.”

Marcus nods. “I’ll come with you. You might need an extra set of hands.”

You smile at him, quickly gathering your things and hurrying out of the office. You jog across the grounds, Marcus following close behind. Approaching the stables, you can hear the commotion–sharp whinnying of an agitated horse screeches beyond the wooden walls.

Rounding the corner, you see him—a beautiful black stallion. He rears up, his front hooves pawing at the air as two handlers struggle to control him. His nostrils flare, eyes wild with fear and confusion.

“Easy there, big guy. It’s alright,” you soothe, gently stepping forward.

The horse’s ears prick forward at the sound of your voice. He shifts nervously from side to side. The handlers look relieved to see you.

"He's been like this since we got him off the trailer," one of them explains as he holds the lead rope.

You nod, keeping your eyes on the horse. "Let's give him some space," you say calmly. "Everyone back up slowly."

The stallion’s eyes dart between you and the now-retreating handlers–his breathing still rapid, his eyes still wild.

“That’s it,” you comfort, taking a small step forward. “No one’s going to hurt you, boy.”

“Be careful,” Marcus whispers behind you.

Nodding slightly, you continue your slow approach. The horse snorts, tossing his head. "You're safe here. Just relax.”

The stallion’s breathing begins to slow as you come close enough to touch him. You slowly extend your hand to him with your palm up, and he stretches his neck to sniff you.

"Hey there, handsome," you croon. "No one's going to hurt you. You're safe here." He bumps his nose against your palm and you smile, gently stroking his face. “That’s a good boy.”

Everyone relaxes as the horse calms under your care, his wild eyes softening as you gently take hold of his lead rope and coo in his ear.

“Let’s get you settled in, shall we?” you say softly to the horse. You turn to Marcus, his eyes watching you with something like awe and admiration. “Can you walk on his other side? Just in case?”

Marcus nods, moving to the horse’s left as you begin to lead him towards the stables. His hooves hit the ground in a calm cadence–no longer frantic, he follows you willingly. His earlier panic subsided under your gentle touch.

As you lead the horse into the stables, you can feel Marcus’s eyes on you.

“What happened out there—that was incredible,” he says. “I’ve never seen anyone calm a horse like that before.”

You smile and give the stallion a pat before closing the stall door. “Patience and understanding. He was scared, that’s all. They can sense when you’re nervous or afraid.”

You stroke the velvet of the stallion’s muzzle as you feed him a handful of oats. You turn to Marcus, curiosity getting the better of you. "So, what did you want to talk about earlier?

“Yes… it’s about Daisy. I, uh, was wondering if you’d like to help me rehab her? You knew so much about her condition, and I... I trust you.”

His nervousness and his request touch you, warmth spreading through your chest. “Of course. I’d be honored to help,” you say with a smile. “Daisy has so much potential.”

His face lights up, a rare full grin lighting his usually serious features. “Great. Does tomorrow morning work, if you’re free?”

“Absolutely,” you nod.

“So… it’s a date then?” His eyebrows rise. “I mean, it’s uh—”

You smile. “It’s a date.”

Tagging some friends who expressed interest: @sawymredfox, @ace-turned-confused, @almostfoxglove, @mothandpidgeon

@justagalwhowrites, @chippedowlmug, @itwasntimethatdidit40, @burntheedges, @magpiepills

Thank you @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

[innocentcurse]

Evangeline’s heart swelled at Marisol’s words, the kindness in her voice wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. Human connection was so important to Evangeline, and to feel seen by another was always one of the most joyous aspects of those connections. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice a little more than a whisper as she met Marisol’s gaze. “That really means a lot to me. I didn’t expect to feel so connected to a place this quickly, but Cardinal Hill… it’s different. It feels like home.” Evangeline had had many homes in her life, and so she couldn't say if this would be her home forever, but it definitely was for the time being, and she was thrilled about that.

She felt a quiet warmth settle in her chest as Marisol spoke about the town and the energy it gave off. Evangeline had only just begun to understand the deeper layers of Cardinal Hill, and hearing it reflected back at her like this, with such understanding, filled her with a quiet sense of belonging she hadn’t expected. God, Evangeline loved speaking to new people. “I’m glad it resonates with you,” she added, glancing at the piece in front of them again. “It’s the town, really - its quiet moments, and those little things people often overlook. It’s like they’re all captured in this one, simple scene. The magic is in the stillness.”

When Marisol spoke about the magic of the town and the connection Evangeline had with it, something shifted in her so warmly, so pleasantly; it was so affirming, in such a surprisingly joyous way. Cardinal Hill had called to her in ways she didn’t yet fully understand, and the connection she was beginning to feel was undeniable. “I think you’re right,” Evangeline agreed, her voice full of a quiet certainty. “There’s something in the air here… it’s hard to explain, but it’s definitely real.” She gave a small, almost shy smile. “I’m happy that I’m able to capture even a fraction of that with my art.”

As Marisol spoke of the stall and the magic of seeing beyond the surface, Evangeline nodded slowly. She had always prided herself on looking deeper, on seeking out what was hidden beneath the surface, whether in her own work or in the people she met - which had naturally been influenced by her father's work in her upbringing. Now, it seemed that Cardinal Hill, with all its quirky charm and underlying mysteries, was doing the same with her. She wasn’t here by accident. She was meant to be here.

Her breath caught a little as Marisol mentioned taking the piece home with her. The idea of it finding a place where it would be appreciated, framed and displayed, filled her with a sense of pride she didn’t expect. Evangeline had given away and sold her art to so many different people, but it wasn't every time that it felt so meant to be. She looked at the painting again, the way the light seemed to dance across the water, and felt a pang of reluctance to let it go. But she could see it - framed and placed just right in Marisol’s home, a part of the woman’s world, and that felt right too, even more so than Evangeline keeping it herself.

“I’d be honoured,” Evangeline replied, her voice steady but warm. “It’s exactly what I wanted, to share my art with someone who truly appreciates it. I would love to come visit Widow’s Wail to see it once it’s framed. Thank you, Marisol.” She took a deep breath, then smiled. “I’ve already said it, but it’s worth saying again - you’re too kind. Your words mean so much to me.” With the invitation to visit hanging in the air, Evangeline felt a growing sense of excitement. This wasn’t just a transaction of art, it was the beginning of a connection. One she was eager to see unfold.

Marisol listened intently, her gaze lingering on Evangeline’s art with a soft appreciation, her own gratitude evident in the warm smile she offered. "The energy in your work speaks volumes,” she said, admiring how each piece seemed to capture the essence of Cardinal Hill through fresh eyes. “It’s as if you’re breathing life into each scene, and that’s no easy feat.” She gave an approving nod, recognizing the soul poured into these depictions of her beloved town.

As Evangeline mentioned the theme, Marisol’s eyes flickered with understanding. “Choosing autumnal pieces shows great thoughtfulness,” she remarked. “It’s one thing to paint, but quite another to capture the spirit of a season and place." She studied the subtle blend of warm tones and delicate lines Evangeline had used, each brushstroke seeming to evoke a different feeling within her.

Her attention shifted to the favorite piece Evangeline placed before her—a lakeside scene at dusk. Marisol’s eyes softened, taking in the tranquil glow of the setting sun casting warmth over the water. “Ah, yes,” she murmured, tracing her fingers along the air above the piece as if not daring to touch it. “I can see why you feel a connection with this one. It holds a quiet magic of its own—one that words can hardly capture. There’s a sense of stillness, of belonging… as if nature herself is offering up this place as a gift.”

Meeting Evangeline’s gaze, Marisol smiled. “That sense you spoke of — feeling meant to be somewhere — that’s a rare thing. Cardinal Hill is not an easy town, but for those it calls to, it offers more than a place. And I think that may be what you’re capturing here - what she's offering to you. Each piece you make becomes a testament to this moment, and the magic you’re making of it.”

She glanced at the stalls around them, many pristine and deliberate in their presentation, then returned her gaze to Evangeline’s. “You may not have the flashiest stall, but I suspect people will find you for what truly matters—the heart you put into each stroke. After all, that’s the charm of this town: it calls those who see beyond the surface, just as you seem to.” And yet, the town was a siren, and sirens were dangerous, fickle creatures. Still, Marisol didn't have it in her heart to warn the other. She loved the capricious bitch the town could be and welcomed her chaos.

"My mother will love the piece you will give her, and I love this one. Would you allow me to give it a home? I will get it framed, and then, you will come visit me at Widow's Wail to see it, won't you? I will send you a formal invitation, of course. My mother would allow nothing else. But if this piece speaks to you, and you wish to keep it - please. Do."

[marinehero]

Stares off into the distance. Garp believes in Luffy so much. Believe isn't even the right word, he knows. He knew Roger. He knows if there's anyone who's going to do it, it's Luffy. He knew it early on and it terrified him. Just as he knew Roger's sotry, he knows how this story ends. He's terrified. He loves his grandson. He knows who he works for. He knows the powers in charge. But Luffy kept proving the world wrong again and again and again and even he couldn't deny anymore that if there's anyone who can make it and survive, it's Luffy. He's so damn proud, he always has been. Luffy's going to be the one and he knows it to be a fact as given as the sea.

[monster-disaster]

I would love if you could write something about a dragon having a girl for a mate and praising/ pleasing her with his tongue with in tune gets him off as well

Request 2: Could I request a dragon story? The reader gets forced by her village as an offering to a dragon to keep him at bay. He takes her as an offering and instead of torturing her as she thought he claims her as his life long mate and wishes to please her and praise her? Mainly by eating her out constantly

dragon!Diman x human!Reader Good to know: size difference, smut, dead animals

You should have seen this coming.

You noticed the glances, the whispers behind your back, and the cold silence that followed you among the villagers. The signs were all there. And most importantly, you rejected one of the elders' sons when he asked for your hand in marriage. That sealed your fate.

Even now, bound and frightened, you don't regret it, though. Not one bit.

Being offered to a dragon, whether as a toy or a snack, you can't be sure, still feels like a brighter future than living under that man's thumb for the rest of your life. The thought of enduring him as a husband, dirty and loud, is more terrifying than anything else you might face now. Cooking for him, bearing his children... No. You'd rather face a thousand monsters than live that kind of life.

"Are you still sure of your decision?" He asks, pulling you from your thoughts. His piggy eyes are fixated on you. The pale color of his irises reflects the silvery light of the moon in the dark sky.

"Yes," you reply, your voice almost drowned out by the noise of the villagers gathered at the foot of the hill. You have to force your expression to remain indifferent, hiding your disgust as you look at him. His double chin obscures the line of his jaw. His round face is covered with stubble and small gashes from his clumsy attempts to shave.

"You'll regret it," he huffs. His grip is bruisingly tight around your arm as he uses you to haul himself up the hill. With every step, you sink back a few inches under his weight.

No, you think, but don't say it out loud. I won't.

No matter what happens when the dragon arrives, it's still better than the image in your head of the man panting and moving above you in bed. Even the thought of it makes your stomach turn with disgust and bile. His stubby fingers would fumble over you, grasping all the wrong places, and you’re not even sure if he could manage to put it in with his large stomach in the way. But, of course, his looks are the least of your concerns. If he had a lovable personality, it might have been bearable. But he’s rotten to the core. He could be more like the son of one of the hunters; a big guy too, with a mess of blonde locks on the top of his head and bright blue eyes that always shine with humor and happiness. His chubbiness only makes him look several years younger, adding to his boyish charm. But you aren't that lucky. He’s in love with your neighbor.

And this, all of this, leaves you for the dragon.

When you reach the top of the hill, your legs are sore, and lungs tight from panting. The man behind you shoves you to the ground. The impact hurts, but it's still better than the feel of his sweaty palm on your bare skin.

"Don't even try to run," he warns. The words leave his lips in heavy puffs. "If you do, we have hunters ready to shoot you."

You don't respond, turning your head away from him and only looking back when he finally turns to leave you there. Oh, how you wish he’d trip and roll all the way down into the crowd of villagers below. He’d knock them down like a huge ball. A sweaty, hairy ball. You are sure he would sound like the pigs too, crying and wailing.

Adjusting yourself on your knees, you straighten your back and scan the view in front of you. You don’t attempt to escape. You have no doubt the hunters would stop you if you tried anything. And where would you even go? Your home is the village, with all your possessions left behind in your small hut. And with your hands tied behind your back, you wouldn’t survive the night in the woods. The villagers would hunt you down like an animal. You would become the pig, dying in the dirt. The thought makes your heart ache with betrayal. It leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You once believed the village and its people were your home, your safe haven. Now, you are nothing more to them than something they can sacrifice.

With a heavy sigh, you gaze over the woods stretching out before you; a tangle of shadows with sharp edges and twisted shapes. Behind them, the tall, looming mountains' jagged silhouettes reach skyward as if trying to pierce the darkness. The familiar view that once gave you a sense of safety now leaves you with a cold, gnawing unease in your stomach as you wait. The villagers, whom you know all too well, are silent now, waiting just like you.

And none of you have to wait for long.

The sight of the dragon in the dark sky takes your breath away. The moon’s silvery light catches its enormous body, revealing the scales in sharp detail. You see its muscles shifting and moving beneath the hard skin. Each powerful stroke of its wide wings sends ripples through the night air. You hear every rhythmic beat growing louder as it gets closer and closer. Its large head, long and sharp, is supported by a thick neck that connects to broad shoulders. Along its spine, sharp ridges jut out prominently, extending all the way to the tip of its swinging tail. It cuts into the darkness with a fluid grace.

Your chest heaves as you try to get air into your burning lungs, but it seems that even the sight of him alone is enough to leave you breathless. His formidable presence commands awe, respect, and fear. Each powerful movement echoes his sheer strength. When he lands not far from you, the ground shakes and trembles beneath his massive weight. The vibrations crawl up through your bones.

"You are my payment," he says. His voice is deep and rumbling.

The word choice makes you flinch, and though it’s not a question, you nod in response anyway. "Yes."

Living so close to a dragon is always a risk, but as far as you know, most places find ways to protect themselves from the wrath of these huge creatures. The villages offer them gold, food, or humans.

For a long, long second, the dragon looks over you with his almond-shaped eyes. The weight of his gaze is heavy on you as well as his next words. "You will do."

For what, you want to ask but decide to stay quiet instead.

"Will you try something silly if I cut your bounds?" He asks with amusement.

You shake your head. "No." What could you do against him? Run? Fight?

"Good," he hums, reaching behind you to slice through the ropes around your wrists with a quick flick of his claw. Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden closeness, and you dare not move, terrified of the damage he could inflict if you were to make a wrong move.

"Do you want to say your goodbye?" He asks, watching you rubbing your wrist where the robes cut into your skin.

You frown. "No." The word escapes your lips as a harsh spat.

He almost laughs. You can feel the deep rumble under your feet. "Good."

A loud, high-pitched squeal escapes your lips as he grabs you with a swift motion. His large hand envelops your entire body, fingers curling around you with ease. He lifts you off the ground effortlessly as his wings start to beat, raising you both into the air. You want to grab onto his fingers automatically, but his hold around you is so tight that you can't move.

"Wait, wait," you gasp hurriedly, and to your surprise, he stops in mid-air.

"For what?" The dragon asks. His golden eyes with black slits in the middle survey you waitingly, but when you open and close your lips several times without saying anything, he turns his attention away from you to continue his journey back to his home.

You want to take one last look at your village, the place that was your home until tonight, but your position in his hand makes it impossible. All you can see is the underside of his thick neck and head, along with the towering mountains in the distance. The late-night wind is cold on your face, yet his large palm around your body keeps you warm and secure in the air. Despite his size, he flies effortlessly, and soon, instead of the familiar hill and clearing, you find the dark wood underneath you.

His lair is nestled in a cove within one of the largest mountains. The air here is colder, and the wind is stronger, too, as he sets you down well away from the rocky edge, and you lose the warmth of his hold around you. After being carried, you feel unsure on your own feet as you look back to see the dark view of the landscape bathed in the moonlight. You can see your village in the distance, small and insignificant.

"Come," he breaks the silence. "It's warmer inside."

Going into a dark cave with a dragon several your size doesn't seem the brightest idea, but looking down the steep mountain beneath, you don't really have any other option.

"Wait," he says, making you stop immediately. "You need some light," he says as if reminding himself. "You humans barely see anything."

Without waiting for your response, he takes a deep breath, and before you can react, the dark hole is suddenly illuminated by the intense flames bursting from his massive jaws. The fire roars to life, casting flickering shadows across the cave's walls. Thick smoke surges into the cold night air, smothering you with its warm, acrid smell that stings your eyes and clings to your skin. When he finally closes his mouth, the flames recede, leaving the cave bathed in the dim, flickering light of burning torches mounted on the rugged walls. With the newfound illumination, you realize the cavern is even bigger than you first thought. Of course, a massive creature like the dragon standing before you requires as much space as he can get to move around freely.

"Come," he says, not even looking at you to check if you follow him.

Both of you know you don't really have any other option.

The dragon's lair is a maze that winds deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain. Steep slopes and jagged inclines alternate with vast, rocky halls that are filled with rusty weapons, tarnished armor, and forgotten trinkets. The air is thick with the scent of the stone walls and smoke. Each breath you take feels heavy and warm. As you follow the dragon, the torches he lits along the way cast flickering shadows on the walls. By the time he finally halts, you're out of breath, coughing from the smoky air.

"Where are we?" You ask him when you find your voice. It's hoarse and tight.

"Does it matter?" He asks. "You can't leave anyway."

You don't know where you get the courage to scowl at him. "Rude."

The dragon scoffs, amused. "We are in the heart of the mountain," he says.

The place resembles a grand hall with towering walls and thick, imposing columns that stretch up into the shadows above. The ground is littered with various objects, shiny ones, and old ones. Piles of gold gleam under the dim light, scattered carelessly among the mess. Books are strewn about haphazardly, their pages yellowed and edges worn, as if they’ve been forgotten in the chaos. At the center of the hall is a massive nest, sprawling and chaotic, made from a jumble of materials and what-not.

The dragon gives you a moment to take in your surroundings, but the silence only heightens your anxiety. Is this really it? Is this where you’ll meet your end? You can't help but imagine your clothes and bones tossed carelessly into the pile of treasure where the dragon sleeps. The thought that nobody will ever find you, that no one will even search, gnaws at you. You’ll be forgotten, just another insignificant meal for the beast.

"Are you going to faint?" The dragon's voice suddenly rumbles through the cavern, making you jump. The sound echoes off the stone walls and ripples down your spine.

"No," you manage to gulp out. "Why?"

"You look like someone who is ready to faint," he says. His tone is so casual that it’s almost infuriating. You are surprised you can feel anything else besides fear.

"Do you see a lot of humans faint before you?"

His grin is slow, almost mechanical, revealing sharp teeth that glint under the dim light. "You could say that."

"So," you begin, licking your lips nervously, "what do you want to do with me?"

His grin widens, and your heart races. "Let's sleep for now, hm?"

Your eyes widen in surprise. Sleep? That wasn’t the answer you expected.

"What?"

The dragon rolls his large, golden eyes, clearly bored with your reaction. With a graceful, feline-like motion, he climbs into his nest, settling down with a heavy thud that makes the ground shake beneath your feet. His massive body curls in on itself, his tail wrapping around him as his head rests on a pile of treasure. Or trash. You can't decide.

That’s it? You think, bewildered. He just wants to sleep?

When you remain frozen in place, your legs trembling beneath you, the dragon lets out a scoff. In one swift motion, he reaches out, grabbing you by your torso and lifting you off the ground. Your startled squeal echoes through the hall, but he ignores it. He just places you close to his head with a gentle but firm grunt.

"Sleep." His warm breath washes over you, providing a stark contrast to the cold, unyielding walls of the mountain.

You’re too stunned to resist, and the strange warmth of his breath is oddly comforting in the darkness.

_

As you soon find out, the dragon has entirely different plans for you than your village, which was so eager to throw you into the beast's arms. Or mouth.

Two days later, you finally gather the courage to ask. "When do you plan to... kill me?"

The dragon's response is not what you expect. He laughs, a loud, rumbling sound that echoes through the cavern and lingers long enough to make your skin burn with embarrassment.

"Eat you?" He asks, still chuckling. "Why would I do that, little morsel? You're so small... not even enough for a quick snack."

"Well..." you clear your throat, searching for words. "Isn't that what dragons do?"

He hums thoughtfully. "I won't lie," he admits. "The taste of human flesh is not... unfamiliar to me, but no, I don't plan to eat you." His laughter bubbles up again, and you scowl at his obvious amusement.

"Then why are you keeping me?" You press. Confusion and frustration mix in your voice.

He pauses for a moment, considering. "To entertain me."

"Entertain you?" You repeat, incredulous.

"Yes."

"What?" You scoff, disbelief creeping into your tone.

The dragon huffs as he leans closer to you. His massive head is now just inches away. Each exhale ruffles your hair, the warm breath unsettling yet somehow familiar after two days of spending time with him.

"Do you think you're the first human who has been given to me?" He asks, not waiting for your reply. "You’ll stay here with me until I tire of you."

"And after that?" You whisper, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

"I will let you go," he says. He almost sounds bored. "Just as I let the others go when they could no longer amuse me."

"You let them go? Alive?" You ask, hardly daring to believe it. You've never met anyone who was captured by a dragon and got out without a fight.

"Yes," he replies, rolling his eyes at your disbelief.

When you don’t respond, he turns away from you. His tail nearly knocks you off your feet as he heads toward one of the corridors.

"Where are you going?" You call after him, watching his massive form disappear into the shadows.

"I’ll get you some food," he says, laughing again. "Stay there."

"I don't even know your name!" You shout after him. You can hear your voice echo in the distance.

"Diman, little morsel."

Diman.

You're not sure how long he's been away. In the deepest part of the mountain, you can't see the sky, and not knowing whether it's day or night is starting to drive you mad. The dragon is rude and blunt, but you're beginning to think he won't be your biggest problem if you have to stay here with him.

When Diman returns, you feel a pang of disappointment as you see he has come back empty-handed. Your stomach growls with hunger, but before you can voice your frustration, he stops in front of you. With a deep breath, his large mouth opens, and two rabbits tumble onto the ground.

They're covered in his saliva, and they are unmistakably dead.

"You know what to do with them, right?"

"Yeah," you reply, trying to suppress the grimace threatening to spread across your face. "Thanks."

You grab the rabbits by their hind legs, searching the cavern for anything that might help you prepare them.

"You can find knives..." he muses for a moment. "Anywhere, I guess."

You glance at him, surprised by his nonchalant response. He smirks. His eyes gleam with a predatory glint, and the slits of his pupils widen slightly as he takes in your reaction. "You couldn't hurt me even if you wanted to," he adds with obvious amusement.

Without saying a word, you sigh and turn your attention back to the task at hand. You have dragon-saliva-soaked rabbits to prepare.

_

"Can I clean myself somewhere?" You ask.

After several days in the dragon's lair, you've yet to see the outside world, something you'll need to address with him eventually, but you have more important things in your mind. You've grown increasingly uncomfortable in your own skin. Your clothes reek of smoke and sweat.

Diman surprises you by standing up in his nest. "Good. I was starting to think you preferred being... like this."

You frown at him, feeling a mix of frustration and weariness. If this continues, your irritation with the dragon might become more than just a fleeting emotion. "What do you mean?"

"I thought you liked being stinky," he replies with a shrug. His muscular body, covered in thick, scaly skin, moves fluidly as he stretches.

"Why didn't you say anything before?" You splutter, annoyed and embarrassed at the same time.

"I didn't want to be rude," he says with an air of nonchalance.

You can’t help but scoff at his response, unable to hide your frustration.

"Come on, then."

The dragon leads you through the corridors. His massive strides force you to almost run just to keep up with him, and you have to watch out for his tail, too. It swings left and right in front of you with every step he takes.

For a long while, you wonder if he’s taking you out into the woods to find a river. But when he finally stops, and you step out behind him, you gasp in awe.

Before you is a new cave, even larger than the main hall at the heart of the mountain. Sunlight streams through natural openings in the walls, casting a warm glow on the time-carved columns that support the rough ceiling. The light dances across the surface of several pools of varying sizes scattered throughout the space. The water in them is crystal clear, reflecting the rugged walls with shimmering ripples. The air is thick with warmth and steam, which rises gently from the springs.

"Oh," you gasp, taking in the unexpected sight. "I didn’t know about this."

"Of course, you didn’t," Diman replies, his tone matter-of-fact. You give him a look, but he is not the type to shy away. "Do you want to bathe or not?"

"Yes," you reply, "I do. Do you have a change of clothes for me?"

"I’m sure I’ll find something," he says, and with that, he leaves you alone in the cave.

"Like a maid," he adds under his breath.

With his departure, you waste no time stripping off your clothes and stepping into one of the pools. The water laps gently against your bare skin, and you can feel your muscles and joints relaxing as the warmth envelops you. Leaning against the edge, you face the openings in the wall, allowing the sunlight and fresh air to wash over you.

When your village cast you out, you never imagined you'd end up here. You can’t help but think about how the others must assume you are long dead by now. You had thought so too, that your fate would be sealed and your life cut short. Yet here you are, unexpectedly alive and soaking in comfort. The irony of your situation is not lost on you.

You’re almost asleep when Diman returns, his heavy footsteps echoing softly in the cave. Something soft lands on the ground beside you silently. Opening your eyes, you see what looks like a nightgown spread out on the floor.

"And I brought you towels," he adds, his voice low and gruff.

You sit up, blinking in curiosity. "Why do you have towels?"

He shrugs, the movement causing the thick plates of his muscles to shift. "I have many things I have no idea how I got."

"Yeah. I saw."

Diman catches the subtle change in your tone and tilts his head. "Do you have a problem with it, little morsel?"

"It's... messy," you reply cautiously, watching his reaction. While Diman can be blunt and intimidating, he hasn’t harmed you yet, and you’re careful not to overstep.

"And it should bother me because...?"

"I didn’t say it should bother you," you tell him softly, trying to choose your words carefully. "But it’s not really... homey."

"It’s a cave," he retorts as if that explains everything.

"But it’s still your home," you reason.

Diman considers this, his gaze thoughtful. "Okay then," he agrees with a slow nod. "You’ll be here for a while, you might as well clean up if you want to."

Great, you think sarcastically. Just what you wanted, a never-ending cleaning project.

"Now," you say after a while, breaking the silence with a bit of hesitation, "can you leave?"

Diman frowns. "What?"

"I’m naked!" You exclaim, pointing out the obvious. With nothing else to distract you, you’re acutely aware of the fact that you’re completely bare in front of him, even though the pool and the water offer some privacy.

"So?" His tone is indifferent.

"Out!" You insist, your voice rising a bit in embarrassment.

For a long moment, Diman just stares at you, half-serious, half-amused. When you add a soft, "Please," his expression softens slightly.

He sighs but begins to move anyway. His large frame shifts with a resigned grace. "It is my lair, you know? You can’t just order me around."

It seems you can, but you wisely keep that thought to yourself.

Later, you find yourself nestled in Diman’s nest, a place that was initially intimidating but has become oddly comforting. You didn’t dare say anything about sleeping here at first, but now you don’t mind it. His warmth is a blessing against the cold mountain nights. A cocoon of heat that keeps the chill at bay.

"Read me something," Diman’s voice rumbles, breaking the silence.

"Read you something?" You ask, turning your head to look at him. His massive head rests on a pile of unidentifiable objects, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering firelight.

"Yes," he replies with a hint of impatience in his tone. "There are tons of books all over. Find something."

"Okay," you agree. You are not really sleepy either and glad for something to occupy your mind.

You rise from the nest, your nightgown swishing around your legs as you begin to sift through the scattered piles of belongings.

Diman watches you silently. There’s a quiet contentment in the way he observes you without saying anything. His tail curls slightly around himself some more. The sight of you in the soft, flowing nightgown fills him with a strange sense of peace. It’s almost enough to lull him to sleep, but he’s not quite ready for that yet.

As you pick through the mess, carefully avoiding knocking over anything, you come across a book that catches your eye. The cover is worn, and the title is barely readable, but it feels right in your hands. You bring it back to the nest and settle in beside Diman. Opening the book, you begin to read aloud, and soon, your voice fills the cavern. The dragon listens, his eyes half-lidded, and his breathing is slow and steady.

He spent the last decade mostly asleep, lost in the deep slumber of his kind. But now, with you here, being awake doesn’t feel like a burden anymore.

_

You and the dragon fall into a routine surprisingly quickly. The strange part isn't how easily you've adjusted to your new life, but how little you miss your old one. Yes, you miss your cottage, its cozy walls, and familiar smells, but you don’t miss the villagers. Why would you? They threw you away like garbage. With a few exceptions, they can rot where they are. You were right, though, choosing to be with a dragon is still a better option than staying with that fool of a man.

"What are you doing?" The sudden voice of Diman makes you jump. You almost drop the bundle of clothes in your hands. His large frame looms in the entrance. Shadows play and stretch on his scales in the dim light.

"Cleaning," you reply, steadying yourself after a second. You notice the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. "You're home early."

"There was a storm last night," he explains. His answer rumbles through the walls like a distant thunder. "It means plenty of fish."

Without further ado, he opens his massive jaws and drops a writhing pile of fish onto the stone floor. They flop and gasp, their silver scales glinting as a thin layer of water and dragon saliva spreads beneath them.

"Oh, god," you groan, stepping back in disgust. "They’re still alive!"

Diman tilts his head, watching you with a curious glint in his eyes. "You don't like it?"

"I do," you say, though your gaze remains fixed on the pile of struggling fish. "I just... I hate killing them."

"What?" He asks, genuinely puzzled.

"They're so wiggly!" You groan again, shuddering at the thought of touching their slimy bodies.

The dragon laughs. The deep, resonant sound echoes off the rugged walls. "I see. I’ll take care of them while you finish cleaning then."

You blink in surprise at his offer, but quickly nod anyway. You won't argue about this. "Thank you."

While he effortlessly handles the fish with his massive talons, you return to organizing the books you’ve been gathering from around the lair. You’ve created a neat pile in a corner. Diman could have a full library, though you’re not sure if dragons can even read.

"You’ve been busy today," he comments, his eyes flickering over to you as he lights a fire for cooking. Doing it in the heart of a mountain might not be the best idea, but for now, it’s your only option.

"Yeah," you sigh, placing your hands on your hips as you survey the hall. The place is still a chaos, but it’s better than before. "What do you do with so much gold?" You ask, nodding towards another glittering pile that catches the warm glow of the torches.

Diman shrugs. "They’re pretty."

"And the books? Or the clothes?" You continue, settling down next to him by the fire. Your stomach growls at the sight of the fish, now neatly arranged and ready to cook. "I understand the weapons and shields, but everything else seems so random."

He shrugs again. "I take what I find interesting or pretty. I mean, you’re here too, no?"

His words catch you off guard, a rush of warmth rising to your cheeks. "Well, yeah," you mumble, flustered.

Diman grins, revealing rows of sharp teeth. "You look better when you’re not trying to faint from fear."

You scoff. The moment between you two passes as quickly as it came. "Shut up."

He chuckles but falls silent, allowing a peaceful quiet to settle over you both as you begin cooking dinner. The fish sizzles over the fire, filling the cavern with a mouth-watering aroma.

"You seem to like it," Diman teases, watching you tear into the white flesh with both hands. Your hunger overwhelms your manners.

"Sorry," you mumble, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "I didn’t get to eat fish often back in the village. The river was far, and when people caught something, they sold it too expensive for me."

Diman’s gaze softens slightly. "Did you have problems there?"

"Not really," you reply between two bites. "I didn’t have much, but it was enough, you know?"

He hums in understanding, lowering his massive head to the ground as you continue eating.

"Do you want some?" You ask, holding out a piece of fish on your plate toward him. "It’s delicious."

The moment the words leave your mouth, time seems to stop. Diman stares at you, shock clear on his face. You have no idea what you’ve just offered him. Offering food among dragons is a gesture of profound significance, far beyond the simple act as it is for humans. It’s a symbol of trust, of bonding, of something deeper that you can’t even begin to comprehend.

For a long moment, Diman hesitates, torn between his instincts and the awareness that you don’t understand the weight of your gesture.

"No," he finally says, though his voice is softer, almost tender. He relaxes back onto the ground, his massive form curling slightly around you. "Eat, little morsel."

You continue eating, unaware of the change between you and the dragon and the silent vow Diman has made to himself. He will make sure you never leave him, even if you don’t fully understand the bond you’re forming yet.

_

“When will you get bored of me?” You ask the dragon after two months of living with him. The two of you sit at the entrance of his cave, basking in the last golden rays of the summer sun as it slowly dips behind the horizon. His emerald scales shimmer under the warm light. He sprawls on the ground, seemingly at ease.

At your question, his muscles tense, and he lifts his massive head to look at you. “Do you want to leave, little human?” He asks. The question rumbles with a barely suppressed growl of disapproval.

In truth, you have no desire to leave him. The thought of him sending you away gnaws at you daily. Where would you even go? Your old life was left behind, abandoned along with your cottage. Now, this cave, with its towering stone walls and the dragon who lives in it, is the only home you know.

A long, silent moment stretches between you as he watches you intently. Slowly, you gather your courage and shake your head. “No,” you admit, your voice steady. “That’s why I’m asking.”

His gaze softens slightly. “You don’t want to leave me?” He asks again as if needing to hear it twice to believe it.

You shake your head once more.

Living with Diman has been surprisingly comfortable. Despite his size and the sharpness of his claws, he’s become a constant presence around you, a source of safety. He’s often infuriating, teasing you just for the fun of it, but there’s warmth in his companionship that you’ve come to cherish. The thought of leaving him, of leaving this mountain, fills you with anxiety.

“Would you let me go if I wanted to leave?” You ask suddenly, the question escaping before you can stop it.

Diman sighs, his eyes drifting over the darkening landscape. “That would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it?” He muses aloud.

“Yeah,” you agree quietly. “I guess.”

He meets your gaze with a guilty smile. The corners of his large mouth curve up. “I say yes, as long as you promise not to test it.”

Diman has always been quick to let go of the men and women offered to him over the years. A lot of them stayed only a few days before he grew bored and sent them on their way. But with you, it’s different. He has no intention of letting you go. It’s not just about the entertainment you provide, though, you do make him laugh more than he has in years. No, it’s more than that. You make his cave feel like a home, and every time he leaves to hunt, he finds himself eager to return. When he sleeps, he looks forward to waking up, knowing you’ll be there. You’ve brought something into his life he didn’t know he was missing.

To his surprise, you laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Okay,” you say with a smile. “I won’t test it.”

And with that, the conversation ends. You lean back against his thick arm, closing your eyes with a contented sigh.

That night, the two of you drift off to sleep with anticipation and some lightness in your hearts.

_

"When will you be back?" You ask Diman, standing under the entrance of the cave as the rain pours down in heavy sheets. The dark clouds above rumble and flash with lightning every few minutes, casting brief, eerie illuminations across the landscape. The forest below is still green, but it looks weary and tired as the autumn approaches.

Diman turns to you, a grin spreading across his massive face, revealing his sharp teeth. "Are you worried about me?" He teases, expecting your usual playful retort, but when you don’t respond with your typical energy, his expression softens, and he answers more seriously. "I’ll be fine," he assures you. "This weather is nothing to me."

You nod, but the sigh that escapes you betrays your concern. "Okay."

"I’ll be back soon," he adds, trying to reassure you. "It shouldn’t be more than a week. Maybe two."

You don’t like the uncertainty in his answer, but you nod again anyway. "Okay."

"Take care of yourself while I’m away," he says, his voice gentle, as if trying to ease your worry.

"I will," you reply, though the words feel hollow.

Diman has to leave to hunt and prepare for the approaching winter. With his large appetite, he needs to be mindful of the animal population and cover more land before he accidentally empties the surrounding forest. And while you understand the necessity, you don't like it. You’ve grown used to his presence, his constant warmth. The thought of him being gone, even for a short while, leaves you feeling strangely vulnerable.

But you know it’s something he must do. So, you watch him as he spreads his enormous wings. The muscles in his body flex in preparation for flight, and with a powerful leap, he takes to the sky.

You watch him until his form is swallowed by the stormy clouds.

As you retreat back into the cave, it feels emptier without him. Colder somehow. You wrap yourself in a blanket, trying to shake off the unease settling in your chest. You tell yourself he’ll be back soon, just as he promised, but until then, the cave, and you, feel just a little lonelier.

While Diman is away, you continue to tidy up the cave, but it becomes increasingly difficult as the days drag on. Without his presence, the mountain walls feel heavy and claustrophobic. They close in on you more and more with each passing day. The silence is deafening, and the nights are too cold without the dragon’s warmth beside you. The cave now feels more like a prison, its stone walls offering little comfort against the loneliness that gnaws at you.

As the end of the first week without him approaches, you find yourself spending more and more time at the entrance of the cave, staring out at the still-raging storm and the dark sky and hoping to catch a glimpse of the returning dragon. Nature seems to be shedding its lush greens at an alarming speed. The forest below transforms into shades of orange and brown as autumn takes hold.

One day, you sit at the entrance of the cave, wrapped tightly in a blanket as the storm continues its relentless assault on the world outside. The sky above is dark, and heavy with clouds. The wind howls, and the rain pounds against the rocks, but you barely notice it anymore. Your thoughts are far away, lost in worry and longing for Diman's return.

The rumble of the ground beneath you is subtle at first, a faint vibration that you almost dismiss as part of the storm. But then it intensifies. The mountain itself groans under the pressure of some unseen force. You stand up, alarmed and with a racing heart as the tremors grow stronger. For several seconds, you stand there, frozen in place until the rocks around you begin to shudder. Dust and small pebbles rain down from the ceiling. A deafening roar echoes through the cave, and the ground lurches violently beneath your feet. The entrance, your only connection to the outside world, begins to crumble too. The rocks above shift and crack, and with a thunderous crash, they fall. The cacophony of stone grinding against stone drowns out everything else.

You barely have time to leap out of the way as the massive boulders come crashing down, sealing off the entrance in a cloud of dust and debris. You hurl yourself to the ground, rolling to the side and curling into a tight ball in the midst of the chaos. Your heart pounds as you squeeze your eyes shut. Your muscles are tense as you pull your knees to your chest. One arm wraps protectively around your head, while the other digs into your legs, anchoring you as the world around you crumbles.

When it finally stops, the silence is absolute, broken only by the muffled sound of the storm outside.

Coughing and gasping for breath, you push yourself up with a groan. Darkness surrounds you, thick and impenetrable. The air is heavy with dust, making it hard to breathe. Your hands scrape against the rough stone floor. You reach out, feeling your way through the pitch-black void, but your fingers meet only cold, solid rock and hard edges. Desperately, you search for any sliver of light, any gap that might offer a way out, but there’s nothing. The cave is sealed tight, and you are alone in the stifling blackness. The once-open space is now filled with a thick wall of stone.

You sink back to the ground with a rising panic in your chest while trying to steady your breathing. Your shoulders feel heavy as you force your mind to think. Diman will come back, you tell yourself. He’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll dig you out. You are safe with no injuries besides a few bruises and cuts here and there, and for now, all you can do is wait, alone in the darkness, hoping that Diman will return sooner rather than later to save you.

Hours pass in suffocating darkness. You sit, knees drawn to your chest, straining to hear anything beyond the silence. Every creak and groan of the mountain around you sends a jolt of hope through your heart, but it’s always nothing. Your dragon is probably far away, having no idea of the situation you are in. Your mind races with worry and fear, but as time drags on with no sign of Diman, a cold, grim resolve begins to take hold of you. You can’t just sit here, waiting. You have to do something.

With a deep breath, you push yourself to your feet. Your hands reach out to the rough, familiar walls of the cave, guiding you as you navigate through the pitch-black corridors. Every torch is blown out, making each step you take slow and careful. It feels like an eternity by the time you reach the grand hall. You can’t see it, but you know the space by heart.

First, you need fire. The torch is hard to find. Your hands are shaking when your fingers finally close around one, but lighting it is even more difficult. You are clumsy, trembling with cold and fear, but after several tries, a spark catches, and a small, flickering flame bursts to life.

The light is weak, barely enough to push back the darkness, but it’s something. It gives you the courage to move forward.

You gather as much supply as you can carry, stuffing them into a small sack before making your way to the baths. The walls here are punctuated by holes that let in some natural light, even though it's not much now with the storm outside. It's better than nothing, though.

You set your torch in a holder on the wall, letting the warm, flickering light mix with the cool, natural glow filtering in. The bath hall is a large, cavernous room with several pools fed by underground springs.

Okay, you think. It's much better. You have light, clean air, food and water. You will be fine until Diman comes back.

You lay out the blankets, creating a small nest for sleep. The air here is warmer, the water giving off a gentle steam that eases the chill in your bones. You take a deep breath, the first one since forever that doesn’t feel suffocating. The fear and loneliness are still there, gnawing at the back of your mind, but it’s easier to push them aside now that you are safe and out of the dark.

Diman will come back. He has to.

As the second week draws to a close, the storm that has raged on for weeks finally begins to ease. For the first time in days, you feel a small sense of relief. Being able to see the sky helps soothe the anxiety that has been eating at you. The knowledge that the world beyond the mountain still exists and turns is a comfort you didn't know you needed so much.

It's early Friday morning when a deep rumble shakes the cave, jolting you awake. Your stomach tightens with fear. The memory of the last collapse flashes through your mind as you brace yourself for the worst but this time, the ground doesn’t give way, and as the rumbling continues, you realize it’s not the mountain. It’s Diman’s voice, echoing through the labyrinth of stone.

A gasp escapes your lips as you scramble from your makeshift bed, your heart pounding with a mixture of relief and anticipation. You hesitate at the entrance of the cave that opens to the baths, unsure whether to move or stay put. You have to keep your tensing and twitching muscles from running. The maze of tunnels and chambers could make it harder for him to find you if you wander too far.

You call his name, your voice trembling as it bounces off the rugged walls, merging with his deep, booming calls.

“Y/N!” His voice is closer now, filled with urgency and worry.

Tears well up and spill down your cheeks as you see his massive form emerge at the end of the corridor. His eyes are wide and frantic as he spots you. Relief washes over you like a wave as you rush toward him, your arms stretching out instinctively.

“I’m here,” you cry out. Your voice breaks with emotion just as his large head presses into your embrace. You wrap your arms around him as best as you can, feeling the cool, rough texture of his scales under your fingers. Your feet lift off the ground for a moment as you cling to him. His deep, rumbling hum vibrates through your body as he tries to calm himself.

“I saw the entrance,” he says, his voice choked with fear and lingering panic. “I thought- I saw your blanket between the rocks- and- ”

“I’m fine,” you reassure him, caressing the thick scales beneath his eyes. “I was lucky; it didn’t hurt me.”

“Why were you even there?”

“I was waiting for you,” you reply.

“Little morsel,” he sighs, snuggling even closer. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“I promise." His large, gleaming eyes soften as you continue to stroke his scales. “I’m fine now that you’re here,” you whisper. The warmth of his presence chases away the lingering fear and loneliness that had weighed on you for so long.

Diman hums again, a low, soothing sound that vibrates through the air. It wraps you in a cocoon of safety.

“I’ll never leave you like that again,” he promises, his voice firm and unwavering.

You smile, wiping away the last of your tears as you nod. “It's fine by me.”

For a while, both of you bask in each other's embrace while talking quietly about the last two weeks. Diman needs a long time to calm down and believe that you are really okay.

"I will go and take care of the entrance," he says after a while. "And lit some fire."

"Okay," you nod even though you have to force yourself to let him go.

"Stay there until then," he says. "I will come back and get you."

As Diman busies himself, you slip away to take a bath. The warm water washes away the grime and stress of the past weeks, and as you change into clean clothes, a sense of relief settles over you. The knowledge that Diman is back, safe and sound, lifts the heavy burden that had weighed on your heart. Even as you hear the rumble of debris being cleared and feel the tremors beneath your feet, the fear that once accompanied these sensations is replaced by contentment. The mountain, which had felt like a prison in his absence, now feels secure and comforting again.

By the time you finish, Diman has completed his work. The entrance to the cave is clear once again, and as you step into the great hall, the fire’s orange glow flickers warmly on the walls, bringing a sense of normalcy back to your life.

"We need to change a few things around here," Diman says, his mind clearly racing with ideas. "I want you to have an escape route even when I'm not here. You need more light and—"

"It's okay," you interrupt gently, smoothing your palm over his thick arm. The texture of his scales is rough beneath your hand. "We can figure everything out later. Are you hungry?"

He looks at you, surprised. "I just came back from hunting."

You shrug, settling into your usual spot near his nest. The fire crackles, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and while you miss the open view of the outside world, the warmth and light bring a sense of peace. "You worked a lot today."

His smile is gentle, and there’s a new light in his yellow eyes that you’ve never seen before, something soft and tender. "No," he replies after a pause, his voice low and soothing. "I'm not hungry, but let me feed you."

"Oh," you say, surprised by his offer. "Okay," you add, smiling at him as he moves to prepare your meal.

Despite the obvious difference in size between him and the portion you eat, he works with surprising speed and care, and soon, the cave is filled with the mouthwatering aroma of vegetables and fish. Your stomach growls in response, reminding you how long it’s been since you’ve had a proper meal.

"Where did you get fish?" You ask, watching him with curiosity. You had finished all the meat in the last two weeks before it could spoil.

"On my way back," he replies with a nonchalant shrug. "Now, eat."

You take the plate he offers, the food warm and inviting. As you savor each bite, you glance up at Diman. His eyes are fixed on you, watching with a kind of quiet contentment that makes your heart swell. You’ve never seen him look at you like this before, and it fills you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire.

"Thank you," you say softly, and Diman responds with a deep, comforting hum that reverberates through the cave. The sound is rich and soothing, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. "Are you sure you don't want some?" You ask, holding up a piece of fish between your fingers. You could use a fork, but Diman doesn’t care about etiquette, and you quickly grew tired of searching for usable cutlery in the vastness of his home.

As the words leave your lips, the air between you shifts. Something unspoken and electric crackles in the silence as your eyes meet, holding each other's gaze a moment longer than usual.

"Do you know what you're offering me, little morsel?" Diman's voice deepens, resonating with a gravity that makes your heart skip a beat. The black slits of his pupils widen, nearly overtaking the molten gold of his eyes.

You hesitate. The answer is on the tip of your tongue. "No?" You say instead.

"Sharing food in my culture is an offer to share everything," he explains, his gaze never wavering. "It’s a bond between family and mates."

"Oh," you manage. Your throat tightens at the realization. "So..." you croak, still holding up your hand with the small offering. "Do you want some?"

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his lips, revealing the sharp edges of his teeth as he grins down at you. There’s a predatory glint in his eyes as he leans in, his massive head drawing closer. His tongue flicks out, surprisingly gentle, as he licks up the morsel from your hand. It’s likely not even enough for him to taste, but the significance isn’t lost on either of you. You’ve offered something sacred, something profound, and he’s accepted it with a puffed-out chest and a heart swelling with warmth.

As you watch him, a thought strikes you. "Wait," you say, your voice breaking the quiet. "But you..."

Diman watches you with amusement, the corner of his mouth curling up. "Yes, little mate?"

"You prepared my food so many times."

"I have," he agrees, his voice steady and sure.

"Well," you clear your throat, feeling a little foolish but pressing on. Your heart races in your chest at the silent change between you and the dragon. "Do you want some more?"

Diman chuckles. "No," he replies with affection. "Eat now." But even as he speaks, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays close, his head rubbing gently against your side and arms, careful not to knock you over with his size and strength.

His gaze never leaves yours as you take a sip of water, trying to calm yourself after your last bite. Your stomach twists into a tight but excited knot. Your hands tremble as you reach out, letting your fingers trace the space between his nostrils, feeling the rough, resilient scales that shield him from nearly everything.

Diman hums softly, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through the air and ripples down your spine. “Lay down, Y/N,” he murmurs, nudging you gently with his head. “I hunger for something else.”

A quiet “oh” escapes your lips. It's more of a breath than a word, but you obey without trying to say anything else. Your movements are slow and deliberate as you lower yourself to the ground. Your eyes are still locked in his intense gaze. The cold, uneven ground presses against your skin through the thin fabric of your nightgown. It barely offers any protection from the roughness and the cold beneath you. Goosebumps wake on your skin, but you are sure it has more to do with the dragon than anything else. You’re very aware of how exposed you are, both physically and emotionally, as you settle down before him. Diman watches you with a look that’s a mix of hunger and intent. His eyes glow with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His attention is heavy and burning. His massive form shifts closer. His breath is warm against your skin. There’s a powerful, magnetic pull between you two that sparkles under the silence that settled over the hall in the last few minutes. It's primal and impatient. His gaze sweeps over you, taking in every detail and every breath you take, and for a long moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The cave, the firelight, the very air around you, all of them fade into the background. Your nipples harden into tight peaks under the white fabric you wear. Your arms start to move to hide yourself, but you decide against it at the last moment. Instead, you rest your hands on your stomach and open your legs without Diman having to tell you what to do. The mix of the cold mountain air and his warm breath fans over your center, making your pussy clench around nothing. The sudden feeling takes your breath away for several seconds. The dragon didn't even touch you yet, but you are already damp and eager. The muscles of your thighs are hard, and your insides tremble with anticipation. Your chest rises and falls with each shallow breath, pushing the soft globes of your breasts against the nightgown. The fabric clings to your skin as Diman's golden eyes trace over your form. His gaze is intense as he takes in the sight of you laid out before him. He hasn’t touched you yet, but the promise of what’s to come hangs thick in the air, a palpable tension that has your heart racing. You can feel his warmth and his presence, so close yet not close enough, and it drives your desire even higher.

"Good, mate," Diman rumbles with satisfaction. "Open up for me even more."

With a shaky breath, you obey, forcing your legs further apart. You can feel the stretch of your tendons, the pull of your muscles as you do exactly as he commands. The hem of your nightgown slips down, gathering around the base of your thighs, leaving you bare and utterly vulnerable before him. Your lips are dry as you wait for his reaction, and your cheeks are hot with need and a hint of embarrassment.

His eyes rove over your exposed form once again. His warm breath fans over your center, over your whole body, making you quiver with anticipation.

"Such a beautiful sight," the dragon murmurs. His voice is a low growl that makes your pussy clench with need. He leans in closer, his large head hovering just above your thighs. The approval in his gaze makes you feel both cherished and possessed.

Your heart races, each beat echoing in your ears as you lay there, completely exposed. The rough texture of the ground beneath you only serves to remind you of the dragon's power above. His large form makes the cave look small as you look up at him with anticipation. Your whole body is tense as you wait for him to do something.

And when he does, you forget how to breathe.

Diman's tongue flicks out. The tip barely brushes against your inner thighs, and yet, it sends a jolt of pleasure through your body. Your back arches instinctively, and a soft moan escapes your lips. Maybe if your mind would be clearer, you would be embarrassed because of your reaction, but the haze is already too thick in your head to care. He moves slowly and exploratory. His tongue traces patterns across your skin but never goes further up than the base of your thighs. Each touch and caress is something new you both try to savor.

"You're perfect, little mate," Diman whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

His presence is overwhelming, his scales cool and firm against your skin, while the heat of his breath washes over you in waves when finally, his enormous head settles down between your legs. You feel the sheer magnitude of his closeness in every fiber of your body.

His tongue, wide and powerful, flicks out to tease you. The rough texture sends jolts of pleasure through your core. He starts slowly, almost lazily, trailing his tongue along your inner thighs, leaving a tingling, wet path of warmth in its wake. The contrast between his cool scales and the heat of your arousal is intoxicating.

When you waited for him at the top of the hill, you never imagined it would lead to this, that you would end up breathless and aroused beneath the beast. A wry smile tugs at your lips, thinking of the people you once knew. They have no idea how much of a favor they’ve done for you.

A soft gasp escapes your lips as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy and cuts the train of your thoughts. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine. His tongue is wet and rough just enough the make you buck your hips against him while he watches your every reaction with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. His molten gold eyes are filled with a hunger that only stokes the fire within you. The black slits of his pupils are almost orbs as he tries to take you in.

He takes his time, exploring you with slow movements that leave you on the edge of madness. The rough texture of his tongue adds a delicious friction that makes you moan with need. Your hips lift again, seeking more of his touch, but Diman holds you in place with a gentle but unyielding pressure, savoring the control he has over your body.

“Diman,” you breathe, his name escaping your lips in a desperate plea. The tension inside you coils tighter with each teasing stroke. Your body aches for release.

“Patience, little mate,” he rumbles, his deep voice vibrating through you like a physical caress. Your back arches at the feeling. The sound alone sends a pulse of arousal straight to your core, making you clench around nothing. His words only heighten the anticipation building inside of you.

He dips lower, circling your entrance with agonizing slowness, making you gasp and writhe beneath him. The tip of his tongue traces your folds, gathering your wetness and savoring your taste with a low, approving hum that resonates through you. He flicks your clit over and over again until your thighs tighten around his large jaw and nose. He teases you restlessly, slipping down across your folds and going straight to your entrance. He prods you there for an endless moment, making you whine and fidget with impatience bubbling in your chest.

The dragon laughs at that, and the rumble of his chuckle echoes in your body. The feeling punches a moan out of your lips, and you barely have time to come back to your senses when his tongue slides inside you with a slow, deliberate push. He fills you up in a way that’s both overwhelming and strange. The wet muscle penetrates you, making you cry out breathlessly. Your back arches off the ground almost painfully, and your walls clench around the thickness of his tongue, only making it rub over your sensitive spots even more. He moves in and out of you as he fucks you with a measured, unhurried pace. He lets his tongue soak in your arousal while he listens to the sweet sounds you make. You are the prettiest thing he has ever seen with your half-closed eyes and trembling muscles. He can feel every flutter of your pussy around his tongue as he pushes deeper, finding every spot that makes your voice go higher with several octaves.

The pleasure is intense, almost too much to bear. Your body is stretched and filled by the sheer size of his tongue. Each of his movements is precise, calculated to drive you to the brink without ever pushing you over the edge. You can feel every inch of him, every ripple and curve of his tongue as it slides in and out of you. The sensation swirls the world around you once, twice, three times.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need-” The end of your sentence is drowned by the ragged breath that bursts out of your lips as you wheeze and pant.

Diman’s response is a low, satisfied growl that reverberates through your entire body. He increases the pace slightly, his tongue fucking you with a slow, steady rhythm that has you gasping for air. The pressure builds inside you, a hot, insistent ache that demands release, and your body tightens with each thrust. You feel like a drawn bow.

And...

and...

He pulls back just enough to flick his tongue over your clit. His touch is electric, sending shockwaves through your entire body, yet you cry out in frustration. Tears gather in your eyes, and your hips buck up against him as you chase the high that’s just got out of reach. Diman seems to relish in your desperation, his tongue alternating between fucking you deep and teasing your clit with a maddening, feather-light touch.

The tension coils tighter and tighter inside you, every muscle in your body straining as you teeter on the edge of release. The dragon's tongue works you with a relentless, skillful precision, drawing out every ounce of pleasure until you’re a quivering, breathless mess beneath him.

“Let go,” he murmurs. His voice is like a deep, soothing rumble that wraps around you like a warm embrace. “I want to feel you come for me, little mate.”

His words are the final push you need as his tongue finds its way inside you with a quick, bullying motion. Your body surrenders to the overwhelming pleasure that crashes over you like a tidal wave. The orgasm tears through you, leaving you breathless and shaking. Your muscles contract and release in a rhythm that matches the waves of ecstasy flooding your veins. You, your body, and your orgasm are in sync with the rapid thrust of his tongue that pounds in and out of you as you fall over the edge.

Diman doesn’t stop. His tongue continues to fuck you through your orgasm, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you’re left trembling and spent beneath him. Your body is a live wire of sensation, every touch sending aftershocks of pleasure coursing through you. Your climax and his saliva are a mess of mix between your thighs, soaking the floor underneath.

When he pulls back, his eyes glow with a satisfied light as he watches you catch your breath. His chest expands with pride at the sight of you. Your gown clings to your skin, highlighting the hard peaks of your nipples. A thin layer of sweat glistens on your skin under the orange glow of the fire. You are beautiful, and something in him, something primal and demanding, awakens again, but instead of burying himself between your soft thighs again, he just licks his lips to savor your taste while you slowly get back to your senses.

"Diman?" You breathe out his name, searching for him even though your eyes are still closed.

"I'm here, my love," he hums. "I won't go anywhere."

"What about you?" You ask him, and the dragon can't help but chuckle. His own arousal is still hard and leaking between his hind legs, but there is no way you are up to explore the physical possibilities between the two of you.

"I can wait," he says, hauling you up in his hand gently to settle down in his nest with you close to his massive head. "Sleep, my mate."

As the new mate of the dragon living among the clouds and resting in the mountains, your old life becomes a quickly fading memory. And when your love starts to rebuild his cave just to make it more of a home for you, you never look back. Not once.

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part one)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

author’s note thank you to this anon!! this fic deviates from canon. timeline is s2 when rafe is at his most unhinged.

» masterlist

disclaimer there is no explicit s/xual assault scene in this story, but it is referenced and the trauma that comes with surviving it is explored. when writing this, i pulled from personal experience, so please be mindful that if you comment, do not engage in any victim-blaming as it is triggering to me and others.

·········

In a single harrowing moment, you’ve learned that there’s truth to the expression that the enemy of your enemy can be your friend.

Rafe looks all too comfortable holding a gun. The rage coursing through you is deafening, persuading you that the person he’s pointing it at deserves to die.

And then, you utter the words rising in your throat.

“Do it.”

╰┈➤ two days earlier

Your shifts at the country club are a repetitive motion of driving over the golf course’s hills, handing the island’s wealthiest people their overpriced drinks, and accepting their money with a fake smile.

The job was always a predictable bore. Until a week ago, when you started seeing a familiar face.

The moment Rafe’s eyes landed on you and he realized that one of the Pogues he revels in berating is the new cart girl, his lips twitched into a smirk.

Every time you see him, he does the same thing. He orders a beer and says here you go, sweetheart when he tips you.

It’s always a fifty. No other club member gives you nearly this much. It’s like he loves reminding you that this type of money is pocket change to him.

Every time you serve him, you subdue your glare and take the crisp bill that sits between his fingers, wondering why even though the man is an arrogant asshole, you can’t stop staring at him.

You feel weak for not hating him all the way. You can’t help that over the years of your tense, sporadic interactions, a part of you has always wondered if he feels the same pull of attraction that you do.

You have to remind yourself of who he is. A man committed to letting everyone know how much better he thinks he is because he was lucky enough to be born into money. He’s heartless. And you can’t wait for the day that you finally rid yourself of this fixation you have for him.

It’s a sunny Thursday afternoon at the end of a long shift and you’re parked by one of the paved pathways on the course, recording your last transaction in your logbook.

You hear the familiar whirring of a cart passing by. It stops. You don’t think much of it until you hear his voice.

“We’ll take two beers,” he calls from behind the steering wheel. You look up to see him. Rafe.

“I’m obviously off duty,” you reply curtly, looking between him and his friend.

“What, so you can write in your diary, but you can’t give us some drinks?” he calls.

“It’s a logbook,” you reply coldly. “It’s called having–”

You flatten your lips together, trying to control yourself.

“Having…?” he challenges. The mocking tone of his voice is what makes you snap.

“A job,” you reply. “Not everyone can live off of daddy’s money.”

Rafe huffs a laugh, a wisp of amusement flashing on his face.

“Careful, Pogue,” he says. “What’ll your boss say if he knows that’s how you’re talking to me?”

“I’m off the clock, Kook,” you say the label with the same vitriol. “I can talk however I want.”

You close your book and start up your cart before he can irritate you any more. Even though there’s something aggravatingly magnetic about him, you refuse to allow him to taunt you any longer.

·········

You meet up with your friends on the beach that evening, zoning out as the three of them chatter around you, passing a joint you brought.

You stare ahead at the soft waves under the setting sun, thinking of Rafe’s cold stare, thinking of the smirk he seems to always have etched on his face reserved especially for you, thinking of how you wish your body would catch up with your mind because how can you dislike somebody this much but also be so attracted to them?

“Who’s your plug?” JJ asks, seemingly impressed. He pulls you out of your daze as he passes you the joint. Smoke curls out of the end of it, twisting in the wind.

“That guy, Porter,” you say flatly. You take a puff, thinking back to the shaggy-haired Kook who approached you at a party on the north side of the island the other night, offering you half the price on your first buy.

He also tried to convince you to try something harder, but you told him you’re sticking to pot. You weren’t about to get hooked on coke, especially not because a drug-dealing Kook wants to take more of your money.

You continue to stare ahead, passing the joint along.

“What a trust fund kid name,” JJ laughs. “Fuckin’ Porter.”

Your friends chuckle around you, but you continue to stare ahead.

“Hard day at the office?” he says in response to your absentmindedness. You meet JJ’s gaze, shaking your head as if to dismiss your own thoughts.

“Rafe is such an asshole,” you say.

“What’d he do this time?” Pope asks. Your friends await your response, already well aware of your history with the bullshit you’ve ever had to deal with at work lately.

“He said something about ratting me out to my boss for talking back to him,” you reply. You scoff, getting mad all over again. You need to pull yourself out of this funk. “Whatever. All I do is complain about him. He’s not worth it. This is the last time you’ll ever hear me talk about him. I mean it.”

You make an effort to join in your friends’ conversations, feeling guilty that you’re so spaced out. With parents who never give you much attention at all, the guys surrounding you are your family. Your brothers. They deserve better than to hear you ramble on about Rafe.

Rafe’s eyes travel over the silhouettes sitting along the darkening shoreline when he arrives at the beach with his friends.

It’s the sound of his pick-up truck’s door shutting that gets your attention. You look over your shoulder. Then, you glance away, indifference on your face.

It pisses him off. Rafe has always craved what he can’t have. Power. Self-control. You. Every time he talks to you, you act like he’s such a bother, a sharp thorn in your side.

You get under his skin. And he’s never wanted a girl this bad. A goddamn Pogue of all people. Something about you lures him in. It makes him want to see what really lies behind the irritation that burns in your eyes every time he speaks to you.

He needs to crack your armor. And he has always loved a challenge.

As the beach populates, the division between the Kooks and the Pogues is clear, as if an invisible line is drawn in the sand. He stays on your side, you stay on yours.

When night falls, you and your friends have all smoked through the entire joint, and you’re a bit buzzed but not nearly as high as you’d like to be.

You spot Porter by the shoreline, drinking with his friends, and dust the sand off your knees when you stand up.

“I’m gonna go buy some more,” you say to your friends.

“Going into enemy territory?” JJ asks.

“It’s nothing new to me,” you laugh. “I work in enemy territory, remember?”

“You need company? Or cash?” John B asks.

“All good. My treat,” you say. “I’m loaded with tips.”

You don’t mention that a majority of the money in your pocket is from Rafe.

As you approach the boisterous group, you cross your arms and feign confidence. In reality, being around these types has always put you on edge.

Kooks give off a sense of invincibility, almost impunity, like predators at the top of the food chain, perpetually safe from harm and always on the brink of inflicting it.

You notice Rafe’s stare on you from his place in the large group and your stomach twists. Your eyes flit off of him and you wonder how it’s possible to wish someone would stay away but also so deeply crave they’d come closer.

Truthfully, within the tangled way he makes you feel, you’re kind of scared of Rafe, too. He’s reckless and unpredictable. And yet, that side of him excites you. There’s a complexity to him that has an inescapable effect on you.

“You holding?” you ask Porter once you approach him. He’s one of the few Kooks you don’t mind so much. He doesn’t have the cold air of arrogance that you’re so used to.

“It’s good shit, isn’t it?” he says with a smile. “How much you want?”

You leaf through the bills in your hand.

“Just a joint,” you say. The waves crash behind you, almost drowning your voice out. You make the exchange and push through the crowd, eager to get back to your friends.

You thought you managed to get away without any complications, but two words stop you.

“You lost?”

You turn to see Rafe, overwhelming heat rushing through you as he closes the distance between you, towering over you as the breeze brushes his hair over his forehead.

“What, ‘cause I’m on your side of the beach?” you mutter. “Grow up.”

Rafe smirks. He gets such a kick out of fucking with the Pogues. Especially you.

“Is that what you’re spending my tips on?” he asks, eyes darting down to the joint in your hand.

“Yeah,” you answer. “You can tell your father I say thanks.”

Rafe’s mouth curls into a bigger smile. When he looks at you like that, like he wants to be around you, you wonder if he secretly enjoys your company.

“How long you been buying from him?” Rafe asks.

“Why?” you say. The way you glare at him makes every muscle in his body tense. He’d be an idiot to deny how attracted he is to you. “You gonna tell my boss?”

“It was a fucking joke,” he mutters with a laugh. “You Pogues all have sticks up your asses, I swear.”

You grit your teeth. He’s clearly pleased when he riles you up like this. You don’t understand how somebody could be so spiteful.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you say.

Silence settles between you, the chattering of people on either side of the beach intertwined in the air, an overlap of worlds far apart. He reminds himself that he has something important to ask you.

“Did he offer you anything else?” he says. You’ve already heard the gossip about how Rafe’s selling coke now. He must want to offer you a better price.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” you reply. Rafe scoffs, his tongue jutting under his cheek as he takes you in.

“I’d never sell to you.”

You huff a flat chuckle. You’re tired of his juvenile obsession with the class divide that sits between you.

“So, I’m good enough to serve you drinks, but not good enough to buy your drugs?”

You feel a sick sense of satisfaction when his face hardens with anger. For a second, you worry that you’re just as spiteful as he is, that you’re no better than him.

Rafe scoffs. He’s seen what coke does to people. To himself. He refuses to see it happen to you. But of course you expect the worst of him. Like everyone else does.

“Did he offer you anything else or not?” Rafe repeats with a note of irritation.

“Why?” you sputter.

“I need to know if he’s trying to steal from me.”

Rafe refuses to be in competition with anyone. Other Kooks can sell weed all they want, but coke is his territory, and if he has to claim his territory, so be it. He’s heard rumblings that Porter’s expanded his offerings now. And Rafe isn’t going to let him fuck him over.

“He did,” you finally answer. “Coke. He said it’s the purest on the island.”

He only nods tersely, lips twisting in frustration, before he turns around and storms away from you. So, that’s all he wanted from you. Information.

“You’re welcome,” you half-shout. Curiosity pulls you in as your eyes follow him into the crowd. Sure enough, Rafe pushes Porter to the ground, shouting indistinctly, earning jeers from the crowd.

It’s typical. Nearly every time you see Rafe out socially, he’s yelling and fighting someone. You walk back to your friends, hoping you can shake off the feeling he left you with.

·········

The only thing getting you through your shift the next day is that tomorrow is a holiday. The night of the Fourth of July is an escape from the stresses of your life, an excuse to get wasted with your friends under the fireworks and let yourself drift off into oblivion.

After you clock out, you’re pacing through the country club’s bar when you hear your name called from the patio. You look to see Porter sitting at a table with a couple of friends, his smile wide.

“Didn’t know you worked here,” he says when you approach.

“Yeah, I’m a server on the course,” you explain. You almost expect him to ignorantly ask for a drink, but have to remind yourself that he’s not like Rafe.

“How is it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Come on, we won’t tell,” Porter chuckles. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“Only sometimes,” you reply with a laugh. “Depends on the day. And on the person I’m dealing with.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He pulls out his phone, punching in the password. “I meant to tell you last night that you should have my number. You know, for when you need to stock up.”

You take his phone, cluing in that he’s making himself more accessible to you for the next time you need to buy from him. As you text yourself his name, one of the men at the table motions to Porter.

“Bro,” his friend says, gaze trained ahead. Porter looks past you to the bar and shakes his head in disbelief.

“Can’t escape him,” he sighs.

You follow his eyeline to spot Rafe at the bar with a friend, dark liquor sitting in the glass he’s holding.

“Not a fan?” you ask.

“Is anyone?” Porter laughs. “He’s a nutcase.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” his friend murmurs.

“Yeah, he’ll kill you,” the other guy laughs.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Porter replies.

Your eyes linger on Rafe a second longer than they need to. Your curiosity for why he’s the way he is is like a flame that won’t burn out. He has everything he could possibly want. Why is he so mean?

“Yeah,” is all you can say. You turn around again and give Porter his phone back.

“Oh, there’s a party at my beach house tomorrow night. My neighbor does this crazy fireworks thing every year,” he tells you. “I’ll text you the address.”

You nod appreciatively, glad that at least some of the rich people you deal with don’t buy into the idea that you’re beneath them.

·········

It’s nearing nine p.m. when you make it to the beach house the next night. The guys are rambling on behind you as you step inside the massive, humid house, filled with chattering people and loud music.

“Where are your car keys?” Pope asks.

“Right here,” JJ says, jingling them in front of his face. “Do I need to show you every five minutes?”

“I’ll just take them,” Pope says, grabbing them and stuffing them in his pocket. “You can’t be trusted.”

“It was one time,” JJ says. You laugh as you think of last weekend when he’d lost his car keys at a party in the Cut.

“Yeah, and we had to search the sand for, like half an hour,” you remind him.

“You know what I’m not hearing?” JJ says. “A thank you for driving all the time.”

“Remind me, who actually drove last time?” John B asks. “And who was hurling in the backseat?”

JJ scratches the back of his neck.

“I’m a man of honor,” he says. “I’m not not going to chug when I’m told to chug.” His eyes fix on something across the room. “Speaking of…”

He heads towards the keg and you and Pope share a disapproving shake of your heads. You follow your friends, grabbing a solo cup and sipping on beer.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes with a text from Porter: You here? Want to buy?

You’ve already smoked through the joint you bought two nights ago and quickly reply: yes.

He texts: come upstairs.

“I’ll be right back,” you quickly tell your friends before you push through the crowd.

You duck under the string tied across the bottom of staircase, a sign that warns partygoers that it’s off limits hanging in the middle. One door is open in the upstairs hallway. You see Porter sitting on a bed, rolling a joint on a book that’s sitting in his lap.

“Hey. Got a fresh one for you,” he says.

“Thanks.” You dig into your pocket. “Same price?”

“Sure.” He cocks his head. “It’ll take a while. You can come in and chill.”

You sit at his desk close to the door, talking as he packs the thin white paper.

When he stands up, instead of giving the joint to you, he darts across the room abruptly. Your brows knit in confusion when he shuts the door, the loud music reduced to muffles now.

“What are you doing?” you ask, fear twisting your heart in a vice.

He must have read things wrong.

You assume he’ll stop when you tell him no.

He doesn’t.

·········

You fall to the hard floor. You grip the edge of the bed, hardly any light spilling into the room from the hallway as you blink rapidly to gain your bearings.

A loud slam was what woke you up. You don’t remember falling asleep. You don’t even know where you are.

Two shadowy figures stand on the other side of the room. One roughly pushes the other to the floor. You stay still, peeking over the bed. Your body is trembling with pain and you don’t know why.

“Do you think I’m joking?” a man spits.

You know that voice. It’s Rafe.

“Dude, relax,“ the man on the floor says.

You might be sick. It’s Porter on the floor, whimpering like an idiot. You remember why your body is aching now.

He hurt you. He hurt you and you retreated into your mind and you fell unconscious. A cold swirl of anger and disgust and sadness twists your stomach into a knot.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking way,” Rafe shouts. “Where’s your stash?”

“In the desk,” Porter says quietly. “Just take it. I’ll stick to selling weed, okay? You have my word.”

You watch from the floor, Rafe’s broad figure leaning to pull open drawers and shove items off the desk, objects clattering on the floor in the dark. They don’t know you’re here.

Consciousness slowly grips you. Rafe confronted him about selling coke. He told him to stop. And Porter didn’t listen.

Your eyes flood with hot tears. He didn’t listen to you, either.

You just want to leave. To get out of this horrifying room. To figure out how to put yourself back together after surviving one of the worst ways a person can break another.

Loud fireworks abruptly crack in the sky, startling you, shining light in through the window. And that’s when you see it. Porter is by the other side of the bed, still on the floor, and in his raised hand, something is gleaming.

A gun.

“Rafe!” Your throat is dry, sore from the way you’d screamed.

He suddenly turns towards you, confusedly finding your face across the room. Then, his gaze snaps down at Porter. He notices the gun. And he lunges.

You stand on shaky knees as you watch Rafe land vicious punches, every blow making Porter groan.

“Gonna pull a gun when my back is turned, pussy?” Rafe bellows. “Really?”

You round the bed, staring in horror, your mind still in fragmented shambles. You’d told Porter to stop so many times and every strike of Rafe’s knuckles against his jaw gives you a jolt of satisfaction, a desire for him to suffer more.

He was never a nice guy. He’s just like all of them. A predator.

Rafe scrambles to his feet, heavily breathing as fireworks continue their pops and sizzles over the beach.

The gun is in his hand now. His heart is thrumming, his blood boiling hot. He could’ve died. If you didn’t call his name, he could’ve lost his life.

Rafe’s steady and firm, holding the weapon still, a sharp contrast to how hard you’re shaking.

“Do it,” you say. Rafe’s eyes finds yours, his lips parted, blood splattered on his face. It’s not his. Porter didn’t land any punches. Rafe beat him that badly.

“What?” Porter cries. “Are you insane?”

He’s staring up at both of you through wide eyes as the barrel of the gun remains directed at him. You imagine how terrifying you must look to him, standing over him in the dim room with his pathetic life in your hands.

“Me?” you mutter. Hatred courses through your veins when you glare at him as he lies on his side, bloodied and weak.

The power has shifted into your hands. He was the one looking down at you earlier, hurting you. And now that your body is yours again, you don’t hesitate to kick him in the stomach.

He grunts when you make contact, his body curling forward.

Rafe watches, rendered speechless. He thought he’d seen you angry before. He hasn’t. This is new. This is pure rage. This is a level of wrath he didn’t know you were capable of.

Even through the darkness, Rafe can see that your eyes are shiny with tears when you turn your head to look at him again.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” you snap, your words dripping with agony and rage. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

Rafe is powerless against the angry, malevolent instinct that’s guided him all his life. He doesn’t think.

The blow of the gun cuts through the air.

Your breath catches.

And he’s just a body. Lifeless on the floor. Gone.

You look up at Rafe. Your chests are heaving, broken and shaky breaths spilling out of your mouths. The colors lighting up the night sky tint your tear-streaked face. He’s never seen agony personified. He has now.

You glance down at Porter again. His mouth is agape. His eyes are shut. Forever. Forever.

“Oh, my God,” you whimper. Hot tears fall over your cheeks so quickly that you fear they’ll never stop. The adrenaline escapes you like water spinning down a drain, replaced with a bottomless dread.

Rafe realizes he’s still pointing the gun. He lowers his arm, his palm sweating against the grip. He had to do it. He had to. He didn’t know that taking a life would feel this good. He doesn’t feel a shred of regret or remorse. For once, he has real power.

But then he watches the way you sink down to the floor.

“What did we…” you whisper, words rushed. “What did we do? Rafe, what did we do?”

There’s a dead body next to you. Cold permeates your bones. You know it’s the type of chill that will never leave you.

Rafe kneels in front of you. The gun hits the floor with a heavy thump. The air smells like gunpowder, fried and smoking. He’s trying to meet your eyes, but your gaze is skittering around as you sit, crumpled and trembling.

“Hey,” he says clearly.

You’re staring at the ground, your breaths shallow.

“Hey,” he repeats louder. Finally, you look at him. “It was self-defense.”

You nod weakly, processing how within a second, you’ve tangled yourselves together into a knot that you can never unravel. Rafe pulled the trigger, but you told him to. And you’re sure you would’ve done it yourself if Rafe didn’t. You’re murderers.

Rafe’s hand is an inch away from you, almost putting it on yours, almost touching someone with tenderness instead of anger for once. You saved his life. You loathe him, but you saved his life, reacting in a split second.

“Why were you even up here?” he asks.

“Just be glad I was,” you say, hoping it’s enough to satisfy him.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

If you weren’t so shellshocked, you’d laugh. You never expected Rafe to have manners, and you never expected that if he did, it’d be a show of gratitude for helping him kill somebody.

Nausea pools in your gut at the reminder of why you were so angry. Did Porter plan it? Did he always have his sights set on you, like a vulture circling the sky, ready to attack?

What happened earlier tonight flashes through your mind. He deserved to die. He did something unforgivable. He said things about how girls always do this, they always tease but never give it up.

You didn’t just save Rafe. You saved all the girls who were fated to cross that monster’s path. You pushed a soul to its death, but it was one not worthy of life.

Rafe stares at you as you blink rapidly, your mind clearly racing.

“He rip you off or something?” he asks, at a loss for why you’d encourage him to pull the trigger.

Of course Rafe thinks it’s about money. That’s all that matters to him.

“Yeah,” you lie, voice cracking. You can’t tell him. You can’t relive it. Especially with someone who you know is cold-blooded. Someone who might blame you for coming up to this bedroom in the first place.

Tease. Porter called you a tease while you pleaded for him to stop. You drop your head in your hands, chest stuttering with your breathy cries, remembering how he’d hurt you.

Rafe stares at you, confused, wondering how you could be so angry and vengeful and ruthless, just to regret it a second after the bullet left the chamber.

“We had to do it,” he states.

“I know,” you tell him. You wipe your cheeks with your palms, well aware that he could never understand why you’re really crying. “We’ll just tell the truth.”

He shakes his head at you.

“Tell who the truth?” Rafe mutters, his stare hard. “We’re not telling anybody.”

Your breath shakes. He wants to hide this. To try to get away with it.

“What if someone heard the gunshot?” you murmur.

“Everyone’s outside,” he says. “And those stupid fireworks are so fucking loud. Nobody could tell the difference.”

You wipe your face again, considering his words. Your phone is buzzing in your pocket. Someone’s calling you. Surely one of your friends. Why didn’t you just tell them where you were going? Why didn’t you just have one of them come upstairs with you?

Impatience quickly rises in Rafe while you stay silent.

“I almost knocked him out the other night,” he says. “In front of everyone. You think backing me up would be enough for anyone to believe I was protecting myself?”

You chew on your bottom lip anxiously. Rafe has a reputation for being violent. Porter put up a front that he was a nice guy. His friends even said right in front of you that Rafe would kill him. Who’d believe that Porter actually pointed a gun first?

Besides, if you vouched for him, who’s to say they’d trust you? They could spin it and say Rafe paid off a Pogue to lie for him.

“And then the cops would dig and find out it was over coke,” Rafe sputters. “It’d be a fucking mess. We’re not telling anybody.”

He’s right. Confessing wouldn’t do you any good, either. It could go sideways and you could never afford a good lawyer.

Nobody deserves to be punished for taking down the evil, lifeless man lying on the floor. Not you. Not even Rafe. You won’t take the risk.

You gaze into Rafe’s eyes, finding comfort in the striking blue hue for the first time, feeling a newfound sense of loyalty to him.

He gave you vengeance in a world that would never punish the man who hurt you. You’re in this together.

“Okay,” you whisper. “What do we do now?”

“We get rid of the body.”

next >

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[slayfics]

Katsuki gets caught being sweet to you.

You started to finally catch your breath being at the top of the hiking trail Katsuki had dragged you out too.

"Alright there, it's just us up here so tell me already. What the hell has been going on?"

"That's why you brought me out here?" You asked.

"Just tell me already, stop being so damn stubborn." He pried you impatiently.

"I told you I'm fine Bakugo, just busy like everyone else." You replied.

"Don't give me that shit. Do you think I'm stupid? The other extras are too dense to notice but I can see how exhausted you've been this whole week. So just tell me- what's going on," He said.

"You didn't need to drag me out here on a hike in freezing weather to do this, you know," You said, slightly irritated at Katsuki continuing to push you.

"Ugh- will you stop stalling and talk already," He yelled, causing you to let out an annoyed sigh. Katsuki put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the view, his demeanor softening slightly. "You can talk to me, you know," he added, his voice lower and kinder than before.

You stayed looking at the view for a few more moments trying to figure out how to unpack everything that had been stressing you out. It wasn't like some big thing, but a summation of a bunch of little things that were beginning to become too challenging to manage.

A cold breeze blew by causing you to shiver. You wondered why Katsuki had insisted on bringing you up this mountain to talk to you. He could have pestered you in your dorm where it was warm.

Katsuki stole glances at you occasionally then focused back on the view not wanting to intimidate you too much from his glare. Hiking always helped him to clear his mind and gather his thoughts when they seemed too loud. He thought maybe it would help you too, and being away from all your classmates might make it easier for you to talk to him. At the very least it made it easier for Katsuki to be more vulnerable with you. He found it too daunting to express himself fully with all the attention of his classmates around. It was much easier being only in your company.

You took a deep breath, "I guess- it's just been hard to balance everything recently," You finally spoke, breaking the silence. Katsuki made it easy to open up to, as he had no problem sitting in silence for long extended periods. Others in your life felt the need to fill that silence with useless chatter which always prevented you from sitting in your emotions and being able to formulate them into words.

You took in another breath feeling a lump in your throat form. You hadn't wanted to talk to anyone about what was going on for fear of opening up the flood of emotions and not being able to stop. Now here it was. You didn't want to cry on this fucking hill.

Katsuki patiently waited while you gathered your thoughts.

"It's just been so much and I've been barely keeping up. It's- been getting to me recently. I've been forgetting things I shouldn't. Being unusually upset at things that aren't that big of a deal- and I just- it's dumb." You cut yourself off afraid to say anymore.

"It's not dumb. Don't hold that shit in, it's not healthy," He said encouraging you to keep talking.

You sighed, "I just... know that it could be way worse, and I've been through way worse so- I feel so irritated at myself. What I'm going through now isn't something I can't handle. I know that. So why do I feel so fucking exhausted with everything," You replied wiping a stray tear from your cheek.

"Hmm," Katsuki grunted, processing what you said. "You know, it's ok to be tired, and- to not be perfect. You can't just deny yourself from feeling overwhelmed because it could be worse. If you're exhausted now then those feelings are real- and it's ok to have them," He spoke.

You looked down at the view watching the distant cars pass, "Thanks," You managed to say taking another deep breath.

"You shouldn't wait to handle them until they explode either. Trust me, I know what that's like," He said, causing you to let out a small giggle. "You're too damn hard on yourself you know that?"

You let out a full laugh, "Oh that's pretty good coming from you. You're the pro at having too high expectations for yourself," you laughed.

You and Katsuki were wrapped up in your conversation causing you not to notice approaching classmates in the distance. Mina and Eijiro had also decided to come up the hill after class and spotted both of you in the distance.

"That looks like we shouldn't interrupt," Eijiro said.

"Yeah," Mina agreed. "But maybe... we could get a little closer to make sure everything is ok?" She said, pulling Eijiro into the bushes to spy on you and Katsuki. Eijiro was highly against the plan but was unable to protest for fear of you two hearing.

"Yeah I know I have high expectations for myself... that's why I know what it fucking looks like when you're being too hard on yourself. So- tonight I'm coming to your dorm and, I'm making sure you get to bed at a reasonable fucking time."

Mina's eyes widened as she looked at Eijiro, "Coming to their dorm?!" She whispered, and Eijrio covered her mouth, silencing her.

"You mean Grandpa time at 9 p.m.?"

"Shut up! 9 p.m. is late as hell! You damn idiots just don't know how to have a good sleep schedule! Look I'm making sure you get some sleep and tomorrow I'm taking you out. So- figure out where you want to eat, I don't care where. And I'm not letting you say no you need a break," Katsuki replied.

"You don't have to do that Bakugo."

"Of course, I don't have to but, I want to. So just shut up and let me take care of you ok. You better not be afraid to order enough food this time either! I'm buying so- just get whatever you want, alright?"

"Ok ok," You laughed, feeling your mood brighten.

"Next time, just tell me when you're having a bad day or something. Stop making me drag it out of you. I- worry about you, you know? Now let's go back to the dorms. I see you shivering," He said, beginning to walk back down the hill.

Mina squirmed again under Eijiro's hand, keeping her silent. Her eyes said it all. She was in disbelief at Katsuki's words.

"Here," Katsuki said, holding his hand out and offering it to you. "I'll warm your hand with my quirk," he said.

You grabbed his hand interlacing your fingers with his.

"Don't dare say anything about how sweaty my hands are!" He barked.

You giggled, "How many times do I have to tell you I don't care Bakugo. It's part of your quirk, and your quirk is amazing you shouldn't be self-conscious about it. Besides, I'm always happy to hold your hand," You said as you two walked down the mountain.

"Tch whatever," Katsuki grumbled looking away from you as a small tint grew on his cheeks.

Finally, when you and Katsuki were far enough down the hill, Eijiro released Mina.

"WHAT WAS THAT?!?" Mina exclaimed.

"Shh shhh," Eijiro pleaded.

"WHAT- He wants to take care of them?!? OH MY GOD! They are totally dating right?! That's what he said he's taking them out to eat! And he's sneaking into their dorm! Wait wait- when they held hands it sounded like that had before! AND AND BAKUGO WAS TOTALLY BLUSHING! NO WAY!" Mina said looking like she might pass out from all this information.

"Ashido relax, we shouldn't have heard any of that!" Eijiro replied.

"Yeah but but-" Mina exclaimed, her head spinning. "Who knew Baklugo could actually be so sweet! I can't wait to tell Jiro-" She said, pulling out her phone.

"NO!" Eijiro said, grabbing her phone from her. "Uh- sorry, I didn't mean to be so harsh but- you can't tell anyone what we heard ok?" Eijiro said.

"WHAT?! I just heard Bakugo being the sweetest boyfriend ever and you expect me not to say anything about that?!"

"YES!" Eijiro yelled. "Look they both like their privacy and there is a reason they were all the way up here talking, Ashido. I think we should keep this a secret and let them do things at their own pace ok?" He said, handing Mina back her phone.

"UGH-" She exclaimed letting out a big sigh. "I guess you're right... but wow who would have thought Bakugo could be a decent person much less a good boyfriend." She said.

Eijiro just shrugged at her words, "I don't know he's not a bad guy like you all make him out to be you know."

"Wait! You totally already knew didn't you!" Mina said, slapping Eijiro's shoulder.

"Hey! I mean- Bakugo is my best friend you know, so yeah I did..." He answered truthfully.

"You suck! Keeping secrets like that from me!" Mina said playfully, waving a finger at him.

"I'm sorry, but it's their business you know?" He said.

"Yeah I understand, guess we should go back to the dorms too now," Mina suggested.

"Yeah it is pretty cold up here, let's go." He agreed as they both started to walk down the hill. "I don't have Bakugo's quirk or anything but- if you're cold you can hold my hand too if you want," Eijiro suggested.

Mina's face tinted a darker pink as she reached out and grabbed Eijiro's hand.

Tags: @unofficialmuilover @maddietries

Picture taken from @everypanelofkatsuki, thank you for all your hard work! Go check them out if you haven’t!

[i-kai]

BAD IDEA, RIGHT? (l.hc)

— “yes i know that he’s my ex, but can’t two people reconnect?”

dating lee donghyuck was every hopeless romantic’s dream. his late night serenades, affectionate touches, secret song dedications, and endless love letters were just some of the things that you — the hopeless romantic that got to live said dream — were on the receiving end of. everything seemed perfect, right?

until you received the worst message ever in your life two weeks before you made your debut. the four words, “we need to talk” made your heart drop from what felt like a skyscraper filled with all the sanity you had left.

after that, you’d never give your ex a chance ever.. again.. right..?

pairing: idol!haechan x idol!reader

genre: smau, exes2lovers, miscommunication, humor, angst, fluff

featuring: nct dream, iso (y/n’s group!), riize, aespa, nct wish

warnings: cursing!!! and a few dirty jokes here and there (only between the adults)

taglist: OPEN

★ PLAYLIST ★ bad idea right? by Olivia Rodrigo — run for the hills by Tate McRae — Fade Into You by Mazzy Star — NIGHTS LIKE THIS PT 2 by The Kid LAROI — get him back! by Olivia Rodrigo — All I Wanted by Paramore — exes by Tate McRae — Heavy by The Marías — Cologne by Beabadoobee — Strangers by Ethel Cain — Casual by Chappell Roan

author’s note: YAYYY new smau!!!! i’m excited for this one teehee i hope u guys are too 💜 leave a reply under this post if you wanna be on the taglist! (*´ω｀*)

TEASER

iso! 彡 happy family 彡 dreamies

OO1 — wanting him to suffer ≠ missing him

OO2 — can’t a woman have hobbies?

OO3 — girl whatever

OO4 — is it casual now?

OO5 — #nonchalant

OO6 — mother and father

OO7 — y/nlore

OO8 — that one friend that’s too isopilled

OO9 — military training

…and more to come!

[p0orbaby]

A Drop in the Ocean

summary: you buy barça for alexia

warnings: none

a/n: requested on the back of a similar one i wrote

word count: 1.5k

-

You don’t even think about it anymore, the money. The commas and zeros stopped meaning anything the moment they started adding up faster than you could count. You don’t remember exactly when it happened, just that it did. One day you were checking the balances on your brokerage account religiously, watching the stock tickers on your phone at breakfast, and then at some point—probably after that second meeting in Geneva or maybe the fourth trip to Dubai—you stopped caring altogether. The accounts became endless, infinite, numbers that only existed on a screen and held no weight in the real world. You could buy anything, do anything. You do.

You’ve bought Barcelona FC. For Alexia.

It wasn’t a particularly difficult purchase, and that’s what bothers you, how easy it was. You’d made a few calls, orchestrated a few backroom meetings with men in navy-blue suits who wear Patek Philippe watches but don’t know how to spell "integrity," and within weeks, it was done. The club—one of the most storied institutions in world football—was now, for all intents and purposes, yours. They were failing in every department that mattered, so it wasn’t hard to make them see reason. The board was crumbling under its own corruption and incompetence anyway, the men in charge having long ago stopped caring about anything other than their own salaries. They saw the numbers you offered and couldn’t sign the dotted lines fast enough.

You’re sitting in the back of your Bentley Bentayga—the V8 model because the W12 felt too much, like gilding the lily—watching the city of Barcelona pass by in blurred streaks of sunlight and shadows. You don’t drive yourself anymore; it’s not that you’ve forgotten how, but why would you bother when you can pay someone to do it for you? You’re sipping on an iced Americano from a local coffee roaster that isn’t La Colombe but isn’t Starbucks either—because Starbucks is for tourists and people who don’t care what real coffee tastes like—and tapping your thumb against the cool glass, counting down the minutes until you get home. Home isn’t the place you grew up, or even the first penthouse you bought in Barcelona—God, you’ve already sold that one off—but the sprawling villa in the hills that overlooks the city like a predator watching its prey.

You’d bought the house because Alexia liked it. You had taken her to see it on a whim, even though you knew you’d buy it regardless of her opinion. But she’d loved it, her eyes lighting up in that way they do when she’s genuinely moved by something, not when she’s just being polite or trying to please you. It’s rare, that reaction, and you’ve noticed it only happens when she’s either on the pitch or somewhere quiet, somewhere she can breathe. It makes you feel something, a tightness in your chest, almost a panic, like the world’s collapsing in on itself, but in a good way. If there even is a good way for that to happen.

Your phone buzzes, vibrating against the buttery-soft leather of your seat. You glance at it and see it’s a text from her.

Training's over. Home soon?

You smile, the kind of smile that makes the people around you uneasy, because they never know if it’s genuine or not. It is, but it’s small, fleeting, like everything in your life that isn't Alexia.

On my way. You send the reply quickly, almost too quickly, like you’re not supposed to care that much. But you do. You always do.

You met Alexia when you were young—stupid young—back when you still believed that success was something you had to fight for. She was everything you weren’t: grounded, focused, humble. Even now, with all the accolades and the Ballon d'Ors and the fanfare, she still feels *real* in a way you don’t anymore. She still eats cereal for breakfast sometimes, not some overpriced organic granola shipped in from the Swiss Alps. She’ll sit on the sofa in her sweatpants and watch trashy reality TV with you, her feet in your lap, like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like she’s not the face of women’s football, the woman everyone wants to be. You want to be her too, sometimes.

But then you remember: she’s yours. And you’re the one with the power, the one pulling the strings now. You’re the one who’s going to fix everything for her.

You think about the RFEF, the Royal Spanish Football Federation, and how utterly revolting they are, how they’ve mishandled everything about the women’s game. It makes you angry, but not in the way normal people get angry, not in that quick, fleeting way. Your anger is cold, calculated, the kind of anger that doesn’t make itself known until it’s too late. You’d called in favours—favours you didn’t even know you had—and now you’re restructuring the whole thing from the inside out. The old guard, the men who’ve spent years belittling and undermining women’s football, will be gone soon, and they don’t even see it coming. You’ll replace them with people who actually care, people who understand what’s at stake.

Alexia doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t need to. She already carries enough weight on her shoulders; you see it in the way she moves, the subtle slump in her posture after a long day. She’s been fighting this fight for years, but you can take it from here. You’ll make sure she never has to fight again.

When you finally pull up to the villa, the sky is turning that particular shade of burnt orange that only seems to exist in Spain. The driver opens your door, and you step out, the sound of your Louboutins clicking against the cobblestone driveway. You’re wearing something understated but expensive—a cream-coloured silk blouse from The Row, tailored trousers that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, and a watch that could fund a small country’s healthcare system for a year. You’ve always preferred quiet luxury, the kind of wealth that doesn’t scream but whispers, softly, in the background. Alexia likes that about you. At least, you think she does.

You walk through the front door—minimalist, custom-made, imported from Italy—and the scent of jasmine fills your lungs. Alexia’s perfume. She’s here.

You find her in the living room, sprawled out on the sofa, her legs up on the coffee table, still in her training kit. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands falling loose around her face. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably reading up on whatever the media is saying about the latest match, and she looks up when you walk in. There’s that smile again, the one that makes everything else disappear for a moment, just a moment, but long enough to matter.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft, like it’s only meant for you.

You cross the room and sit next to her, pulling her legs into your lap, your fingers automatically tracing circles on her shins. You don’t say anything for a while, because neither of you needs to. The silence between you is comfortable, familiar, the kind of silence that only comes when two people have been through everything together and still come out on the other side.

“I bought the club,” you say, casually, like you’re talking about picking up milk from the store.

Alexia looks at you, her eyes widening for a second before she catches herself. She’s good at that, at pretending nothing surprises her, but you know her well enough to see through it.

“You did what?” she asks, her tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“I bought Barcelona,” you repeat, leaning back against the cushions. “They were fucking it all up, especially with the women’s team. I’m fixing it. For you”

She doesn’t respond immediately, and you can see the gears turning in her head, trying to process what you’ve just said. It’s not that she doesn’t believe you; she does. It’s just…a lot.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says finally, but there’s no conviction in her voice. She knows as well as you do that you don’t *have* to do anything. You want to.

“I did,” you reply, your voice firm. “Because they don’t care about you. Not like I do”

She looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the conflict in her eyes, the push and pull of wanting to argue but knowing there’s no point. You’ve already made up your mind. You always have.

“Thank you,” she says eventually, and the sincerity in her voice catches you off guard. You’re used to people thanking you, sure, but it’s always perfunctory, transactional. This is different. This is real.

You lean in and kiss her, slow and soft, and for a moment, everything is perfect. You don’t think about the money or the power or the corruption you’ve spent years navigating. You don’t think about the board meetings or the backroom deals or the restructuring of the RFEF. You just think about her, and how she’s the only thing that makes any of it worth it.

When you pull back, she’s smiling, and it’s that smile again—the one that makes your chest tighten and your heart race in a way that nothing else does. Not even the money.

“Let’s go fix everything,” you say, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you already have.

[totheblood]

i still hear you. (prologue)

PAIRING: post tlou2!ellie williams x reader

SUMMARY: ellie stumbles upon your self-run town after her life is destroyed, except there's more to this town then what meets the eye. and it seems like there is more to you too.

WARNINGS: 18+ mentions of death, grief, related subjects; cursing, mentions of drinking/drugs, mentions of s*x

A/N: i've been working on this one for a while... i hope you enjoy! please send asks, reblog, and reply to this post <;3

WORD COUNT: 3k

"i still hear you laughing, but only for a minute"

Spring couldn’t come fast enough for Ellie. 

The cold still nipped at the exposed skin on her hands, ghosting the phantom limbs of the two fingers she was now missing. Everything was cold. The tip of her nose, her ears, and most importantly her heart. As she wandered aimlessly, unsure of where to go, she knew there was one place she couldn’t go: home. 

Jackson was no longer a place for her. Joel was gone, Tommy thought she was weak, and Dina…Well, Dina wanted nothing to do with her. Dina had a lot she could blame Ellie for before Ellie left, but she never did. She stayed. And now, on top of all of that, Ellie had left one of the few people in her life who cared enough about her to stay. Spring could come tomorrow but it would forever be winter inside her. 

She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she was going west. She couldn’t handle the harsh winters of the East Coast, and Wyoming stopped feeling like home before she left for Seattle. She thought about staying on the farm and living out whatever short life she was going to have there, but staying in that home painted with memories of “what ifs” would drive her crazy. 

So she packed enough supplies to last her a few months if she hunted her food and headed to the West Coast. The first few days were silent, she only encountered a few infected and found shelter in abandoned buildings. She lived off of expired food she found in vending machines in old universities and occasionally sang herself to sleep. 

On her tenth day, she found a car that lasted her about 2 days. Once it broke down, she just kept walking. Over abandoned highways and thick forests, she just kept walking. On day 17, she reached California and stumbled upon an eerily similar set of walls. It looked just like the gates at Jackson, except these were concrete and better built. They were much higher, and the gates almost looked… automatic. 

Ellie was hesitant. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she definitely wasn’t looking for another hometown to destroy. She approached the large walls cautiously, with her hands up and slowly. As she walked closer she was screaming, “I come in peace,” over and over again. She was almost 50 feet near the gate when she heard a girl's voice shout, “Don’t come any closer.”

She stopped in her tracks as the automatic gates began to open. Ellie expected an army of people with guns blazing, just how it was when she first arrived at Jackson, but when the gates opened there just stood you, grounded in all your glory, and a gun aimed right at her face. She wanted to laugh, but that just seemed sexist. 

Instead, you pressed forward, unwavering, with your gun aimed right at her. She didn’t step backward, or even breathe, she just stood there until you were close enough to her to make out all the freckles on her face and the slit in her eyebrow. 

“Who are you?” you spat at her.

“Ellie,” she breathed out, her hands faltering a bit. 

With your hand firmly wrapped around the cold metal of the gun, you inched forward again, pulling back the slide, a metallic click echoing in the silence. The gun was loaded, and you were letting Ellie know that you weren’t afraid to shoot. Her hands stiffened again. 

“What are you doing here?” Your tone was tough and the look on your face was enough to send Ellie running for the hills, but it also made her want to crack a smile. Your nose scrunched up as you spoke, and your lips were somehow not chapped in this weather. But Ellie didn’t smile, she was sure if she did you would put one right between her eyes. That much she was sure of.

“I-” Ellie hadn’t thought this far. What was she doing here? “I’m just looking for a place to stay.” 

Your eyebrows creased as you gave her a once over, looking for any sign she was trouble. It was in your nature to search for danger, but she wasn’t raising any red flags. Except the fact that she made it here alone and unscathed, and was missing two fingers. 

“What happened to your hand?” you asked, tipping the gun slightly to her hand. A pained expression crossed her face, it was almost like she forgot that two of her fingers were quite literally bitten off, but that fight was somewhere shoved deep inside her mind. It wasn’t something she wanted to remember.

“Lost them in a fight,” she replied simply, there was no point in telling the full story. It’s not like you had the time. 

“You can’t stay here if you’re going to be trouble,” finally you put the gun down, resting your hands on your hips, giving her a firm look. Ellie would hand it to you, you were absolutely scary. In her mind, she knew she could take you, but she also wasn’t so sure of that.  

“I’m,” she sighed, lowering her hands slowly, “I’m done with that. I won’t be trouble,” and for the first time in Ellie’s life, she meant that. She was ready to start over. She knew the fighter in her would always be there, itching to come out but she had been fighting her whole life. It was time to give up. She had already lost everything. Or so she thought. 

Your face softened slightly before firming up again, your empathy peeking through like it always did. You looked her over again, sighing, as you signaled for someone at the gate to come. A man with short blonde hair trotted over, a leash in his hand. He looked kind as he offered a smile to Ellie.

“Old girl here is just gonna check to make sure you’re not infected,” he smiled, dropping the leash. Ellie’s heart rate picked up again as she watched the German Shepherd approach her slowly, sniffing around her as it circled her. You stood behind the blonde guy with your arms crossed across your chest. The dog found nothing and returned to the man, sitting down next to him, “Looks like you’re all clear!”

“Welcome to Mono City,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you turned back towards the gate, walking in that direction. You were halfway there when you realized Ellie wasn’t moving. Turning on your heel again you stared at her, hand on your hip again. You had an attitude, Ellie thought, cute. “You coming or what?”

The small town sat on a large lake, glistening as the sun's rays bounced off the surface. Buildings were built close together, trees without leaves scattered on the walkway, and about a hundred people out on the street as she trailed behind you, earning dirty looks from half of them. Ellie scowled back. Ellie smiled when you introduced yourself to her, telling her your name and a few key details about yourself. She learned you served as some sort of mayor here, keeping everything in order, and that you were the person that people came to. She would be lying if she said that didn’t intimidate her. But all Ellie did was give you her name again and tell you that she was from Jackson, anything else she said would fall short. 

“How are you with your hands?” you asked, voice flat and simple. Ellie choked on her words, stuttering a response. 

“I’m, well,” she coughed, “I’m just okay with them now, since,” she shrugged gesturing to what she now called her ‘bad hand’, “you know.”

A wave of guilt crossed your face as you composed yourself, somehow already forgetting your previous interaction. You shook your head solemnly, cursing quietly under your breath as you stopped. 

“Shit,” you turned to her, eyes squeezed shut, “sorry, I’m so used to asking the same questions, I didn’t even think.”

“It’s fine don’t worry about it,” she gave a tight-lipped smile. Now, with the illumination of the buildings, she could see your whole face. You were pretty, that she was sure of, but it was a more down-to-earth pretty. A type of pretty that you had to take in. You had scars around your face, and a pretty big scar down the side of your neck. It almost looked like the one Ellie had on her arm. But still, scars and all, you were just nice to look at. 

“Well, just for that reason we probably won’t have you be on guard duty,” you stated, eyes flicking around her face, “do you have any other strengths?”

“Uhm,” Ellie had to think for a minute. She had never really been asked anything like this before. What were her strengths? Did she have any at all? She used to be good at guitar, but now she couldn’t play, and that probably wouldn’t be useful at all to anyone here. She was good at art still, something she couldn’t take for granted anymore. It was all she had. The scratched-out drawings of Dina, JJ, Jesse, and Joel were stuffed deep into her bag.

“I’m good at art,” she shrugged, “and writing, maybe.”

“Okay,” you smiled, showing off your teeth, making her warm a bit, “that we can work with. Maybe you can teach at the school.”

“You have a school here?” Ellie gawked. Jackson had a school but it was small and had maybe two or three teachers. 

“Yeah,” you turned to keep walking, making Ellie stumble behind you to keep up, “we have three. An elementary, middle, and high school.”

“Wow,” Ellie was in awe, “It’s not like a military school or anything?” 

“No,” you answered quickly, your voice tight, “It’s not like any of that shit. We don’t fuck with FEDRA here.”

Ellie would be lying if she said that wasn’t music to her ears.

“It’s just like a normal school except we teach a lot more practical things. Things we can use like, cooking, science, and English. Like reading or writing. Since you’re new you will probably start with the elementary school. We also have little extracurriculars and we’ve wanted to introduce art but haven’t been able to find anyone yet.”

“Oh, cool,” was all Ellie said as you both stumbled on what looked like a residential street. There were rows of houses, all that looked the same. There was a road, with cars parked on them and driveways with gates. Most of the houses looked about two stories tall, some had toys lying in the front yards and a few animals were roaming about, small cats and dogs. The porches had furniture on them, little couches and chairs, and as she walked she noticed some people outside with mugs in their hands as if they were drinking their morning coffee. The town looked like something she saw out of a movie, only something she could dream about. Her eyes were wide in awe as you rambled on about something but Ellie was honestly too entranced in everything. Here, in the middle of nowhere was a whole town of people living their lives, as if nothing had ever happened to them. 

“Ellie?” you stopped in your tracks, crossing your arms over your chest. There was your attitude again, “are you even listening?”

“Y-yeah, I am. It’s just-”

“A lot, I know,” you sighed, “but you gotta listen, there are a lot of rules here. Rules that make this place function and if you don’t follow them, you could easily be kicked out.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, genuinely meaning it, “I’m listening, promise.”

“It’s fine,” you gave her a fake smile, turning to push open a gate to a nice house, “This will be your place.”

“Uhm,” Ellie stopped, not entering the front yard, “what do you mean ‘my place’? This is far too big for me.”

“This is the only size our houses come in,” you replied matter-of-factly, “you can just say thank you.”

Ellie blinked as she looked up at the blue house, that looked like it was built yesterday. It had a wrap-around porch and two white columns right by the entrance. The door was a giant white door with a gold handle. This was nicer than any house she’s ever been in, and way too big for one girl.  

“Thank you,” Ellie replied, still awe-struck, “this is just so nice.”

“You’re welcome,” you smiled, fishing around in your bag for something. You pulled out a pair of keys, and handed them to her, “Here’s your house keys. You don’t get a car quite yet, that’s something you have to work your way up to, but there is a bike in the garage. Spring is around the corner so it will get warmer and you should have your car by next winter so don’t worry too much. My house is right across the block, but I’m usually in the City Center if you need me.”

She wrapped her right hand around the keys, tightening them in her palm. She watched as you searched through your bag again and pulled out a little device. 

“This is your walkie,” you took a deep breath, “Try to find me before using it. It’s usually only used for emergencies so just be mindful of that. I’ll be by tomorrow to take you to work, so you have time to get settled in today. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ellie smiled, her voice sounding a little bit breathless.

That night Ellie settled into her new home. Well, she tried to settle into her new home but kept shifting around in every seat and couch, like she couldn’t find something to get comfortable on. She examined every part of the house, picking the smallest room for herself and shoving her backpack in the closet. She took a bath for the first time in months, washing all the dirt and grime off of her. Left in the shower was a bar of soap that looked like it had been handmade and unused. It smelled so good she almost took a bite, but instead chose to use it how it was meant to be used.

As the sun began to set she stepped outside, watching the activity on the block and smiling to herself. Everything just seemed so normal, but with the state of this world this town was certainly abnormal. From her window she could see you in your front yard, feeding a pack of cats that slipped through your white picket fence. She smiled to herself as she watched one rub against your leg, and your gentle hand coming down to pet it. She continued to watch as kids passed your house, waving to you and running back to their homes. 

The next few days were uneventful. Ellie found herself getting used to teaching young kids, always laughing when they asked about her missing fingers. It was out of her comfort zone, but she was around JJ enough to know what kids liked. Her voice always got so high-pitched when she spoke to them, and they liked being chased around the room. On her fifth day of working, a kid ran in screaming, “Miss Ellie! Miss Ellie!” with a chicken scratch drawing of his family. He was so proud that all Ellie could say was “Good job, bud!” and ruffle his hair. He left with the biggest smile on his face.

But now, Ellie found herself at the city’s most popular bar, with the other teachers who wanted to congratulate her on her first week. Della, who invited Ellie out in the first place, made a toast to her, clinking her glass with Ellie’s and taking a long swig of her drink. Ellie took a sip of hers too and fuck, this shit was strong. 

She felt human again, laughing with people her age in a bar and old music playing. She was almost having a good time until a song came on that reminded her of Joel. It was like her whole demeanor changed and everyone could tell. She excused herself from the group finding a small corner to sit on and finish the rest of her drink, hoping maybe it would make her forget everything. But then, the bell at the front door rang making Ellie look up to see who had entered. 

There you were in all your glory, tight shirt on and hair completely loose. It almost looked as if you were wearing makeup. Ellie must’ve been staring too long because she blinked and you were standing in front of her. 

“See you got yourself a drink,” you laughed, voice making Ellie’s cheeks turn pink. She was… really drunk.

“Yeah, I could get you one too,” she slurred a bit, goofy smile spread across her face. She watched as something odd crossed your face and now she was worried she said something wrong, “I just mean, like.. you know… I mean like as a thank you.”

“Right,” you sighed.

“For my mansion, you know,” she shrugged and you giggled. You giggled and it went straight to her head. What was she doing?

“You haven’t been paid yet,” you smiled back at her, now moving to sit down, “and it’s okay, I don’t drink unless it’s a special occasion.”

“What? Meeting me is not special enough,” she teased, knocking her shoulder with yours. Her eyes scanned your face, your smile reaching your eyes as you giggled again. Her stomach sank again. She wasn’t so sure if this was just the alcohol anymore, she felt like she was 12 and crushing on Riley again. 

“No, it’s special,” you reassured, “Maybe, I’ll drink when you decide to stay.”

“Who said I’m not staying?” she questioned sitting up.

“Some people don’t,” you shrugged, smile fading. Ellie’s brain wanted to make it better, make you laugh again, or shit do anything to put the smile back on your face. 

“Well, I’m gonna,” she said gently, so only you could hear her, “I need to get my paycheck.”

You laughed and Ellie breathed a sigh of relief, laughing with you. 

“I’ll get that to you,” you smiled, “and we don’t use paychecks.”

“What’re you gonna pay me with?” she smirked, “I know some other ways you can pay me.” Then the same look from earlier crossed your face and she cursed quietly to herself, muttering an apology. 

“No, no,” you said, like you were about to let her down gently, “I just try not to get… involved with anyone since…” your voice trailed off.

“Since?” Ellie questioned, but as you opened your mouth to speak the group from earlier made their way over, noticing your arrival and screaming your name. She watched as you got up, hugged everyone and started chatting with them, leaving her with her drink and too many questions. 

There was one thing that scared her though. She knew you needed someone who could stay, and the only thing she was good at was leaving.

[chlmtsdoll]

SHOPPING WITH ART

౨ৎ Summary: it’s in the title ! Ballerina!reader x Art on a shopping date 🤍

౨ৎ Word count: 2k

౨ৎ Warnings: sugar baby! reader, mentions & talk of sex (duh !), semi public sexual acts, age gap (reader early 20’s) dilf age Art, fluff, needy reader, horny Art, mentions of Tashi in between, mutual pinning, petite!reader (sorry tall ppl), reader and Art are all over each other constantly

A/N: don’t know if I should classify this as a blurb or a fic but I’m gonna go with blurb since it’s short and sweet !!

“Dogs ?”

You had scrunched up your nose and shook your head terribly at Arts attempts to guess your favorite animal. He tilted his head as he looked down at you with a grin.

“Cats ?” He probed. You nodded pleased, with a giggle.

“Do I strike you as a dog person at all ?”

“No.” Art had laughed out and it sounded of wealth and pure adoration of you.

You two had been walking down Rodeo Drive in the mist of perfect weather on a bright day, Art had offered to take you shopping while Tashi took care of tennis business for the two of you. She requested some space and quietness for an hour or two — so of course you’d never pass up your expectation of basically trying on dresses for Art Donaldson as a living.

It still hadn’t hit you on the full one-eighty your life has taken from going from a lost ballerina to Art and Tashi’s young, beautiful, tennis protégé.

Or shared girlfriend. Whatever you had been.

You loved it. Especially days like this, you’d spend as much time as you could with Art when he wasn’t touring because he made you feel like it had only been the two of you on earth when you were together. You never stopped laughing, blushing, kissing… and a spawn of other things.

But when he’d been actually playing tennis, or doing things for his career like press or photoshoots. You missed him dearly. Even when he’d spend time with his daughter Lily.

It made your mood dim, and you’d find yourself dissociating from conversations or tennis to think about him or ponder when he’d be back to steal you away again. Tashi always caught you in the drift of it, but you’d snap right back to reality when you’d hear her say. “Okay. Art’s gonna take you out.” Your mood and demeanor would shift entirely.

“I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”

“Isn’t that movie controversial ?” Art questioned.

“Aren’t you much older than me ?” You replied as you glanced up at him, giving him every glitter of your wide Bambi eyes. He chucked.

“Oh. So should I walk on the other side of the sidewalk.. if that’s too much for you ?” He looked down at you as he moved from where you walked to the other side of the not so spacious side walk to prove his sarcasm.

“No!” You pleaded with a girlish laugh as you followed him anyways, bumping your shoulder into his arm on purpose not to be separated for another second.

You’d want to hold his hand so badly when you two would be out together, but with his public image being Tashi Duncan’s star husband, it wasn’t exactly the best decision when it came to the press — so even with as much as he wanted to, Tashi always told him to lay low when it came to physical contact with you in the open. Especially somewhere as public as Beverly Hills.

You’d never known where paparazzi had been hiding, lurking and waiting. And it wouldn’t be so easy for them to try and idealize it as Art Donaldson and his exceptionally younger “friend” that he takes shopping and on dates.

Tashi couldn’t control when you had been at home and essentially couldn’t keep your hands off each other entirely. Always hugging, cuddling, fucking. It didn’t matter. You were on him or vise versa, but when you’d go out Tashi would specifically insist “don’t touch each other.” before you’d leave.

But hiding didn’t transpire to you so much when you just completely couldn’t help yourself when it came to the man that made your heart flutter, you’d fought the limitations anyways.

Walking side by side you brushed your pinky against Arts much bigger hand. You saw him look down and a soft grin took upon his lips at the sight of your manicured pink tips grabbing at his hand. He could never resist you. locking pinky’s with yours, your smile had turned bashful but pleased as you’d walk together. Just praying no paps had caught the moment and you’d have to go through Tashi’s wrath later on.

♡

It was dress after dress you’d pick off of the rack, skirts, tops, and more shoes than you’d ever seen at once in person. But you absolutely adored this. Trying not to make another painfully high pitched sound when you’d find another pair that made your eyes go wide in awe.

Art was right there behind you as he chuckled at all of your darling reactions, finding it utterly too cute. You were like a doll and he’d spoil you till you’d probably pass out from exhaustion the moment you both got home from all the perks of shopping till you dropped. Literally.

“I don’t know. I love the waistline, but a deep v neck ? I just don’t see it.” You stepped out of the dressing rooms to where Art had been lounging on a chair since he wasn’t allowed in the actual dressing room area.

Art couldn’t say he didn’t know a thing or two when it came to a sense in fashion. Tennis was a sport based around the most expensive and luxury brands displaying their most fashionable and articulately put together pieces on star athletes like himself. But mainly living with the total of four ladies including the maid, had done his knowledge of the craft wonders.

“I think you look amazing in it, baby.” He implied, crystal blues tracing your perfect body cinched into the tight dress.

It made your breast sit in such a way that Art had to adjust the way he sat in his seat. You looked at yourself in the mirror while your hand ran down your curves. Your heels made you stand taller and your legs showcased eloquently.

One of the workers brought you a glass of champagne and you thanked her kindly before taking a sip, then turning to Art with a suggestive unsure look on your face.

“But do I look amazing though ?” You asked puzzled, with mostly sarcasm and art had shook his head, he chuckled as you glided back into the dressing rooms.

He even brought you things to try on as he just couldn’t pull back from his own suggestions of what he thought you looked to die for in.

“Art,” You turned to him opening up the curtain of the small space as you’d been in the mist of changing, just in your bra and panties.

“Put this on.” He passed you a dress and you were taken back by his desperation and need to see you in his choice of clothing. You stood and took it from him, but you couldn’t deny the slight pass of dominance from him turned you on a bit. You smiled at the curtain when he closed it quickly to leave so he wouldn’t get caught.

When you came out in what he had gave you, Art unfolded his leg and sat straighter in his chair as he examined the sight. And was it a sight to see.

The dress was white, a sixties kind of cut as it made your waist look otherworldly. The corset top made your torso extend and it was short enough that if you moved a little too much it would have been quite a show.

“So, what do you think of your outfit choice on me, Mr. Donaldson ?” You asked with your hands on your hips and the look on his face as his eyes graced over you had you blushing terribly.

Art had to take in a breath with an embarrassing place being lost for words, he stood up to walk towards you. His hand touched the delicate straps.

“Turn around.” he instructed.

“Okay. Bossy.” You joked, meanwhile he bit his lip to hold back nearly letting out an audible noise as he took in the way it cupped your ass just right. You were perfection in his eyes, all dolled up just for him. He licked his lips,

“You’re gorgeous, angel. Do you like it ? Because I love it, and I think you need it in your wardrobe. Well, not need, but it would be a nice touch.” He went on and you laughed at his high regard, your face heating up quite quickly now.

“I think it’s really pretty.” Your hand ran across the top that was embroidered with jewels, your smile enchanting as Art watched you.“next one coming up.”

You had walked by to go change again, but as you did you felt a smack on your ass and you turned around quickly to see Art grinning to himself when you gasped.

The responsible side of you would of protested as you remembered Tashi’s words, but you were anything but responsible when it came to your favorite blonde. You shook your head as your sly smile matched his and you went back into your dressing room.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t that long before Art had snuck in again and opened up the curtain, this time inserting himself into the room with you.

“Art!” You could hardly stop him before he had moved your hair out of the way and started attacking your neck with kisses, sucking in your sent as hands ran over your body,

“Fuck, you look good.” He breathed out as he kissed you and you’d fallen weak to his trap. Hands running to grab his hair as he groped your tits through the dress and kissed you sloppily. He towered over your dainty figure as he treated your body like clay for him to mold, you let out a whine from the back of your throat as he ran his tongue over yours.

His hands were flighting to unzip your dress while hiking it up your hips at the same time.

“Careful, it’s not mine,” you breathed out as Art peppered kisses anywhere he could.

“Oh, it will be yours. I’m buying it as soon as I’m done with you.” his tone was low and full of arousal as he pushed your front against the wall of the dressing room.

As much as you wanted him to fuck you right there, feel every inch of his need to have you take his cock while he treated you to an entire wardrobe that any girl your age would die for, was enough to make you shed your panties right then. But you had slipped from under his grasp.

“We can’t, we’re in public.” You uttered and Art had backed away from you with a groan as he ran his hands down his face and you grinned at the state you had gotten him in, uncomfortably hard and dick nearly ready to come through his fly at just the sight of you.

“Fine,” he sighed out and got ahold of himself before leaving again, you tried not to give him a mischievous smirk as you adjusted yourself and the dress. “Don’t think I don’t know how much you want it, you little minx, be ready for later because we’re not done here.”

You batted your eyelashes and acted all innocent as he shut the curtain and then you giggled to yourself. You had all the shoes and dresses you wanted ready by the time you exited again, and now with lips shimmering with gloss, you made eye contact with Art as he paid for all your new attire with pleasure. Licking his own lips every time he scanned over you, he carried all of your bags and he walked out with you happily.

Completely forgetting about the paparazzi, Art took your hand in his with ease. leading you down the walkway and you had bitten your lip under a satisfied little smile.

A/N: ugh ! I need that !

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

GUILTY AS SIN...? - PART I

summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.

pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader

word count: 5.5k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). mentions of sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hi everyone! this turned out pretty long so i will be splitting it into parts so it's easier. next part will be posted soon. i hope you all have as much fun reading this as i had writing it. enjoy!

part two

The breeze riffled through your hair as you drove, the sun warming your skin through the open windows. The Irish countryside stretching out before you, lush and green, with rolling hills and quaint villages dotting the landscape. The scent of wildflowers and the sound of nothing but the wind in the trees filled your senses.

It was rare, really. The silence, the feeling of complete freedom, and the solitude that enveloped you. A fleeting escape from the chaos of your everyday life.

The ping of your phone interrupted the peaceful moment. You tapped on the pop-up notification after briefly glancing at the directions to your destination. It was a message from Cillian. Well, two, actually. One was asking how far you were, and the other was a Spotify link followed by a question mark. Ever since he started hosting his bbc radio show, he's been sending you potential songs for his playlists to get your opinion. Not that he needs it anyway. But you always appreciate being included in his process.

Your lips curled into a smile as you clicked on the link. The familiar sound of The Blue Nile's "The Downtown Lights" flooded the car, instantly making you feel a wave of nostalgia. It's been ages since you've listened to that song. The synth-pop melody carries you up the pine-dotted path to where his house perches atop a hill, overlooking the crashing waves below. You've been here a couple of times, and yet it never gets less breathtaking. The Victorian architecture contrasting beautifully with the rugged coastline, creating a scene straight out of a painting.

The car glides right past the wrought iron gates, and you cut the engine in front of the stone steps leading up to the grand entrance. You shoot Cillian a quick text letting him know you're here, unbuckle your seat belt, and hop out of the car.

The June sun beats down on your skin instantly, heat radiating off the cobblestones as you open the backdoor to look through your bag for a hair tie. The smell of saltwater mingles with the sound of gulls overhead, sending you into sensory overload. "Gotcha," you mutter to yourself as you finally find the hair tie and pull your hair back into a loose bun.

"You drove here?" you hear him call out from behind you, his voice tinged with surprise. "And you're alone?" you turn around to see Cillian walking towards you, a curious expression on his face.

"I actually had to throw a tantrum to convince them to let me come alone," you reply with a chuckle, feeling a sense of pride at your small victory. "I was like, It's Ireland. What's the worst that could happen?"

Being who you are means being guarded against any potential danger or harm at all times, being driven to almost everywhere, and always having a security team around.

Cillian laughs, a sound that makes your heart flutter and makes you want to hear it again and again. "Well, I'm glad you made it here in one piece, love," he says with a grin. "You're not a very good driver."

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You did regret your decision to drive from the airport 10 minutes later when you realized you were on the wrong side of the road. But he didn't need to know that.

"I made it in one piece, didn't I?" you playfully retort, trying to salvage your wounded pride. Cillian chuckles and shakes his head with a twinkle in his eye. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. He looks good, you thought. Unbelievably good. Well rested. His jet black hair was perfectly styled, even though you know he didn't put any effort into it—the slightest hint of silver at the temples, his sharp jawline, and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. Though they looked a little tired, as if he had been through a lot since the last time you saw him.

You quickly avert your gaze, feeling a rush of heat on your cheeks.

"It's good to see you," you finally manage to say, trying to sound casual. Cillian's smile softens, and he replies, "It's good to see you too." He opens his arms, inviting you in for a hug. The soft fabric of his t-shirt brushes against your skin as you embrace him, and for a moment, everything feels right in the world.

"Come on, let's get inside," he says, leading you towards the house. Once inside, you make your way to the kitchen. The house was quiet; you wondered if anyone else was home. Cillian's family wasn't by any means loud or boisterous, but the silence felt heavier than usual.

"You hungry, love?" Cillian asks, opening the fridge, pulling out a white ceramic container, and setting it up on the kitchen island. You take a seat on one of the stools while he stands across from you.

"For something sweet?" you smile, seeing the container filled with what seems to be a piece of strawberry sponge cake. His mom must've made it. "Always," you reply. He hands you a spoon and takes one for himself, the two of you sharing the dessert in comfortable silence.

Until he broke it.

"How was Madrid?" he asks softly.

"It was good, great crowd," you reply, taking another bite of the dessert. "But tiring," you add, feeling the exhaustion of the long trip settling in.

"How many nights did you perform?"

"Four."

"Jesus, that's quite a lot, isn't it?"

Your eyes meet his; confusion clear in your expression. "You think that's a lot? Didn't you used to do four or five nights in a row of the same play?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "for months…?

"Yeah, but that was a different kind of exhaustion," he explains, taking another bite. "Performing the way you do in front of a live audience for three hours is a whole different ball game, love."

Love.

There it was again. That godforsaken term of endearment that he seemed to throw around so casually. It made your heart race every time he said it, even though you knew it probably meant nothing to him. But the way he looked at you now, with a hint of admiration in his eyes, made you wonder if maybe—

"Want the last bite?" he offered, taking you out of your thoughts. He pushed the container towards you, a small smile playing on his lips. His gaze was intense, as if silently urging you to take it.

"Oh, hello," a voice exclaimed from behind you, breaking the moment. You drop the spoon on the counter, a little startled. As if you were caught in the act of something forbidden. You turned around to see Yvonne, Cillian's wife. She said your name with a surprised tone, making you feel guilty for some reason. "I didn't know you were here," she continued, her eyes flickering between you and her husband.

You started to rise from your seat, confusion clouding your thoughts. That's weird. Cillian usually lets his wife know when you're visiting, but this time it seems like he didn't. She walked towards you, enveloping you in a hug. "When did you get here?" she said.

"Not long ago," you replied, relieved that she didn't seem upset. "I, uh, wanted to take a break and thought Ireland might be a good place to do that," you added, hoping to diffuse any tension that may have arisen. She nodded understandingly. "And you're staying here?"

"Oh, no, no," you quickly assured her. "I rented a place nearby, so you don't have to worry about me."

"Nonsense," Cillian interjected. "You can stay here. There's plenty of room."

"She's already paid for it, Cillian," Yvonne retorted, giving him a stern look.

Something was definitely off.

This was the last thing you wanted. You've specifically chosen the cottage for two reasons. First, to have space. The whole point of this trip was to finally have peace and write music. You've been stuck for months, not being able to find inspiration in your usual surroundings. Everything felt dull inside you all day—an emptiness that was smothering.

Second, you needed to stay the fuck away from Cillian. Being close to him was dangerous territory, one you didn't want to navigate right now. The plan was to come and visit and occasionally hang out and that's it. The thought of being in such close quarters with him was overwhelming. Staying here meant risking your heart and sanity.

You hesitated, also not wanting to intrude on their space, but Cillian insisted.

"Okay…How about if I stay for a couple of days and then move to the cottage?" you suggested, hoping to compromise. "Sounds perfect to me," he said.

This was going to be a long summer.

For the next few days, you dream too much, don't write enough, and try to find inspiration everywhere. As you settled into the routine of staying at Cillian's, you found yourself enjoying the peaceful surroundings and his company more than you expected. The days seemed to blend together, filled with laughter, deep conversations, and stolen glances that left your heart racing.

But you also felt constantly distracted by his presence, making it difficult to focus on your writing or anything else, for that matter.

All you could think about was him.

The piano room surrounded you with its warm, inviting atmosphere, and you found yourself drawn to it more often than not. The big windows overlooking the garden let in streams of sunlight, casting a warm glow over the bookshelf. You felt the softness of the carpet as you sat on the grand piano bench, running your fingers along the keys absentmindedly.

You started humming a tune that had been stuck in your head for days, the words appearing softly and effortlessly as you played:

Please

I've been on my knees

Change the prophecy

Don't want money

Just someone who wants my company

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

Who do I have to speak to

About if they can redo

The prophecy?

The humming went on whenever you didn't know what to say next, filling in the gaps between the notes on the piano and the lyrics:

A greater woman has faith

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

I'm so afraid I sealed my fate

No sign of soulmates

I'm just a paperweight

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

Spending my last coin so someone will tell me

It'll be ok

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

The melody filled the room until you stopped abruptly, frustrated that the lyrics weren't coming as easily as before. You closed your eyes with a groan, trying to clear your mind. "Fuck," you muttered under your breath, elbows resting on the keys of the piano.

"You good?" Cillian's rough voice broke through your frustration, causing you to look up and offer a weak smile. You don't know how long he's been standing there or how much he heard of your struggles. "Just hitting a wall with this song," you admitted, running a hand through your hair.

"Ah, I see," he nodded sympathetically. He moved towards the records stacked on the shelf and pulled one out, placing it on the turntable. "I don't want to mess with your creative process or anything, but maybe a break with some music will help," he suggested.

Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" began to play, taking over the room with its haunting melody.

"So you play one of the saddest songs ever?" you deadpanned, "Thanks."

He chuckled softly, "You were playing some pretty intense stuff; I figured it would fit right in."

Oh, so he did hear you.

"Ah, I know it's different from my usual stuff," you said quietly, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious about your music. "I might scrap that one. They might not be onboard with the change."

"And why's that?"

Thom Yorke's voice faded into the background as you contemplated his question, unsure of how to respond.

You shrugged, "I listen to sad music, not make it."

"I liked what I heard," he reassured you, "and change is good. It keeps things interesting."

His low voice was soothing, and you found yourself feeling more at ease with the idea of trying something new. Pop has been your comfort zone for so long, it's what stands out of you, but most importantly, it's what sells. At least, that's what's important to the industry. Maybe it was time to push yourself out of it.

"I guess you're right," you replied, a faint smile creeping onto your face.

"As always," he said, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. He stood leaning against the table where the record player sat, arms crossed, looking as if he had too many things to say and not enough words for them.

"Would this be a good time to ask you if everything's okay?" you inquired, noticing the weight of unspoken thoughts in his eyes. "With Yvonne, I mean," you added, nervous to bring up the topic.

That first day, when you arrived at the house, you could sense there was something going on between them. Something bad. The tension in the air was so obvious, but you didn't want to pry. However, as the days went by, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that she hadn't been around or the absence of a certain ring on his finger.

"And here, I thought you were never going to ask," he replied, his words laced with sarcasm.

"I was waiting for you to bring it up," your voice trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. "I-I didn't want to overstep."

He studied you for a moment, or at least, you assumed that was what he was doing. Finally, he averted his gaze and cleared his throat,"We've separated."

A cold feeling settled in your chest as you processed his words. The reality of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks, and suddenly everything made sense. "Cillian," is all you managed to say, the concern evident in your voice.

He still wouldn't look at you. Knowing him, in moments like this, he wouldn't want to be coddled or pitied, so you save your apologies for later.

"What happened?"

He waved his hand dismissively, still avoiding your gaze. "Nothing, really," he said, his tone final. He didn't look upset, but rather resigned to the situation. "It hadn't been working for a long time; we both knew it was coming. I guess we were holding on for the boys more than anything." You could see the sadness in his eyes, despite his attempt to appear nonchalant. The weight of his words hung in the air, leaving you feeling defeated and unsure of what to say next. You don't think there's anything you can say that will make this or him feel better.

And boy, did you wish you could take away his pain with just a few words.

Cillian walked slowly over the piano, stopping in front of it. He streched his arms over the wooden soundboard, gripping the edges tightly as if seeking some sort of solace in the instrument. He finally looked at you.

"Why didn't you say anything, Cill?" you asked softly, "I would've—"

"You would've what?" he interrupted, his voice strained with emotion. "I didn't want to worry you, you have more important things than my marital issues."

You could see the pain in his eyes, and it tore at your heart to see him suffering in silence. "You're my friend. These things are important to me, Cill," you said gently, reaching out to touch his hand in a gesture of comfort. He flinched slightly at your touch, but then relaxed, leaning into your hand.

He didn't say anything, but you knew he appreciated your words. You could tell by the way his shoulders slumped in relief and the way his fingers loosened their grip on the edge of the piano.

One morning, you woke up to the wind gently rustling through the trees outside your windows. The morning light was clear and clean, leaking through the glass and falling against the walls of the room in soft patterns. It felt too early to be awake, too peaceful to disturb the tranquility of the moment.

You roll over to look at the little clock on the bedside table: 6:20 AM. It wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep, so you threw the covers and climbed out of bed, feeling the cool wood floor beneath your feet as you walked to the bathroom.

You splash cold water on your face and brush your teeth, trying to wake yourself up fully. Holding up your hair, you tie it into a ponytail while walking over the bedside table to grab your phone and airpods. You put one in your ear and hit shuffle on one of your morning playlists. You couldn't function without some music. "Keep On Loving You" by Cigarettes After Sex starts playing.

On your way to the kitchen, you walked by Cillian's room and noticed the door was slightly ajar. Who the hell sleeps with their door open? Psychos, probably. Curiosity getting the best of you, you peeked inside to see him sprawled out on his bed, body illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the curtains—characteristic warm and cool shades revealing every hollow and speck of bare muscle. He slept with every limb stretched out, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. It was a rare sight, quite poetic.

He looked so peaceful, completely unaware of your presence. So you let your mind wander.

You imagined yourself crossing the room, pulling yourself on top of him. You imagined the way his bare body would look beneath you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his dark hair messy around his face, his skin warm against yours. His hands—rough and soft at the same time—running over your thigh, your breast, your neck. You could almost feel the heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze as he looked up at you.

But then reality snapped back into focus.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath. This was just a fantasy, a dangerous game to play with someone who was somewhat off-limits. But truth be told, the temptation was becoming harder to resist with each passing moment. It was all you could think about ever since he told you about his troubled marriage.

It took a long time for your heartbeat to slow. You headed to the kitchen to get some coffee, hoping that the caffeine would help clear your mind. As you rummage through the cabinets for a mug, his voice startles you from behind. "Need some help with that?" he asks, making you jump.

For a moment you thought you were still imagining things, but you turn around to see him standing there with a t-shirt on as opposed to five minutes ago. Great, him walking around shirtless in his kitchen, sleepy-eyed, messy hair, and rough morning voice would've been lethal.

"I've got it, thanks," you reply, shaking the mug slightly in your hand. You quickly pour yourself some coffee and try to focus on the task at hand: looking for the sugar.

"Sleep well?" he asks, voice still husky from sleep, his accent more prominent. He's rifling through the cabinet for a mug of his own. You can't help but notice the way his muscles flex under his dark t-shirt as he reaches up. You hum in agreement, trying to hide your blush as you take a sip of your coffee. "You?"

"Grand," he replies, pouring himself a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. You exchange small talk about the upcoming day, but your mind keeps drifting back to how good he looks in the morning light.

"Any plans for today other than locking yourself in the piano room?" he teases, and you shoot him a playful glare. "Maybe I'll actually venture outside for once," you quip, laughing.

"How does the beach sound like?" he asks, "The boys are coming over, and they're bringing some friends, and I thought a trip would be a nice change of scenery."

"I could use some sun," you admit, feeling a smile tug at your lips.

"Let's make it a beach day then," he suggests, setting his mug on the sink. "We leave at 10, piano woman."

"Ha ha, very funny," you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes. "But I'll hold you to it, annoying man," you reply.

"Annoying man?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "I thought I was your favorite person."

"Only on days that end in 'y'."

•••

"Are you done with your sad boy music?"

Cillian bursts out laughing, the sound taking you by surprise. He's been playing Radiohead on repeat for the whole car ride, and you were starting to feel like you were in a melancholy music video. "I like their music as much as the next person, but I think I need a break from the sadness," you say.

"Fine, fine," Cillian concedes, reaching for his phone to change the song. The bleak atmosphere in the car lifts as "Linger" by The Cranberries starts playing, filling the space with a more pleasant vibe. Cillian glances at you, he's wearing dark shades that hide his eyes, but you can still see his stoic expression softening as he catches you smiling at the change in music.

"Better?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Instead of answering, you start silently singing along to the lyrics, gesticulating dramatically for added effect. Cillian smiles at your antics, his own lips twitching in amusement as he watches you. The boys were so caught up in their conversation with their friends in the backseat that you were pretty sure they weren't even paying attention to the music or your impromptu performance. With a small smile on your face, you face out the window and enjoy the rest of the car ride in content silence.

When you arrive at your destination, all of you unbuckle your seat belts once Cillian puts the Bronco in park. You all pile out of the car, stretching your legs and taking in the sights around you. You close your eyes for a second and take a breath. The sea air—you loved that smell.

•••

A few hours later, after countless swims and some snacks, you find yourself lying on a beach towel, book in hand, feeling the warmth of the temperature on your skin. You're reading a book you picked up at an airport several months ago by Elin Hilderbrand, or the queen of beach reads, as many call her. You were completely engrossed in the story until you felt Cillian settling down next to you.

His hair was damp from the water, and his skin was slightly glistening. Gosh, he looked absolutely stunning. "Mind if I join you?" he asks.

"Not at all," you reply, closing the book and sitting up. "Having fun?"

"Lots," he says with a smile, reaching over to grab his sunglasses. The two of you sit in comfortable silence. The laughter and chatter of his sons and friends coming from the water redirects your attention back to the beach scene before you. You look back at Cillian, his eyes fixed on his sons.

"They love you, you know," you say softly, watching the genuine joy on his face as he watches his children.

"I don't know if I'm doing it right," he says, eyes still fixed on the boys. "I worry I might've fucked them up by letting my relationship with their mother fall apart."

He continues, "Sometimes I feel they resent me for it."

"Why do you feel that way?"

"I don't know, they just seem distant sometimes. Like they're holding back."

"Hey, that's normal for kids to have mixed feelings about their parents' separation. I was so happy when mine got divorced because it meant no more fighting, but it was also tough to adjust to the changes. It's very conflicting stuff," you say, huffing a small laugh. "Also, they're teenagers now, right? That's a tough age to navigate even without the added stress of divorce."

Cillian nods in agreement, exhaling out a yeah.

You squint against the sunlight beaming behind his head before continuing.

"You're a great dad, you always have been. Just show up and be there for them when they need you, even if they don't always seem to appreciate it. They'll remember it in the long run," you offer, remembering how much your own father's presence meant to you after your parents' divorce. "And I'm not a parent, but what parent feels like they're doing everything right all the time, anyway?"

Cillian turns to look at you. He studies your face for a moment before offering a small smile. "I guess you're right," he says sincerely.

"Fork found in kitchen," you retort, breaking the tension with a bit of humor.

He chuckles, "That's clever."

"Well," you continue, "I've been accused of many things over the years, but being unoriginal isn't one of them."

He laughs. Just like he did back in the car: a genuine, carefree laugh that makes you feel a little lighter.

"Want to go for one last swim, piano woman?"

You roll your eyes. "Will you stop calling me that?"

"Not likely," Cillian replies with a grin. "It's too fitting."

You stand up and stretch. You're wearing a one-piece teal-ish swimsuit that you swear you only chose based on comfort and not because it makes your ass and breasts look fantastic. Cillian's eyes linger on you for a moment before he looks away, and you swear you can see a hint of a blush on his cheeks. He doesn't move.

"Are you coming or…?"

"Right, one last swim," he finally says, standing up and following you towards the water.

Maybe that one last swim wasn't a great idea after all.

And why is that?

Because not even five minutes into the water, you thought it would be a good idea to jump from a high rock, and now you're sitting in the car with your knee scrapped, throbbing in pain, and regretting your impulsive decision.

•••

"You're so fuckin' stubborn."

You try to move into a more comfortable position while ignoring the pain shooting up your leg by pressing a hand against one side of the door to keep yourself steady. "And you're so clearly overreacting."

Cillian pushes his bedroom door open. He's also clearly pissed. The ride back to the house was deathly silent. Well, not silent. His sad boy music made a return, and this time with Broken Social Scene. You couldn't ask him to change the music without starting another argument. Even the kids were quiet, beyond asking several times if you were okay, which you assured them you were. Obviously a lie.

As Cillian walks around the room, you reach for your midi white beachy dress and look down at your knee in horror. It's no longer just a bruise, but a gash that is slowly oozing blood. Not as much as before, but still. It looks nasty underneath the shirt Cillian used from his car as a makeshift bandage.

He grabs the first aid kit from a shelf and turns around to face you.

"Take off your dress."

"Pardon me?"

"Take off your dress so I can properly clean and bandage the wound," Cillian repeats, his expression serious. You look down at the blood-stained fabric as if you needed any more confirmation. "Off, C'mon."

You stiffen at his demand, your body going completely rigid at his bossy tone. You watch him stride into his bathroom. He pushes aside some stuff on the counter and tosses the kit onto the counter.

Okay, yeah. He has good reason to be upset. You had no business jumping from that rock.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he'd said before, right when he went to get you. And now you can see the anger still simmering beneath the surface.

You can hear him shuffle in the bathroom while you remove your dress. You still have your swimsuit on underneath, but you feel exposed without the extra layer. Maybe the pain is catching up to you or the fact that you have upset him or that he's waiting for you in the bathroom to take care of you but tears sting your eyes as you try to process the situation. You take a moment to collect yourself. You cannot go in there like this, he cannot see you this vulnerable. At least, not now.

He's braced against the counter, head hung low, when you push open the bathroom door. You nearly back out to give him some space or time to compose himself, but his eyes meet yours and his expression straightens. He clears his throat and then freezes. "I—you're wearing your swimsuit."

"I am. Were you expecting me to change into something else?"

"No," he grumbles, "I mean, nevermind."

He turns back and starts grabbing sterile gauze, his movements slightly jerky. He gestures for you to sit on the counter. "Up."

"I'm not sure I can do that given my—" Before you're done speaking, he scoops you up and sets you on the counter. Your hands are locked around his neck, and his are firmly gripping your waist. They fit perfectly there, like they're made to hold you close.

He reaches behind him, both your faces close together now, and grabs your wrists, pulling them away from his neck and onto your thighs. He puts a hand on your uninjured leg, his touch gentle yet firm. "This is going to hurt." You stare at his impossible blue eyes and think to yourself: yes, this is going to hurt.

"Oh, shit shit," you gasp, gripping his forearm. "Holy fuuuck."

"I've got you, breathe," he commands, and you allow yourself to focus on his voice, letting it ground you. The antiseptic burns both your nostrils and knee as he continues to clean the wound, the pain shooting through your leg causing you to clench your teeth.

"I'm sorry," you breathe out.

There's nothing but silence in response.

"I told you multiple times not to go up there," he finally says, his voice tinged with frustration. "And yet."

"I know," you whisper, feeling guilty.

"Don't do that again," he commands, his accent thickening with emotion. "You could've hurt yourself even more."

"I know," you repeat, not sure how else to respond.

His head is bowed in concentration as he finishes cleaning the wound, his hands steady despite the anger in his voice. You can see his dark eyelashes fluttering slightly as he works. He applies a little more pressure to the bandage than he should've, and you let out a soft moan. This doesn't go unnoticed by him.

The air in the room seems to shift. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see something soften in his gaze before he looks away.

"You're not supposed to like that."

Your cheeks heat up immediately.

He's gotten closer to you, your hands somehow made their way to fist his navy blue linen shirt. His body is between your legs, the delicate material of his pants brushing your skin. His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't say I mind it either." Your heart races at his proximity, unsure of what to do next.

His hands slide up your thighs, gently caressing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He's going to kiss you, and you can't help but wonder if it's the right decision to let him.

But now is not the time to be rational about it.

"I'm not gonna stop you," you say quietly, "I wouldn't know how."

His eyes darken, pupils dilating with desire. He doesn't move.

It's like you're both aware of the line you're about to cross, so neither of you moves.

You keep your eyes firmly on his face. His lips inch closer to yours, and you feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Your body is angled towards his, hand gripping the edge of the counter. Your slightly damp hair, now cold, making you shiver.

He's impossibly hard against you, the material of his pants is thin, and you're aware of every inch of him pressing against your throbbing core.

"And I wouldn’t know how to stop kissing you," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. He shifts slightly, causing his erection to press even more firmly against you, both letting out a soft moan. His mouth hovers just inches from yours, just kiss me, you thought.

There's a knock on the bedroom door, which is, by the way, open.

"Dad?" You both freeze.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, offering a sliver of privacy but not enough to shield you from any potential interruptions.

"Yes?" Cillian calls out, trying to sound casual despite the intense moment that was just interrupted. "We're ordering takeout, do you want anything?"

"No, buddy, we're good, thanks," Cillian replies, his voice strained as he tries to keep his composure. You hear the steps retreating down the hallway.

Cillian steps back, and the absence of his body against yours is jarring. It clearly would've been a mistake to take this further, but a mistake that would've felt so fucking good.

"We shouldn't do this."

He clears his throat. "Yeah."

He moves towards the door, his movements tense and purposeful. "I'm gonna—" he says, motioning the door.

"Yeah," you quickly reply, "I got it."

You watch him leave, the air heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.

a/n: thank you for reading! please share your thoughts with me, let me know if you guys enjoyed it :)

part two

[rustedhearts]

just friends (again) (roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: you’ve convinced everyone around you that you and steve are just friends. now you just have to convince yourself—but it proves difficult when steve finally admits how he feels.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ just friends (part one) ✶ the library

tags: pining, yearning, they want each other so bad they're so stupid, little angst/hurt/comfort, oh steve harrington the man that you are. didn't proofread so ignore any mistakes oops.

buy me a ko-fi! (my blurb commissions are also still open!)

“I’m having a little carpet picnic.”

Julia Roberts’ voice filled the living room with a familiar warmth. The pinks and whites of the Beverly Hills hotel room from Pretty Woman coated the coach and the surface of your face with a gentle glow. The Chinese food you ordered a few hours ago was starting to stink. Even Ted, who was curled at your feet for most of your movie marathon, could no longer stand the vegetative life and scampered away.

It had been a week since Eddie broke things off. After Steve punched him, you spent the Sunday post-knockout calling and texting, hoping to sort things out. But Eddie never picked up. Eddie never replied. You figured stopping by the shop was a bit too far—if he wanted to talk to you, he would’ve by now.

So here you were, spending another weekend on the couch. Single. Broke. Lonely.

“He thought I was cheating on him,” is the excuse you have for getting dumped.

But the look on Theresa’s face when you told her is the first time it made you recoil. The first time you doubted that Eddie was 100%, entirely out of his mind.

Theresa winced into the overpriced lattes you were drinking at a curbside patio on Wednesday. “Well…I mean…”

And you gasped, mouth agape and heart hammering in your chest. What the fuck did that mean? Because you were just friends. All Steve ever was and is: your best friend. Why did everyone act like you were having a secret affair when the doors were closed on the public?

“You’ve gotta be kidding me—“

“I’m not defending the prick,” Theresa justified. “He was an asshole for talking to you like that. But I can see why he might have thought that. You and Steve are really close. Like…very close.”

“We’re friends,” you insisted.

And Theresa dropped it, holding her hands above her latte with innocent agreement. But her words haunted you the entire week. Every time Steve filled your coffee and had it ready on the counter for your commute to work (he even used your favorite travel mug). Every time he came home with a bag of peanut m&ms when he dropped by the store because it was the little treat you always asked for, but he didn’t even need to be asked anymore.

But like any other Saturday, the apartment was void of him for most of the day. He mumbled some excuse about going to the mall through your door this morning, and when he came home twenty minutes into Pretty Woman with an Abercrombie shopping bag, you knew he’d been date shopping.

“Hey,” he called to you, door clamping closed behind him. His keys jingled on their toss toward the table cluttered with half-opened mail.

Cheek squished against a throw pillow, body splayed flat on the couch, you cut him a glance sideways and adjusted the volume. “Hey.”

Steve kicked off his shoes and set his bag near the door, making your chest tighten when he immediately sauntered toward the couch. He turned to the tv with his hands on his hips.

He asked what he always asked, despite his eyes watching the very thing. “Watchya watchin’?”

“Pretty Woman.”

“Did you already watch Mystic Pizza?”

“Yep.”

Steve sighed. “Damn. Alright, well, scooch over.”

When he plucked your feet up and flopped down under them, he smelled like the sickeningly sweet butter of a soft pretzel, and the overwhelming stench of Abercrombie & Fitch. You couldn’t believe he still shopped there.

His hands were still resting on your ankles, bracing your feet against his jean-clad thighs. His touch was warm, soft, all-encompassing—and suddenly all you could think about even as Richard Gere came on screen. Steve's touch, his heat, the body those hands came attached to resting just inches away. He was wearing blue today. He looked so good in blue.

You swallowed and coughed, cheek rubbing on the pillow. Steve’s finger twitched around your calf.

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” you croaked.

His eyes bored into you for a moment before he turned back to Julia Roberts. "Notting Hill or My Best Friend's Wedding after this?"

Your lips parted to reply, but then his finger began tracing shapes into the patch of skin between the bottom of your pant leg and the elastic of your sock. Air choked in your throat. Your eyes bulged on the glowing television screen. The muscles in the center of your body knotted and squeezed like nausea.

In your stock-still state, it didn't even occur to you that Steve somehow knew your entire I'm-sad-and-can-only-watch-Julia-Roberts-movies marathon setlist, but it certainly crossed your mind later on. You and Steve are really close. Maybe Theresa had a point.

"Um..." Your tongue darted out to lick your suddenly-dry lips.

"You good over there?" Steve chuckled, head tipping to gauge the features and their current predicament on your face.

You buried it further into the pillow, as far as it could go without hiding completely. "Yes, Steve, I'm fine."

Steve pulled back, settling into the couch again. "Jeez, oh-kay."

He waited a moment, and you inched free from your pillow enough to bring your eye back to the television, doing your best to focus on the movie you'd seen a million times and not Steve's hand sweeping under your pant leg. He'd done that a million times, too. Touched you. Felt you.

He held your hand when you crossed the road like a child that needed guidance. He braced your back to move you which way he wanted, and to pull you close when public situational occurrences arose that made him uncomfortable. He brushed your hair once when you were victim to an ungodly illness that had you picturing death. He removed your makeup on your birthday last year when you got so drunk you puked in the doorway.

His hands were always so gentle. His touch was always so soft.

But, God, why did it feel so different right now? Why did it feel so good?

"Want a mall haul?" Steve asked, too uncomfortable in the sudden silence of the living room. He was already standing and placing your feet back on their own before you could reply.

In your periphery, he headed toward the door to retrieve the bags he neglected. "Got a couple shirts to try. Also, am I too old for that store? I swear, everyone in there was like a little Taylor Lautner wannabe from 2012—meaning they were fourteen and on steroids—"

"Steve!"

He stopped. Standing at the edge of the rug with both hands on the corded handles of his Abercrombie & Fitch shopping bag to pull it open. The snicker gathering in his throat hitched into a snort, smirk drooping into wide-eyed surprise.

You never yelled. Not at him. Not at anyone that didn't deserve it, like the neighbors when they were arguing too loud again and you were trying to nap. Like the guy that tried to steal Steve's package a few months ago that you nearly tackled down the hall.

But never Steve.

You shot up on the couch, hands flying to your pounding head. "Just...please! I don't want a mall haul, I don't want to talk, I just...—I just wanna be alone."

Steve blinked, cheeks colored pink. He closed the bag slowly, paper crinkling as he went. He took it in one hand and backed up, stepping off the rug foot by foot. He glanced at Ted, who skittered in surprise at your outburst and was standing with an arched back and black pupils near the tv stand.

"Uh...yeah, okay. Sorry," he mumbled, scratching at the nape of his neck.

Your shoulders slumped, deflating into the couch as Steve turned his eyes to the floor and tugged at the back of his hair. That stress tick again—the one you hated causing. He turned slowly, caution stiff in his spine. You watched his finger twist and wind into a lock of chestnut hair as he trudged into the hall. His door clamped closed a moment later.

A heavy, moaning sigh shuddered from your mouth as you flopped back on the pillow. Two arms locked over your head, pressing down on your eyes to blind them and the horror you created.

"Slippery little suckers," Julia Roberts snickered on the screen.

"It happens all the time."

✶ ✶

You ate dinner separately. It was the first time you'd ever eaten dinner separately within the same four walls. Even the night you moved in together, when you were nothing but a pair of strangers gauging how weird it might be to live with the opposite sex without something romantic or sexual in the undertones—even then, you ate a greasy cheese pizza together on the living room floor with an empty box as makeshift table.

He asked all the right get-to-know-you questions, and when he successfully made you laugh with all his snarks and quips, you knew Steve Harrington would be an alright roommate. You never figured he'd become your best friend.

Tonight, you pouted into the salad you regretted purchasing yesterday because a "healthy" lifestyle was born and had died within the span of your forty minute shopping trip. And now, you wanted nothing but another wet, shiny pizza, and Steve Harrington's dumb jokes.

He ate in his room. Shuffled out while you were finishing Notting Hill and made another bland chicken-rice-and-broccoli dinner. And then he shuffled past you, shut his door, and ate it alone. Never even giving you a chance to tease his unseasoned plate for the purpose of "gains." You thought he could remain just as toned and handsome with flavor on his food.

By the time you were showered, redressed, and gurgling with lingering hunger, you were properly sour with guilt.

And maybe the black sweatpants with the bedazzled jewels on your ass were pulled on with manipulative purpose before you shuffled to Steve's door. You lingered there a while, gnawing on the skin around your thumbnail and glancing between the wood grain of Steve's door and the plush surface of your yellow slippers. At this proximity, you could hear the low hum of his radio behind the door. He had a strange affection for the 70s and 80s station.

If only you knew that it was because Steve knew "the all time hits of the 70s and 80s" were your favorite.

The radio dimmed, and a moment later Steve's voice called through the door. "I can hear you lingering out there."

You jumped, stepping away from the door. Your thumb returned to your mouth, teeth piercing the skin to nibble it away. The shuffle of feet and jingle of the doorknob came too swiftly for you to evade, and then the door swung open to reveal Steve in grey sweatpants and a tight red t-shirt. He looked good in red, too.

"Oh. Hi," you murmured, hand instantly dropping to your side.

Steve caged the doorway, biceps bulging on either side. You averted your eyes with a swallow.

He sighed. "Hi."

Steve watched you sweep a slippered foot back and forth like sloshing through water. He tipped his head and bit away a smile when he caught the edge of a jewel on your hip. His favorite sweatpants.

"Are you mad at me?"

Steve sighed again, this time a little shaken with laughter. "No, kid. I ain't mad at ya."

To prove his point, he nudged the door open with his palm and motioned toward the bedroom behind him. "Come on in."

You flopped on the edge of his bed, bounced up and down by old springs. Steve swung the door closed and joined you, easing back against his wooden headboard to reassume his rumpled position. He reached toward the nightstand and turned the knob on the radio to lower the Elton John song playing.

Steve snatched the small plastic basketball from behind the radio and tossed it in the air. "So, what's goin' on?"

You watched the ball soar into the air and come back down into his palm. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I was just...cranky."

Steve quirked a brow, catching your eye over an orange blur when he threw the ball again. "Yeah? That all?"

The corners of your mouth pulled down. "Yeah...? What else would it be."

Steve shrugged, chin turned up toward the ceiling as he watched the basketball fly toward it. Elton John died down and switched to Def Leppard. "Hysteria" was one of Steve's favorite songs.

"You tell me. You were having a Julia Roberts marathon."

"So?" Your thumb returned to your mouth, teeth ripping at the skin.

"You only watch Julia Roberts when you're sad."

"Not true."

Steve fixed his head straight again, eyes narrowing into a pointed look. The basketball sat in his right palm against his chest. You huffed, angling yourself toward the door to glare at it instead of your roommate and his smug, all knowing expression.

He waited a while, like he always did—waiting out your stubbornness and refusing to let it break him. You could talk to him, you knew that. He wanted you to know that.

"I guess..." You sighed, throwing yourself back on the bed with your arms locked over your eyes. "I guess I'm just upset that Eddie still hasn't called. I've been calling and texting him, but...he doesn't wanna see me."

Steve immediately felt every blood cell in his body curdle. Like they were burning and festering, irritated under his skin. He swallowed, bringing the basketball to sit between his knees where he could pick at the design with blunt fingernails.

"And you want to see him?"

You dropped your arms, letting them plop to your sides. "I mean...yeah."

Steve couldn't help it—he scoffed.

The sound had your head turning, brows furrowed his way. His head was shaking, eyes focused distinctly downward to avoid yours. All the smugness of his expression dimmed into something distasteful and angry.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Nothing."

"You scoffed."

"I sighed."

"No, you scoffed."

"Well—"

This time, Steve did sigh. He took the basketball in his hands and chucked it toward the door, causing it to boomerang off the wood and catapult back toward the mattress again. The sharp smack had you jolting upward, and your eyes widened on Steve when he hopped from the bed and stood to his feet.

"What the hell—"

"He's not good enough for you!"

You paused on weak wrists used to push you upward. Steve stood a foot away from the bed with pink cheeks and outstretched hands. They curled back toward him to sweep through his hair and tug hard at the roots.

"Steve—"

"He sucks. Alright? All your ex boyfriends sucked, but especially Eddie. He didn't understand you, he didn't appreciate you. He made you cry, for fuck's sake, and you want him back? I just don't get it."

Your lips parted, but it felt like gulping for water on dry land. And Steve watched, helplessly, as you stammered for words in the face of his impending and inevitable confession. Inevitably painful, he knew, but he could no longer stomach the tireless routine of finding the body closest to yours in another dark bar, hoping she would comfort him enough to soothe the ache he had for you.

You, who slept across the hall and shared the sofa with your head on his shoulder. You, who looked at him like some sort of light source with those little round eyes. You, who made his heart pound and weep endlessly every second that you were near, and every moment you were away—leaving him in a constant, centrifugal loop of torture.

So—knowing it might ruin every bit of good the pair of you worked so hard to keep—Steve stepped closer to the bed and swallowed. He prepared himself to form the words he'd practiced a million times over in his head.

"I just figured that eventually...you'd get tired of all the wrong guys, and realize that...I'm here. That it was me, that you loved me. Because I love you—don't you love me?"

He paused, but it would never have been enough time for your mind to process his proclamation. He had a look of such anguish embedded in his features, all scrunched and screwed together with wet, shiny eyes.

"And I figured it was easier to sleep my way around than sit and watch you waste your time with these idiots. But they were never you. And I never bothered to get to know them, because I only wanted to know you."

Your breath hitched when Steve crowded your corner of the bed, hands clasped over his chest. You had to tip your head back to meet his eye, and you felt your arms shake in their locked position holding you up. The sight of him blurred with the onset of your own hot, salty tears.

Steve sniffed: a wet slurp proceeded by a tear slipping down his cheek. He wiped it quickly and sank to his knees before you on the bed, hands coming to cradle your bent knees.

"I just can't take it any longer," he whispered, and his hazel eyes were like shiny coins gazing up at you.

His lips were wet with his own tears. His tongue swept them away. Every breath inhaled rattled in his chest, and every exhale shuddered his cheeks full. He chuckled when he rubbed his palm into his eye and turned it red, sweeping his forearm over his face to clear the tears again but they just kept coming.

"Fuck, say something, please," he huffed, lacing it with laughter despite its absence of humor.

Your throat felt like it swelled to twice the size. Sickness rolled in your stomach. But it only grew at the thought of breaking Steve's heart with your silence. Because the longer he looked at you with those almond eyes, and the longer he sniffled and massaged your knees to comfort himself—the more your heart crumbled.

"I...I don't know what to say," you croaked.

Steve inhaled again, stuttering through a sniffle. He wiped his cheek on your knee and chuckled again. "Yeah. Yeah, of course—it's okay."

"Steve—"

"It's okay," he insisted, scrambling to his feet. He backed away toward the door and you finished pulling yourself upright.

"Steve, wait—"

"Really, it's okay, honey. I'm just gonna...—we ran out of ice cream, so 'm gonna g-go—go get some. Mint chip, yeah? Okay."

He sniffled again upon his exit, slipping through a small crevice he opened the door to. The front door slammed shut moments later, and you rolled onto your stomach to unleash a scream into Steve's mattress.

"Stay tuned for more all time hits of the 70s and 80s!"

✶ ✶

Steve did not return with the mint chip until nearly midnight. It came in a plastic bag that announced his arrival even before the clamber of keys. Yet, it was the squeal of old hinges that woke you from your couch slumber, and you jolted upright as the door swung open.

Steve closed the door and stood there for a moment, spotting you in the dimness of the living room. You rubbed your eye and he shifted on his feet. Ted scampered off the couch and butted at Steve's calf.

He held up the plastic bag. "Got the mint chip. It's uh...it's all melted now, though."

You wanted to reply, to make him feel better again. His eyes were still pink and puffy, and you hated the thought of him spending hours in his car or another dark bar agonizing over what you might be thinking. Worst of all, regretting any of what he said.

Because you spent the past few hours doing plenty of thinking. You laid in his bed, curled on your side, and looked at all the pictures pinned to a cork board above his desk.

The sepia toned film strip from a wedding last fall where you took him as your date. You were smiling in every one, and to the unbeknownst you might have already appeared as a couple.

The Polaroid from his most recent birthday, where you were sitting on his shoulders and clutching onto his hair for dear life. His sister took the picture.

The black and white he printed from his phone of just you on a park bench, feeding the ducks. You never even knew he had that one.

And when you shuffled to your room, you suddenly stopped. The clack of hard-bottomed slippers caught your attention, and you looked down at the plush yellow footwear around your toes—a gift from Steve.

You stood on the other side of your bed and stared at the windowsill full of miscellaneous yellow items all gifted from Steve. The movie ticket stubs shoved in your mirror and the hundreds thrown in a box on your dresser because you'd probably seen a thousand over the years with Steve, who loved movie theater popcorn and sitting close to you in the dark.

The birthday cards he wrote extensive messages of well wishes and gratitude for your friendship in with terrible penmanship. The purse he bought you for that you said you liked in passing but would never spend that much money on, and the note still tucked inside the zipper that came pasted to the bag on Christmas morning:

Because you deserve it.

Love, Steve

And then you ended up on the couch, falling asleep watching the door and waiting for it to open.

Steve trudged to the kitchen while you were lost in thought, and you hurried to catch up as he swung the freezer open. He wrapped the plastic bag around the pint of the ice cream and stuck it on the top shelf, hand reaching to close the door—when he was pushed forward by a force crashing into him.

And then there was warmth around his stomach: two arms curling around his ribs. Two hands pressing to his stomach and pulling him in. Steve stopped, immobilized in the open freezer door.

"I'm sorry," you breathed into his shirt, eyes closed tight. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything, I was just so stunned. And I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot, Steve, for letting this go on for so long. Of course I love you, of course you love me—God, I just never wanted to ruin everything. But you make me so happy, and I—"

Steve spun around, causing your head to lift off his back. You went to drop your arms, but he instantly brought them around his neck. Two hands, still frozen from melting ice cream, braced your cheeks.

"You mean it?"

You nodded in his hold, happy to see his hazel eyes free and clear of tears. "Yes. Yes, of course I mean it—"

"Oh, thank fucking God," Steve breathed, and then his mouth descended on you.

You curled to the tops of your toes to press into his kiss, whimpering at the warmth and softness of his lips. It felt exactly as you thought it would—anticipating their plushness every time he pressed his lips to your cheek over the years.

It lasted until the pair of you were breathless, and you heaved for air upon release. Steve brushed his thumbs over your bottom lip, smearing spit and hemming your airless grin.

He kissed you all night, and let his hands roam where they could not roam before. You fell asleep in his bed tucked under his arm, and when you woke you shared the refrozen pint of mint chip with one spoon.

And when Steve called his sister while you were showering to share the good news, all she did was laugh.

"Jesus, about fucking time."

[imagine-knowing-a-name]

Spies and Secrets

Summary: Natasha has never met her handler, she couldn’t give you their name or identify their face because she doesn’t know it. When she rants about this to you, her wife, you have to laugh... because you are her handler.

Word Count: 2048

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, lying in the relationship (not in a bad way, just in a spy way), but otherwise it’s just fluff!

A/N: I went back and wrote this idea since it seemed semi-popular. Hope you enjoy :)

»»————-　★　————-««

"Will you finally tell me who they are?"

"This again, Romanoff?"

"Just a first name?"

Fury sighs to make his vexation clear, but that's not enough to dissuade Natasha; she remains determined as ever in her mission and smirks boldly in the face of her exasperated boss.

"Just an initial will get me off your back," the spy continues through his silence.

Fury scoffs and Natasha knows she needs a different approach.

"If it's you, you can just say, Sir."

"Me? You must be losing your touch if you think I have the time for that, Romanoff. Should Hill be taking your next mission?"

Natasha stops and stares with faux hurt while Fury continues on, grinning to his own amusement. He wasn't going to let her keep the upper hand for long.

"If you want to know, ask them yourself!" Fury calls over his shoulder, "Mission debrief. C12-2. 10 minutes. They won't tell you though; above your clearance!"

Natasha groans. As much as she hadn't expected a substantial answer from Fury – she'd been asking him the same question for years – she thought she might be getting somewhere, but no matter which trick she tries, Fury doesn't budge.

On top of that, he'd reminded her that it wasn't home time yet, her mission isn't over until she's briefed her mysterious handler. So Natasha sighs and makes her way to the conference room, still wondering why only her handler chose to shroud themself in mystery. All the other agents meet theirs directly, while Natasha sits in a room alone, waiting for a shadowy silhouette to call in.

The first few years went by without a comment – it wasn't her place to ask – but as she rose the ranks and found her role, her handler, too, remained just above her clearance. Even now, as one of the highest ranking agents, her handler was higher still. Curiosity built like a dripping tap; manageable and menial to start, only to provoke greater displeasure the longer it went on.

"Hi Agent!" the disembodied voice crackles through the speakers. That's the other thing driving Natasha towards irritation, her handler's tone. It's nothing like Fury's commanding orations. No, her handler speaks with an eagerness and informality reminiscent of a junior agent meeting their hero, rather than the commanding officer that they are, and have been, since Natasha first joined SHIELD almost a decade ago.

"Officer." Natasha replies. She had never been told her handler's surname, or even a title she could use to address them. Any attempts she made to learn had been properly shut down, forcing her to stick with the appellation of Case Officer.

"Always so formal," her handler laughs. "As far as I'm aware, the mission was successful, so what's got you so grumpy today?" they continue, noticing an uncharacteristic clarity to Natasha's mood that day.

"If you told me your name, I wouldn't have to be so formal, would I?" the spy snaps back. "And I'm not grumpy."

"Natasha, we've worked together for nearly 10 years now. I know when you're grumpy, and I can throw in an educated guess that my identity is the cause?"

"I've spent my life working in secret," Natasha shrugs, then pauses in search of the right words. "I'm well accustomed to dubious legalities and taking orders from the shadows. I'm also well aware that I would be a risk to security from the moment I joined until I gained the trust of this organisation, so I understood your secrecy."

Natasha stops again, noticing the silhouette begin to fidget; whether out of boredom or discomfort, the assassin can tell the time is right to make her final argument.

"We've worked together on hundreds of missions over this past decade, enough for you to know every detail of my life and mind, while I still know nothing about you. Have you thought about how that might hurt, officer? because it does! to believe I still haven't gained your trust after all this time. That hurts."

The room stills to a silence as fragile as Natasha felt. Her handler's reaction would dictate the situation; any information given could redefine the relationship between the two spies, just as another brush off would leave Natasha spiralling further into this curiosity.

A sigh finally echoes through the speakers; its long pause circling the sole inhabitant of the room. "It's above your clearance," the voice admits. Natasha slumps; she should have known better. "But-" The speed at which Natasha perks up draws out a small chuckle from her handler, before they continue with an audible smile, "I'll talk to Fury. See what I can reveal."

Natasha settles in her seat, unable to keep the broad smile from her face. "I do trust you, Romanoff, I hope you know that… I just don't think I'll be who you expect."

As a trained spy, Natasha wouldn't let that last line slide, immediately thinking of its hidden meaning. But before she can ask further questions, her handler clears their throat. "I think it's time we actually start the mission debrief."

»»————-　★　————-««

Natasha can't wait for the meeting to end. She understands the need – giving her side of the story, answering questions, sharing the intelligence she'd gained – but it drags on without incident and without any further comments on her handler's identity, so she'd much rather be at home. 

What reason was there for her not to do this from home? Her handler calls in from wherever they are, so realistically, Natasha could also pick up from wherever she is. Ideally at home, after a relaxing shower and a little time with her wife. Natasha supposes that's where the issue may lie: you, her wife, who has been led to believe Natasha is a security guard and nothing more. If you overheard a debrief, not only would SHIELD's confidentiality be compromised, but you might never forgive her lies. Natasha's home office was soundproofed though and, because of that, the assassin would take the risk if it means extra time with you.

Throughout Natasha's homeward journey and all through the mission debrief, you are the only thing to occupy her mind. Her mission finished in late afternoon, so she had planned how she would surprise you and spend the evening together upon her return, but then the debrief cropped up, and by the time her key is in the door, the sun has long since set, leaving her to wonder if you're even still awake.

You are. Just about. Your pyjama clad figure appears in Natasha's sight and you rush down the stairs to meet her by the door.

"You're home!" You beam as you wrap your arms over her shoulders and take her cue for a kiss.

"I am."

"How was your mission?" you tease. You know how seriously she takes each assignment, always doing prep work in her office ahead of the trips; she treated them akin to a secret mission and you never missed your chance to rag her for it. 

One of your favourite methods of teasing is to liken her to James Bond, which only gets more realistic when you catch her mouthing along to the movie lines.

"Top secret. Can't tell you," your wife jokes back, her smile threatening to burst off her face.

"No injuries this time?"

"None at all."

"Good girl." She preens. "Have you had dinner?"

"Not yet, I came home as soon as I was done. Couldn't wait to see you."

"Sweet talker," you laugh and kiss her again, then take her by the hand, "I put some leftovers in the fridge, you clean up, then you can eat and share your 'top secret' thoughts."

The evening's plan formed just like that; you reheat the noodle dish while Natasha takes a shower, before the two of you come back together to sit at the dinner table.

"So, how was it really?" you ask her.

"The job itself was alright, no problem." Natasha replies, but by the way she's stabbing the noodles with her fork, you can tell something else is coming. "But my bosses…they just won't tell me all the information. Say it's 'above my clearance'."

"The cheek of them."

"Don't mock me."

"I'm not, I'm not! I promise, love," you say, though you can't hide your barely contained laughter thanks to the prominent pout on your wife's face. You school your face back into an expression of neutrality before you talk again, "that sounds annoying. Do you need this information?"

"No," she sighs, "it's just a matter of trust."

"Well, you must be working with idiots for them not to trust you after all this time."

"Mm, you reckon I should tell that to them?"

"You definitely should."

The smile comes back to Natasha's face as she shakes her head, "you're going to get me fired, sweetheart."

"You're too good for them to do that. Just keep it up, you're going to be leading them one day, I'm sure of it. Then all the secrets are yours."

»»————-　★　————-««

Another week, another mission. And with another mission comes another mission debrief. Natasha asked for her handler's identity three weeks ago and still knows nothing more. With how poorly her recent mission went, she doesn't even feel like asking the question again.

"What went wrong, Romanoff?" that same anonymous figure asks her, and Natasha can only groan: what didn't go wrong?

"We were ambushed to start with; whoever gave us the heads up got their information wrong, or someone sold us out. Either way, the plan went to shit the moment we arrived and the team went to shit by throwing mole accusations around. Splitting up only made it worse; nobody trusted their teammates to do their parts and it resulted in a mad scramble. My orders were ignored, but my team members were injured and I take full responsibility."

"That won't be necessary, Agent," the voice hums, "as leader, the responsibility falls on you, yes, but it is each agent's responsibility to trust in you and follow your plan, and you will not be faulted for working with idiots who don't trust you."

Natasha starts to defend her team, before the familiarity of the phrase has her searching through her mind for a recollection. What she does remember is a long shot, but she'll lose nothing by asking.

"Do you have a wife, Officer?"

"I do," they reply.

"Is she a redhead?"

"She is."

"Works for SHIELD?"

"Why, it's almost like you know her," the handler goades. If one had an illustrated list of all of SHIELD's employees, they would know that the short game of 'guess who' still left a couple dozen potential employees in the running, but the teasing and testing tone is the final clue Natasha needs to make her assumption.

"Y/N/N?"

"Hey love," you reply, with as much adoration as you can muster, glad to finally be rid of the voice modulator while you talked to your wife.

In front of Natasha, the screen flickers before the silhouette that had become so familiar to her is replaced by another familiar sight in another familiar location: the smiling face of her wife…in her office.

Natasha's face falls at once, striking you with panic that this wouldn't be the gleeful revelation that you'd expected; that is, until the assassin speaks again. "Is that my desk?"

"It's your whole office, my love. I'm not taking these calls from our bedroom."

"Is that why it's sound proofed?"

"I gave the approval for that, if you remember, and it's certainly not because you're taking SHIELD calls at home; you haven't even had one while we've lived together!"

"That's because you organise it straight after the mission so I don't have time to go home!"

"Because that's where I am! you'd be suspicious otherwise."

Natasha falls silent for a moment. You know her well enough to leave her to her thoughts, only twiddling your thumbs as you watch her through the screen.

"So can I do debriefs at home now?"

"I don't see why not," you shrug, "remember I still have to take notes though, so I get the desk and no cuddling until after."

"No chance of that."

"Come back now, Romanoff, and we can put it to the test," you challenge.

She accepts. "I'll be there in 30."

"I know."

»»————-　★　————-««

Tagging: @supercorpdanbeau (since you mentioned you’d like to read it on the original post!)

[totalswag]

love love love ur writing babes!!

maybee u could please do one where reader begs rafe for a darry ring, like the $500 ones u can only buy once in ur life and u have to submit ur id to buy it.. i want to know what ur thought process on how rafe would go about it? 🫣🫣🫣

promise sealed — RAFE CAMERON

authors note I don't think you guys realize how much it means to me when you compliment my writing. I hope you enjoy this request lovie.

summary rafe buys you a darry ring showing his love and devotion to your relationship.

warnings none

Rafe Cameron was not used to hearing "no." In his universe, money and power could sway any circumstance to his liking. So, when you casually mentioned a Darry Ring—an unique sign of eternal love that could only be acquired once in a lifetime—he became fascinated.

You were seated on the patio of Tanny Hill with Rafe to your right, his arm over your shoulder, watching the sunset from afar. The summer wind on your skin and the birds chirping made the moment feel especially pleasant.

"Baby have you heard of a Darry Ring before?" You blurt out, playing with Rafe's gold ring.

"I've heard about those rings," Rafe replied, and raising an eyebrow at you. "Why do you want one so badly?" He was curious and wanted to know more.

You took a deep breath, knowing that you needed to express your feelings clearly. "This isn't just any ring, Rafe. This is a promise. They only allow you to buy one in your entire life, and you must submit your ID to confirm it. It signifies that the person wearing it is the only one for you. Forever."

"Forever, huh?" he wondered, more to himself than you. His fingers tapped against the armrest, and you could see the wheels churning in his head.

You nodded, thinking he understood how much this meant to you. "Yes, forever." It's not about money, Rafe. "It's about the promise."

Rafe loves you more than anything in this world. You're his everything. He would do anything for you, literally. One thing he fears the most is losing you and breaking the promise of never hurting you.

Everyone sees how in-love you are with each other. The way you look at each other is like you two are the only people in the room. The moment you got together, friends started talking about your wedding day.

But as he saw the openness in your eyes, he felt something shift. You weren't asking for financial things; you were asking for a pledge, a piece of his heart.

As the rest of the night went on, the conversation about the ring stayed in Rafe's mind.

Over the next four days, Rafe found himself continuously thinking about the Darry Ring. Constantly on his mind going back and forth. One thing Rafe doesn't want to do is buy this ring for you then could do something that may hurt you; never in his life does he want to hurt you.

You asked him about the ring one of the days you were hanging out. He told you he was looking into it but never gave you a final answer.

He did research, learning about the company's ideology and the importance of the ring. He even read comments from other couples who had purchased the ring, and each story touched a deep part of him. He wanted this to be perfect.

Once Rafe came the finalization about the ring he started to search for the perfect one for you. Luckily for him, he's been saving up money for special things like this.

Rafe spoke with his sister, Sarah, about the concept of getting you the ring. She was quite excited about the ring. She assisted him with the design because you two hang out occasionally.

Rafe accepted that this wasn't only about you; it was also about him. It was about his willingness to venture into the unknown and truly commit to someone he loved. The Darry Ring's exclusivity was both scary and thrilling. It meant he'd always put you first.

A few days ago the ring was ready to be picked up on the mainland. He was so excited and nervous to see how the ring turned out; made sure it was perfect.

He decided on a simple yet intimate setting. He took you to your favorite spot by the beach, where the two of you had shared countless memories.

You were sitting on a blanket with food you ordered from a restaurant down the road. The waves hitting shore filled your ears. People talking amongst themselves, kids running on shore, etc.

"The sunset looks beautiful tonight, don't you think?" Your gaze is drawn to the sunset in front of you, with the waves gently touching the shore. 

"Not as beautiful as you" Rafe replies, kissing your cheek while reaching in his back pocket for the Darry Ring.

You could feel his heart racing thousands miles per hour with your back pressed against his chest. Frowning with concern before he spoke up again.

"I've been thinking a lot about what you said," he began, pulling out the small, elegant box from his pocket. "About promises and forever."

He actually got it.

Your eyes widened when you realized what was going on. Tears started to form in the corner of your eyes. Getting chocked up by the moment. Searching for the right words to say.

Rafe opened the box to discover the stunning Darry Ring inside. "This ring represents something to both of us. It's a vow that you're the only one for me, and I'm willing to commit to you for the rest of my life."

Tears slowly fall down your face; carefully wiping them off your face. Now your heart is beating thousand miles per-hour. Your entire body is on cloud nine.

“Wh-a-t did I get to deserve someone like you Rafe?” You cry, lifting your shaky left hand, allowing Rafe to slide the ring on your finger.

"I love you so much, sweetie. You mean the world to me. Our love is stronger than any other." You cut Rafe off by pulling him in for a long kiss, your arms gradually tightening around his neck and his hands grabbing you around the waist. 

It was the perfect moment that you'll cherish for the rest of your life. You couldn't take your eyes off the ring, admiring its beauty for the rest of the night.

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[raz-writes-the-thing]

Naughty Thoughts (Venom One-Shot)

Venom x Eddie Brock x Fem!Reader 18+ ONLY / Requests are open

Summary: Venom discovers your dirty thoughts about him and his tongue.

Fic type: smut

VENOM: @0alk0msan @romeosix1 (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

When Eddie had first told you about Venom, he’d been unsure how you’d take it. Would you run for the hills? Would you beat him up with your backpack? Would you scream at him? Would you call him names? All valid questions, really. Eddie was an anxious person at the best of times anyway, so all of that was pretty on-brand for him. 

You had done none of those things, although you had contemplated running for the hills briefly but once you met Venom, and found out how sweet he really was under the macho exterior, well, you didn’t take long to get close to him. 

At first, Venom had kept quiet during your sex life with Eddie, having had the whole privacy thing repeated into his head so much that he finally listened just to make Eddie stop. Your sex life with Eddie was good- he was a good lay, and you loved him, too. So it was just a win-win all around but as you grew more comfortable with Venom being around all the time, you began to wonder- did he have a sex drive, too? 

So, of course, the first time Venom hitched a ride with you, it had been the first intrusive thought that popped into your head. And, of course, Venom heard it. 

“NAUGHTY THOUGHTS FOR A NAUGHTY LADY,” Venom breathed from the back of your brain. It was weird to hear his voice so crystal clear from within yourself. It was a little disconcerting if you were completely honest. 

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” you replied, flushing profusely. Eddie sat opposite you, having just transferred the little goop alien from his body to yours. His head cocked to the side in question. 

“What’s he saying?” Eddie asked, leaning forward. 

“Nothing,” you replied at the same time as Venom, whose head appeared over your shoulder to answer his usual ride, saying-

“Our little minx wants to know about our sex drive, Eddie-” 

You groaned, slapping a hand over your face in pure embarrassment. God, this could not get worse. You risked a glance at Eddie, sure that you would find horror there. You were wrong. On Eddie’s face was a mix of quiet interest and something much darker and lustful. You bit your lip, your brain immediately conjuring an image that was just absolutely filthy. 

Oh shit, wait- 

“Eddie,” Venom said, tongue licking a little stripe up the length of your jaw. “She’s filthy-” 

Eddie arched a brow, eyes boring holes into you. You could practically see the gears turning in his brain as he tried to figure out what was going on between the both of you. You couldn’t deny how the humiliation of having Venom out you like this turned you on- not that you’d ever admit it to yourself. 

“Tell him what you’re thinking, Pet- or should we?” 

You chewed on your lip, unable to make the words come out. Venom chuckled in your ear. 

“She wants us to eat her while you watch, Eddie,” Venom all but growled. You jolted as you felt tendrils of his waxy form curl around your arms and legs, slowly wrapping around like a python with its dinner. The thought of being Venom’s prey had you squeezing your thighs together. 

“Does she?” Eddie replied, a visible tent growing in his jeans. You averted your gaze only for one of Venom’s soft tendrils to cup your chin and bring you to face him. He looked hungry. 

“Can we?” Was all Venom asked, the milk-white of his eyes darkening just a little. His tendrils curled around on your limbs a little tighter with excitement and you felt the tendrils on your legs inch closer and closer to your cunt. 

You nodded, cheeks pinking. 

“Y-yes,” you breathed out, “please, V.” 

That was all the encouragement Venom needed, suddenly using his tendrils to undo your skirt and rip your panties from your body. He would have ripped up the skirt too if you hadn’t given him a warning glare internally. 

The tendrils forced your legs apart as far as they could go, and you sucked in a breath when you heard the groan that escaped both Eddie and Venom at the sight of your cunt clenching around nothing. 

You were very slick, you could tell. Partly due to your own imagination, but you were also pretty sure Venom was using his influence on your body to excite you even further now he’d gotten permission. 

The tip of a tendril poked at your folds, experimentally pushing just past the entrance. You squirmed with desire- wondering just what it would take to have him tendril-blast you to orgasm. 

“All you need to do is ask, Pet,” Venom answered verbally, and then the tendril was swelling in size and pushing further inside you. You keened as he started to move, slow at first but rubbing on all the right spots to shoot pleasure right up your spine. 

“Venom-” you gasped out, straining against the tendrils keeping you spread open for him. “Please, I- your tongue-” 

Venom chuckled but obliged. He brought his head down to settle between your legs and flicked his tongue out against your clit. You jolted at the directness and tried not to grind against him- not that you could move much anyway with the way you were restrained for him. 

The tendril inside you jolted and wriggled as Venom finally started to lick at your clit. You squirmed under his ministrations and moaned with the way the tendril fucked your insides. Venom was whispering in your mind all the filthy things he wanted to do to you- what you tasted like, how Eddie was getting off on watching you fuck him. 

Then, the tendril retreated, and you whimpered with discontent. You’d gone from feeling so full to so empty and you didn’t like it. You didn’t have to wait long, though, of course, as Venom’s tongue slid down your slit, over your bundle of nerves and into your hole. His writhing, wet tongue pushed inside you, licking at your walls and rubbing against that one spot he knew drove you insane. 

You cried out, fighting against the restraints but unable to do anything but take it. 

You saw a flash of teeth as Venom pushed his tongue further inside you, fucking you with it like you were nothing more than a sex toy for him. The thought had you picturing him fucking you with his tendrils in all your holes, using you- and you heard Venom’s sound of interest in your brain. 

“OH, YES- NEXT TIME, PET,” you heard his voice internally and you clenched your cunt around his tongue as he flooded your brain with images of what he was promising to do to you. 

You shook against him as his tongue started to writhe properly now, laving and fucking in and out of you to wring every single ounce of pleasure out of you. You’d never had something so deep inside you before- never mind someone so hungry to eat you from the inside out. 

You felt that coil beginning to tighten, tighter and tighter as Venom forced you towards orgasm whether you were ready for it or not. 

“CUM FOR US,” Venom growled from the back of your mind. “PAINT OUR TONGUE WITH YOUR RELEASE.” 

You were so close to being pushed over that edge that all it took was Venom brushing your clit once more with one of his tendrils to make you cum, jerking and roiling against your restraints as Venom hungrily licked up all of your release. You wailed as the overstimulation started to set in, and you heard Eddie finish behind Venom. 

The sound of his pleasured grunting had you clenching feebly around Venom’s tongue once more before he finally withdrew. You panted and twitched as the aftershocks of such a powerful orgasm wracked through you, and Venom slowly unwound his tendrils from you so he could nestle back inside your body. 

You looked over to Eddie and encouraged him to come and lay with you. 

Internally, you could feel Venom rubbing up against you much like a cat did when they were incredibly happy. 

“WE LIKE TO MAKE YOU CUM FOR US, PET,” he practically purred. You chuckled tiredly and clenched your thighs together, clit still pulsing with leftover pleasure.

“Maybe later, V,” you replied, feeling sleep start to pull at your senses. “You have a promise to keep, remember?” 

You brought back the images that Venom had put into your mind and felt him practically vibrate with excitement. 

“WE LOOK FORWARD TO IT.” 

Eddie had his arm wrapped around you and had been watching this (from his perspective) one-sided conversation rather quietly. 

“What’s this?” He asked, nosing against your neck. You sighed contentedly and replied- 

“The encore.”