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sunrizef1 · 1 day ago

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The Way

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Ex!reader, Charles Leclerc x reader

Authors Note: yo soy tired | multiple fics in a week who is this diva

Warnings: Break-ups, cursing, max is an angsty boy, not proofread

Word Count: 4.5k

Requested: Yes/No

Summary: You and max had been in love once upon a time. Now, well…. It was never supposed to be this way.

It was never supposed to be this way.

When you and Max had started dating, you hadn’t planned for it to end with a messy breakup that had both of you looking the other way with even a mention of the other’s name.

You’d like to preface by saying the breakup wasn’t your fault. At least, not entirely. You were just done dealing with the way Max constantly put you on the back burner for racing, even with you in a car just a few garages down from his own.

Last season, it hadn’t been that much of a problem. In a Williams, you weren’t often faced with the Red Bull drivers. They were fighting for podiums, you were fighting to even be in the points.

But in the offseason, you had been moved to Mercedes. Now, he was all you could see.

The press seemed to have caught wind of your break-up as well because, as opposed to before, now it felt like you were placed in the same conference as him every. Single. Time.

You’re not sure if it’s all bad, though. Because now, you get to see the look on his face when reporters comment on the unprecedented pace of the Mercedes while Max is stuck with comments on Red Bull’s recent dip in performance.

“You’ve won again,” The reporter starts, smiling at you as he stands, “That’s three wins in a row and three 1-2’s in a row as well. What do you have to credit for this sudden switch in Mercedes’s luck?”

You smile as he talks, lips forming a sharp grin, your thoughts barely held back, “Well, we could start with thanking me, no?”

You say it jokingly, some laughs echoing around the small one as you say it. George, who’s sat next to you, pats your shoulder proudly. Max is sat on his other side, having gotten a p-3 in the race. But, from what you heard, it was no easy feat, he’d fought the car the entire time, having had to rely on both the Ferrari’s DNFing to get the podium. Even then, he’d finished thirty seconds off of George.

“But I’d say it’s a combination of things,” you begin again, taking the question seriously this time, “The team is great, the car gets better every weekend, me and George are both putting in maximum effort week in and week out to maximize our performance. It also sometimes just comes down to relying on our competition to do worse than us. Recently, it has seemed like we are just running better than some other teams.”

If people want to see that as a did, you’ll let them. You were never one to mince words. Especially not about Max. Never about him.

The journalist seems pleased, most likely already picking out adjectives he’ll use to describe your tone when he writes his article. Snide, petty, confident, arrogant. You wouldn’t mind any of the above, truly.

The line of questioning moves, reporters turning to Max. That’s when you stop listening. You didn’t mind knowing he could see you succeeding right in front of him but even looking in his direction still makes your stomach turn.

You don’t look his way, don’t listen when they ask him about the race, don’t want to hear his voice, don’t want to see his features, set up in a way he only looks when he’s deep in focus. A face you had stared at many a night, watching as he told you every detail about the race from his point of view, his fingers fidgeting with whatever was nearest by. You were never sure if he even knew he was doing it. You’d stare and he’d talk. Then, he’d pause his rambling, noticing your stare, and a grin would paint his face. Then he’d lean in, laughing as you tried to pretend you hadn’t been enchanted by his features as he talked.

So, when Max starts talking, you lean back in your seat, hiding behind George. Your eyes drift close and you try to pretend you're anywhere else, not listening to your ex-boyfriend try to save face in front of tens of cameras.

You can’t really believe that, at one point, you’d been happy. Mentioning his name had once upon a time made you the happiest person on earth. Now, the name fills you with a sense of dread and you can feel the unresolved anger bubbling just under the surface.

It was never supposed to be this way.

——

Max is fuming.

It seemed, these days, he always was. But, right now, at this moment, he’s angrier than usual.

He’d finally won. Thirteen races deep into the season, he had finally won. It hadn’t been easy. He wouldn’t have won, if it weren’t for Mercedes double pitting just before a safety car had given the rest of the grid free pit stops.

Then, you and George had gotten taken out by a rogue Alpine and a Haas, the pink car trying to overtake the Haas and missing, sending the American car into the back of George, who had no choice but to watch as his car careened into your own.

So, having no sight of a black race suit on the podium, Max was happy.

He’d won, getting to celebrate with the Ferraris, a pair of people he held in the highest esteem, a racing legend and one of his closest friends.

It was a nice podium too! His team had come, he’d relished in the sound of the Dutch anthem as it blasted around the track, fans and team members in Red Bull gear all celebrating the long-awaited win.

It was what happened after that had made his anger spike so badly.

Max is walking off the podium when it happens. His skin is sticky and his hair is damp, his face still flushed with the heat of the race. He’s a little light-headed, the warmth in the car still sticking around to make him a little dizzy.

But he’s happy, a feeling he could get used to feeling again. It seemed like it had been so long. So long since he truly felt joy coursing through his veins.

He walks down the steps, prepared to hand his trophy off to a Red Bull employee to handle it for him. The empty champagne bottle had already been taken from him, whisked off to be discarded.

Lewis is walking just in front of him and he knows Charles is drifting behind him, having walked off last. Lewis gets down the steps, waving a goodbye to the Dutch man with a smile, walking off to, no-doubt, clean up from the event.

After saying bye to the Brit, Max turns to where he knew Charles had been, ready to comment on the race. But where Charles should be is nothing but empty air.

He glances around, looking for his friend. What he’s met with makes his eye practically twitch. Maybe it does twitch, he’s not in a right enough mind to know.

He sees Charles, turned away from his gaze, his red suit the only thing on display to the room. What gets max, though, is the arms wrapped around the Monagasque’s neck, black sleeves adorned with sponsors making it obvious just who the arms belong to.

Max isn’t sure if Charles knows that he can see the two of you. If he does know, he’d surely be getting an earful from the Dutch man for knowingly putting him through this. But Max is pretty sure he’s unaware when a laugh echoes between the two of you and suddenly you’re unwrapping yourself from around his neck and grasping his hand in your own, promptly setting off down the hall, pulling him along with you. He lets you, prompting a wide smile on your lips, something he hadn’t seen in such close proximity in a while.

It makes him angry. Everything about it.

The way you don’t seem to care that you lost, when every loss of his own had plagued Max’s mind like a disease, resting in the back of his head and ruining every thought.

The way you seem happy now, even without Max. You seem to have moved on, finding happiness somewhere else when Max hadn’t even gotten a whiff of it until he had crossed that finish line first.

The way Charles seems to think this is okay, letting himself get involved with his close friend’s ex-girlfriend, someone he knew Max wasn’t completely detached from.

More than anything, it’s the way that Max can’t stop thinking about it. The sight is burned into his mind, he can practically see it on the back of his eyelids when he closes his eyes. The sound of your laugh mixed with Charles’s echoes in his brain, taunting him, making him insane. He can still see your hands, running through the hair at the nape of Charles’s neck, not even caring that he was, no doubt, dripping with sweat and champagne. It’s the sight of you two running off, Charles letting you lead him away immediately after the race, something Max had never let you do, the Dutch man too laser-focused on celebrating his win to indulge you for even a second.

In hindsight, he should have been celebrating with you. The love of his life. That’s what these guys lived for, right? Stepping out of the car or off the podium and straight into the arms of the person they love, all cares forgotten in that hold.

Now that he no longer had the thrill of winning to hold him over, he truly felt the absence you had left in his life. Every day, he tried to move on. But you were still ingrained in his life, in him.

He found hair ties sometimes. In the glove box of a car he hadn’t driven in a while, hiding on a ledge in his shower, deep in the pockets of his jeans. They all reminded him of you. They all got thrown away.

You haunt him.

It was never supposed to be this way.

——

“Charles!” You’re laughing, running through the paddock, Charles hot on your heels.

It had started as a joke. He’d made some self-deprecating comment about his hair, made in passing. You, apparently to your detriment, had agreed with his comment, causing your own giggle.

Charles, ever the prideful, had scoffed, promptly trying to tackle you onto the couch of his driver's room. You’d escaped, running out of his room.

That’s how you got to this point, laughing loudly as Charles tried to navigate his way past the crowd, weaving between bodies and people who just couldn’t seem to get the hint that they should get out of the way.

You look behind you to see how close he is, not realizing until it’s too late that you’re about to run into someone. The someone in question moves away after the impact but you’re still hurtling toward the ground. But the hit never comes. Instead, your arm is caught and suddenly you're pulled up and spun into a pair of arms, holding you close, strong but gentle.

Charles looks down at you, a smile ghosting onto his lips, “Got you.”

You smile softly as well, looking up into his eyes, “You did.”

You stay there for a few moments, simply basking in the other’s presence. It had been a while since you had let yourself be happy like this.

What had started as a way to get back at Max had become your life, body, and soul. The way Charles held you could become your religion, the words he whispered at night your bible. You could worship at the altar of this love until the end of your days, your only sin being not devoting yourself sooner.

Charles is perfect. Attentive, kind, caring, a good listener, and, most importantly, he didn’t ignore you. Didn’t pretend like you didn’t exist at the paddock, knowing just as well as you do that this world is as much your own as it is his.

Your hands, that had been resting against his chest, reach back to pull his arm off of your shoulder, your fingers ghosting along the skin of his arm until they reach his wrist. You look up at him for a moment, eyes twinkling, before your attention turns back to his arm or, more specifically, the dainty black band around it. You hook your finger on the edge of it, pulling it off of his wrist and holding the hair tie between your fingers.

You were about to put your hair up, knowing you were about to escape and run from him again. But he didn’t need to know your motives, he just carried a hair tie with him all the time, having barely taken it off since the first time you’d handed it to him.

Once the hair tie is securely in your hair, you’re off again, Charles figuring out your ruse just a second too late. His realization is accompanied by the shout of your name, a laugh, and his own run as he tries, and mostly fails, to catch up to you.

It was lovely.

For everyone except one person. The very person you had run into a few minutes prior before not even noticing who you’d clashed with, not even bothering to utter an apology in his direction.

For what it’s worth, Max had walked away as soon as he could, retreating to the Red Bull hospitality he’d just come out of, having to pretend he wasn’t staring (or seething).

He had tried so hard not to think about you. God, he’d actually thought he was succeeding too!

Then the very god who’s name he’d just used in vain had quite literally thrown you at him, your perfect boyfriend in tow. If that’s even what you guys are. Neither of you had commented on it and the media hadn’t gotten enough of a rumour to ask.

Had he done something to deserve this? Had he cursed some god that had come back to haunt him? They wouldn’t be the only one haunting him, it seemed. You are everywhere.

On podiums, in interviews, on billboards, magazines, social media, parades, events completely unrelated to F1, everywhere. He couldn’t avoid you. No matter how hard he tried.

This had to be some sort of eternal punishment.

He used to be the person you’d run to after a good result, looking for solace in his arms.

Now, you didn’t even notice it was him even when you ran smack-dab into him.

It was never supposed to be this way.

——

If there was some deity out there that hates Max, the same one must love you.

Because you couldn’t think of a better conference than the one you were in right now. The top three: you, Charles, Max. All together on one couch. What could go wrong?

Max’s jaw is set, his eyebrows forming a straight line, betraying just how angry he is to be up here with the two of you.

Charles, on the other hand, couldn’t be happier. A grin is on his lips, his hair ruffled from his helmet (and your hands), his face full of the post-podium glow, his skin flushed and, thankfully, no longer sticky with champagne. He occasionally leans over to whisper something to you, his words much quieter than the giggles they cause.

You don’t know if Max is looking. You don’t care, really. Well, you care in the sense that you would love for max to be fuming on the other side of that couch. But you don’t care in the sense that it wasn’t your priority in your interactions with Charles. Not anymore.

The questions start, most being aimed toward the winner of the race, Charles, sitting next to you.

A question gets aimed at Max and Charles, not truly listening, takes the distraction of the audience to lightly grasp your hand in his own, before looking back to Max. You know he isn’t doing it to rile things up. He’s just happy and he wants to be happy with you.

It’s when Max is done talking and the attention is brought back to you for a question, does the reporter take pause. You can see the gears turning in his head, eyes flickering between your faces and your intertwined hands.

You pretend they haven’t noticed, raising your eyebrows to prompt the reporter to ask a question.

He does, an edge of humor in his voice, “First off, you two have anything you want to tell us?”

Laughs echo around the small room and you shake your head, a soft smile on your lips, “Nope.”

The reporter narrows his eyes, his grin not fading in the slightest, “Well then, I want to ask what fuels you when you race. You seemed so alive out there, so exciting, I wanted to ask what has changed.”

You can’t help yourself, your smile widening exponentially despite your best efforts, “Well, I’m just very happy, I guess. I know I’m not known as the most smiley person but life has just…. Been treating me very well recently.”

The reporter nods, smirking as his eyes pass between you and Charles, “Anything to do with a certain Monegasque?”

Charles, ever the comedian, furrows his eyebrows, muttering a quick “Who?” Under his breath, making you snort.

“Um-,” you start, trying your hardest not to laugh. Then, you look to your side and Charles is just staring at you, the softest look on his face as he watches you speak, “No comment.”

That’s enough for the reporter, who sits down, happy with the information he had managed to get.

The rest of the conference runs quickly, questions being split between the three of you pretty evenly.

You and Charles leave together, hands clasped together as he spins you around, asking you questions about evening plans between well-timed spins, both of you moving in some kind of child-like joy.

There’s a song playing from a speaker somewhere, a soft, floaty rhythm that fuels your movements. It’s almost psychic, the way you both move in tune with the other.

Max had never liked to dance, writing it off as silly or frivolous. You’d offer him your hand and he’d wave it away, leaning away from your hand and unknowingly leaning farther away from your relationship as he did. It couldn’t have hurt him to entertain your happiness just for once during your time together. But apparently it did, based on how he’d react like you had burnt him whenever you even suggested dancing.

Now, Charles was spinning you around without you even having to ask, humming along to the song playing through a speaker in an unknown location, eyes locked on you to trail your every movement.

It wouldn’t be so bad if this isthe way it was always meant to be.

——

The last time you think about Max in any significant way is a relatively inconspicuous day.

It’s a race weekend, just like any other. But this time, your home race. You were always fond of these weekends, when you get to be in your own country, racing on home soil, knowing the people in the stands, the people of your country, are rooting for you.

The past two seasons you’d been racing at the track, Max had won both times, getting to raise his fist in celebration in front of your fans, in front of your country.

Maybe that’s what makes you want the win so bad. What makes you try and overtake just a tad bit too aggressively, what makes Max go off the track, losing the position to you, Charles and Lewis funneling past him as well.

To anyone watching the race, it would look like a clean overtake, Max just having lost control over the car. But you knew what it was. You had known Max. Maybe not now, but once upon a time you had, and you also knew exactly what to do to make him stumble.

You hadn’t meant to do it, hadn’t meant to send him off. You also knew you weren’t going to get penalized for it. If you had any focus that wasn’t already on the race, you’d probably feel decently guilty. But your race engineer chalks it up to a racing incident, focusing your attention on Carlos in front of you, the only thing between yourself and a win.

In the end, after a well-executed overtake and your simply outpacing the Ferraris, you take the win.

It’s euphoric, if you had to describe it. Flags of your country wave in the stands, signs with your face and shirts adorned with the Mercedes logo decorate the crowds.

You quickly stand on top of your car, holding your arms out to the crowd around you, relishing in the sound of their cheers and screams.

Charles is standing next to your car when you turn to the side and you let him catch you as you jump down. You throw yourself into his hug, grasping him tightly as he rocks you back and forth. You can barely hear him through both your helmets, the words “I love you” just barely passing through.

He leans back, flipping up his visor and pushing yours up as well. His eyes lock on your own, fueling the tears already pooling in your eyes.

You know you have to pull away eventually and when you do, Lewis is standing behind you, quick to pull you into a tight hug. He knows how much this means to you. In your time in the Ferrari hospitality, he had become quite close to you, quickly becoming one of your closest friends.

He lets you go after a few seconds, shouting something about being proud of you through your helmets.

Once he’s dropped you, you turn toward your team, running straight into their arms. It’s something that could never be replicated, the joy you feel in this moment. You were with the people you love the most, succeeding at the thing you love the most in the place you love the most. It’s a perfect moment.

You eventually have to pull yourself from the grasps of their team, Toto landing a particularly spirited pat on your head as you do, making you laugh.

You let Charles walk you over to get weighed, throwing his arm around your shoulder, Lewis walking along on their other side. It’s nice, having people that care about you like this.

George is in the room when you go to get weighed. He hugs you, you smile and hug him back, whispering a quick “thank you” to the older man. He smiles back, patting you on the back before falling back into conversation with Lewis.

You pass through the process passively, not bothering to pay too much attention to the room around you, your brain somewhere else. Somewhere floating.

Then you’re up on the podium and everything comes back into focus.

Your anthem is playing, the music floating through your head, bringing every happy memory here back into the forefront of your mind.

They hand you your trophy. It feels like it fits in your hands perfectly. You stare down at it, trying to memorize every detail before you set it down, replacing it with the oversized bottle of champagne.

Charles is standing beside you, though you’re not looking at him. You know he’s looking at you but you can’t tear your gaze away from the crowd below, spreading out across the track, shouting your name.

Then, the champagne comes. You don’t even fight it as Lewis and Charles both immediately aim for you. You can’t do anything to get away so you let the alcohol hit you, the liquid seeping into the fabric of your fireproofs and causing a chill to run through your skin.

You try your hardest to aim the bottle onto the Ferrari’s, giving up when you can’t beat them, instead aiming the bottle onto your team down below.

After the bottles have run out, you’re left standing, sipping on the champagne that is left and trying not to feel the cold liquid on your skin. It almost feels lonely, just for a second.

But then Charles is there, wrapping an arm around your waist and looking out onto the crowd with you. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting you bask in the sound of your name being cheered by thousands of people.

Lewis pats you on the back as he walks by, prompting you both to snap out of your staring, looking at each other with matching smiles.

As for Max, he’s below, standing on the edge of the crowd, not a part of the celebration, not sharing in the joy.

He had finished fifth, but he didn’t care about that now. Now, he only cares about you. The vision of you, grinning on the podium, eyes welling with tears as you look out on the crowd chanting your name. The sight of Charles pulling you into his arms, landing a warm kiss on the top of your head just before he pulls you off the podium, disappearing down the steps.

He wanted to be mad, he really did. He wanted to storm over and yell at you for passing him the way you had. But, to the outward eye, there was nothing wrong with the pass. Yelling at you would involve admitting that your only crime here was knowing him better than anyone, a fact he absolutely refused to acknowledge.

Besides, he couldn’t be mad. No matter how much he tried to be, he just isn’t. Not at you, at least. Maybe at Charles. Maybe at Carlos who had fended him off for 6 laps at the end. Maybe at the car for just being disappointing. But not at you. The anger would be misplaced. Fueled by the fact that he had lost you and couldn’t do anything about it.

His race engineer had tried to support him, Liam had tried to distract him. But he wasn’t having it. He couldn’t have it when you were looking at Charles like that.

He knows that, in another life, it would have been him standing next to you, by your side for your big moment. He refuses to acknowledge the idea that he probably wouldn’t have stayed by your side, his feet carrying him off the podium quickly, racking his brain to figure out why he hadn’t won instead of celebrating the fact that you had.

But it could have been him. It should have been.

But it wasn’t. It isn’t.

You have moved on. Found happiness in Charles. True, real happiness.

That’s when Max realizes, maybe this is the way it was always meant to be.

——

Tags: @casperlikej @evie-119

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gurugirl · 2 days ago

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crime boss!harry x law student!reader

New series out now on Patreon!

Series Summary: Y/n's a fresh face in London, attending law school to get her barrister's license. Harry's the man who runs a successful criminal enterprise, part of the city's dark and secretive underworld. The Life is everything to him until he meets Y/n. This is the story of how they met and how their worlds are both turned upside down when they can't seem to stay away from one another.

. .

… one of the biggest crime syndicates in London. The leader of the Styles Family organization was arrested in the exclusive neighborhood of Kensington in front of dozens of residents this morning. Locals are asking what this means for their businesses and for their privacy…

Chapter 1 Teaser | the meet cute

Hushed whispers all around had her glancing in every direction as a pair of luxurious black oxfords draped in tailored black slacks stepped in front of her. Arching her neck to look up, she noted a custom three-piece suit filled out by a tall, powerfully lean body, and as she slid her sight up to his face, she was taken by the man's features more than anything. He resonated power and danger, and she couldn't stop staring. Overdressed for a house party, yes, but magnificent and male and gorgeous? Also yes. A resounding yes.

He sank into a graceful crouch until they were at eye-level. Y/n was momentarily stunned, unmoving, unblinking… His eyes captured her gaze, and his brows cinched together as a scorching intrigue washed over his expression. His magnetism seemed to expand the longer she stared into his jade-green eyes, and the levity of his apparent importance weighed down on her. She didn't know who he was, but she knew he was someone valuable.

Shifting, she tried to blink and look away, but her balance was lost. He quickly reached to steady her, big hands holding her by her bare arms so she didn't fall flat to her ass.

"Are you okay?" His voice was deep and smooth, with a rasp that instantly had her stomach wound in knots. It was evident that he was a man to whom people listened. The kind you didn't say no to.

Blinking, she nodded and finally freed her gaze from his as she looked down at his designer ensemble. All black. The shirt, the tie, the vest, the suit. He looked dangerous. He looked divine.

When he was sure she was steady, he let go of her arms and reached for her things that had fallen from her bag, scooping a handful of items up. She noted he had thick, expensive-looking rings on his fingers and wore a nice watch on his wrist. Pushing her purse toward her, he dropped a few things into it and looked over her school ID before passing it to her.

Taking her purse and ID, they stood simultaneously. He smiled at her as if unaffected while she was reeling inside from the interaction. She mimicked his smile in response, still having not uttered a word to the man yet.

His eyes were hard to look away from. She felt drawn, as if a rope had bound her waist, and he was slowly, imperceptibly pulling it toward himself.

"You sure you're alright?" His sight coasted down over her dress, freeing her eyes once again from his provocative gaze. Her brain lolled back into gear as she licked her lips that had suddenly gone dry.

Nodding, she finally spoke, "I'm fine. Just clumsy."

It was the way he ran his tongue over his lips slowly, or it was the dimple when his smile grew lopsided, or it was his green eyes melding with hers that had her heart skittering and skewing her equilibrium.

Her face heated when he touched her again, the tips of his fingers pressing into the top of her arm, moving her to the side like he owned her. She had the sense that he did, though. That he might own everything and everyone in that room they stood in.

Removing his fingertips from her arm, he held his hand toward her. "I'm Harry."

"Harry…" She watched his pink lips part the slightest as she spoke his name back to him, placing her hand into his, and immediately, sex came to mind. Primal, sheet-gripping, filthy sex. Blinking her thoughts away, she smiled. "I'm Y/n."

She let him guide their handshake before he slid his palm away. "Yes. Y/n who's enrolled in UCL. What's your major?"

"Yeah… How did you know?"

He laughed softly; even his laugh exuded influence and control. "Your school ID."

"Right. Yes. The one you handed to me because it fell out of my purse." She shook her head and let her eyes line up with his again. She felt silly for letting a man reduce her brain to mush like that. She was too intelligent to be acting like that, and yet there she was melting repeatedly at just a glance of his eyes. "I'm working toward getting a barrister's license. Going for my LLB."

He nodded. "Law. Smart girl. And where are you from, Y/n? Clearly, you're not a local."

She puffed out a breathy laugh and blinked her eyes. "I'm from the U.S. Just moved to London a little over a month ago, actually."

"And how's London treating you so far?" He tucked his hands away into his front pockets as he stared down at her. There was something about him that had all her senses stimulated. One part of her was ringing a bell of warning, telling her to run in the opposite direction. But another part of her was too enthralled to break their contact just yet. Besides, she had the feeling that if she had run, he'd chase her down and make her regret that choice.

"It's been pretty good. I haven't seen a whole lot yet. Mostly just getting myself situated, and now that school's in, I'm kind of busy."

"I can only imagine how much work must go into that course of study. It's good you've made time to have a little fun tonight. Fun is important. Who are you here with?"

"My roommate Victoria and her boyfriend, Nicholas. He said that this party was for his boss. I'm just tagging along."

He did it again, licked his lips as he kept his eyes pinned to hers. She swallowed to wet her throat. Maybe it was the air in the room drying everything out so that they had to keep licking their lips. "Are you drinking anything?"

"No. I've got to study tomorrow. Big test on Monday."

A red-headed guy suddenly approached. "Boss, congratulations. I know the circumstances with your dad might be—"

"Consider your audience right now, Ben," Harry cut off the young man before he could finish his sentence, looking at Y/n and then back at the man he'd called Ben.

Realization covered Ben's face as he glanced at Y/n and nodded. "Sorry. You're right. Wasn't thinking. Um…"

"We'll catch up tomorrow afternoon," Harry said.

Ben smiled at Y/n and gave her a brief nod before he walked off, and she turned her attention back to Harry. "So, you're the boss?"

"I am." The satisfied smile on his face shouldn't have been as attractive as it was. Y/n wasn't usually into overly confident men with big egos, but there was something about Harry that told her he could back it all up. He'd earned that ego.

"No wonder you're dressed so fancy." She grinned.

"Everyone here is dressed nicely."

Y/n gestured at him. "But not this nice. You're…" She trailed off, not knowing exactly how to finish her sentence.

"I'm what?" He grinned.

You're gorgeous, and your suit fits like you were standing naked in front of angels as they draped fine fabric over your strong frame and customized every tailored inch.

"Just… you're dressed a lot nicer than everyone here is all. Like, a lot more formal."

And she wouldn't mention it, but she had picked up something between Ben and Harry in their brief exchange. There was a secret, or at least there was something Harry didn't want Y/n to know as he'd cut the guy off from finishing what he was saying. She realized she was an outsider, but it did have her curious. Though with Harry, she wouldn't push. He didn't seem like the type to be an open book or who would appreciate a cross-examination. Which only made him that much more intriguing. A man with secrets. And power. The boss.

"Either you're telling me I have good taste or that I'm too stuffy. Hopefully, the former."

A soft laugh bubbled from her mouth as she blinked and looked down at his shoes again. "I would say you have great taste." She looked back up at him. "You don't seem stuffy."

Not stuffy, no. But dangerous, perhaps.

He nodded as he dragged his irises over her dress again. To her, the dress she had on was quite nice. It hadn't been a cheap thing at all, but standing there next to Harry, she was put to shame by how sharply he was dressed. Then again, he was putting everyone in that room to shame.

"Thank you. I like to think I have good taste. And not just in clothing."

She lifted her brows and felt her pulse thrumming in her throat. He could have been referring to his good taste in cars, art, movies, music… but the way his pupils caressed her skin, she became abundantly aware that this man would be getting whatever he wanted, even if that meant her.

She breathed a laugh out of her nose at her ridiculous internal dialogue. Wishful thinking. There was no way someone like Harry was interested in someone like her. She looked around to disengage and ground herself. She was letting her thoughts get away from her.

Y/n noticed how some of the guests were watching them. Eyes lingered on him and then on her briefly. Where before Harry had approached, no one gave her a second glance, now curious gazes tarried between them and just like that, her existence was being analyzed by strangers.

Even with the unwanted attention, her focus was on the tall, important man next to her. He was so elegant and enticing, but just under the surface, there was something severe… something ruinous. Whatever it was, he wasn't bothered to hide the vicious parts of himself completely. And maybe that was on purpose. A warning to anyone that might cross him that there was more than meets the eye. The way the alpha predator makes it known to other predators that he is not one to be fucked with.

. .

If drama, angst, and heavy action are your thing, you might enjoy this new series! xoxo

#harry styles #harry styles fic #patreon exclusive #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles writing #harry styles smut #firstpost #harry styles x reader #harry styles x yn #harry styles concept #harry styles series #harry styles fiction #harry styles fan fic #harry styles angst #x reader

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seasprincess · 3 days ago

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Love is in the air💘

pt.1||pt.2

Reader finally asks the question…

wc: 892

♡₊˚ ・₊ ♪ ✧ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ♡₊˚ ・₊ ♪ ✧ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

All you can think of all night is Spencer. Tossing and turning in your bed, the hours getting to ones that you shouldn’t be seeing ticking away. The soft light of the moon shines through the window onto the bed. Your pillow is covering your face, trying to block out the thought by using it as a shield.

You couldn’t be thinking these things about your coworker. Especially as you two are so close. What if you mess it all up and he hates you? What if he never wants to talk to you again? Oh god. Would you have to move sectors? No you can’t think like this. Just chill out. You’re overthinking.

But you’re not the only overthinking.

Spencer is also lying awake staring at the ceiling. He’s a guy who thinks all the time but all he’s currently thinking about is you. The way you looked today. The way that Derek started asking him about you. What did he mean by asking him that?

There’s so many thoughts running through his mind and yours. But, after what feels like an eternity, both of your eyes feel heavy and close. Sleep coming over you both.

You walk into the bullpen, coffee in hand. Vitale after last night's overthinking horrors. It wasn’t a good time at all.

You walk past everyone with a little greeting. You’re heading to your desk to check over some files before the inevitable of being called to the jet would happen sometime today. With a sigh you take a seat on the chair, the chair isn’t the most comfortable thing either. You wish you could bring a sofa or something in. That would be better.

You take a moment to gather yourself and your thoughts. Letting out a soft breath as your hand comes in contact with the stack of files in front of you. But before you can even attempt to open it a soft voice cuts you off.

“Hi.” The voice scares you a little bit but you immediately knew who it belonged to. The sweet nerdy guy who sits in the desk over.

You turn your chair to see him not in his seat but standing next to you. Wearing his usual attire. One of his cardigans which is the thing that has always stood out to you. In a good way of course. That he's comfortable to be himself here and wear clothes that others may see as ‘weird.’ Not a lot of men like that.

“Good morning.” You reply with a smile. A smile that makes Spencer’s heart flutter in ways he’s never truly felt before.

“What did you want to talk about yesterday?” Spencer doesn’t make small talk or try to steer the conversation slowly towards what was on his mind. Cause why would he do that? This is Spencer Reid we’re talking about.

And you’re you and you completely forgot that you had come up with an excuse yesterday. You had completely forgotten that you were gonna ask the man out before nerves took the better off you.

“Oh um.” You say as you begin to rub the back of your neck, silently cursing your awkward self. You look anywhere but him before your eyes lock with a smirking Derek Morgan. And you just know that smirk is a ‘ask him’ look.

And you decide that it’s now or maybe never.

“I was just wondering if you’d like to go out sometime?” You finally say as your eyes lock with his. His brown eyes soften slightly as you say that before panic sets in.

“Like on a date?” He has to clarify, not wanting to jump ahead and get too excited. He really hopes you mean as a date. He’s never been on a date before, or asked on a date and been serious.

“Yeah. On a date.” Your sweet smile grabs his heart again as he lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He’s very inexperienced in the whole romance thing. He’s not like Morgan who can pick up any girl he just glances at. He’s just not like that.

So the fact you’re even showing interest in him makes his heart race. And also makes him a little sceptical. People in high school and college had asked him out before. But they didn’t go in the way he wanted or thought they would. Pranks are a common thing he’s had to deal with being the ‘weird and nerdy’ kid.

But all his worries melt away when he sees the look on your face.

Nobody has ever looked at him that way.

And he now knows. You’re serious.

“How about the weekend? If we don’t get called in of course.

He chuckles a bit before nodding. Fingers fiddling with the cardigan you were admiring earlier.

“Yeah. This weekend.” Spencer had no plans this weekend. He usually doesn’t have any plans anyway so it’s not like he hasn’t anything to worry about.

But what is he gonna wear? Where are you going to go? Does he need to get you anything?

Turns out he has a lot to worry about.

But he’s not the only one worrying.

You’re freaking out too. Thinking about all the stupid questions he’s thinking. When you should be thinking one thing.

You’re going on a date with Spencer fucking Reid.

a/n: there will be a part three as i need to write more🙏

tags: @dreamsarebig @prongs-my-dear-blog @wonderstruck4llthew4yhome

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aliceramblez · 2 days ago

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Telemachus x Goddess of Joy!Reader (HCs)

pairing: epic!Telemachus x fem!reader

tags: fluff, childhood friends to lovers, telemachus is a dork, athena ships it, flower language, and some lore for the actual goddess of joy

artwork by Gigi on YouTube!

It's all happens one day when you're still very young.

After a particularly stressful day working alongside your sisters to please Lady Aphrodite, you can't handle the pressure anymore, so you travel to the island of Ithaca to clear your head.

It doesn't register in your brain that you've been crying until you hear a boy's voice calling out to you asking if you're alright. It's a mortal, obviously—a boy who appears to be your age, at least physically.

“Why are you crying?”

“I... I'm tired of trying to make others happy. I just want to be the sad one for once.”

You know you aren't supposed to mingle with mortals, so you keep your responses vague in hopes of satisfying his curiosity while not giving too much away.

But it wasn't like you were lying—as Goddess of Joy, you are expected to bring happiness to the hearts of everyone around you—Aphrodite included—, and it can sometimes take a heavy toll, especially since you haven't been using your powers as long as other Gods have.

The boy stares at you for a moment before running off somewhere in the field of flowers you've been sitting in, only to come back with both a small puppy and a pink peony in hand. He hands you the flower with a smile.

“My mommy says it's okay to be sad sometimes, so don't beat yourself up over it. I think this one would look pretty on you, though!”

You take the flower, give it a look over, and then turn back to the boy with a smile of your own. That's when the puppy leaps on top of you and starts slobbering you with kisses, much to the boy's dismay but your delight.

Since then, you decide to pay Ithaca visits more frequently whenever you aren't busy, successfully meeting up with the boy again and again to play.

You finally learn who he is—Telemachus. The prince of the land and son of Odysseus, progidy of Athena. Whenever he talks to you about his father, you can see the pain in his eyes of having to be sitting around waiting for a man who may never return. You decide to use your powers once in a while to help cheer him up.

It isn't until his thirteenth birthday that he finds out who you are.

“You're a Goddess, aren't you?”

It catches you by surprise, but it's not unexpected. Telemachus is smart, so it wasn't like he wouldn't find out eventually. After revealing your true self, all he does is sit down and listen, just like he did when you met all those years ago.

“I'm sorry I never told you. I... I liked being your friend without the pressure of a title between us. I didn't want you to treat me any differently.”

Telemachus doesn't do anything other than pick up a flower from the field you're both sitting in. A purple orchid which he tucks behind your ear with a smile, making you stare in awe.

“Goddess or not, you're still my best friend! I'd think you'd know me better than that by now.”

“Haha, I do... what even gave it away?”

“You're always showing up outta nowhere and people seem much happier whenever you're around, but like, in a super quick way! Besides, there's no way someone so pretty isn't a goddess...”

It's immediately clear that last part wasn't meant to come out because pink is now covering Telemachus' cheeks, causing you to flush as well.

More years go by and you begin to share stories with him about the Gods in Olympus—how Zeus is a womanizer, Poseidon looking scary but actually being a secret softie, and of course all the beef you have with your ‘boss’, Aphrodite.

He's always so eager to listen to whatever you have to say because of his dream of becoming a noble warrior, and will also comfort you whenever you're in a bad mood.

You try doing the same when more years pass and there's still no sign of his father. You offer to use your magic to help, but he says all he needs is a friend willing to listen, so that's what you become.

Whenever the suitors are giving him a hard time, you use your powers to make them be as sickeningly sweet with one another as possible, that it sometimes looks like they're in love. You and Telemachus get a crack out of it every time.

It's you who goes to find Athena when Telemachus is fighting Antinous, begging her to come help because there's really nothing you can do on the matter. She really doesn't need much persuading, though.

You can only thank the Gods that he's fine all things considered, but seeing him all battered up with cuts and bruises all over his body breaks your heart. You're immediately by his side with a washcloth and fresh clothes so that the wounds don't get infected despite his protests.

“I-I'm fine, really! Ow!”

“You will be fine once you stop moving!”

Athena chuckles in the background as you turn to her. She's giving you a knowing smirk, causing you to look away with a blush adorning your cheeks.

Once they start their training together, you're there cheering him on from the sidelines, which kinda backfires because according to Athena “we don't need any distractions”. You apparently fall under that category, and Telemachus is covering his face all the time but you swear you can see red on the tips of his ears.

Once Odysseus finally returns home, you're surprised to see Telemachus make his way to you as you're sitting in your usual spot.

He sits beside you and seems to be fiddling with something hidden in his robe. You can't see what it is from your angle.

“Aren't you going to spend time with your father?”

“He's with my mother right now. Something tells me they're going to be a while...”

“Right, I almost forgot. She must be overjoyed! But... are you okay? I saw what happened in there and...”

“Hey, I'm okay. Athena's training paid off. I'm tougher than I look, ya know?”

He then proceeds to comically flex his muscles with a wiggle of his eyebrows, causing you to laugh at this adorkable human being. You thank the Gods that you were born in the same time period as him, because now you can't think of a life without him in it.

That's when you notice the nervous fidgeting again and he's even started to advert his gaze after the little joke he pulled off. It's strange considering he's never been the shy type—when he's got something on his mind, he'll speak up no matter what.

“Are you sure you're okay, Telemachus?”

“Y-Yeah, I'm fine! I just... wanted to give you something. As a thanks for everything you've done for me.”

And before you can say anything, he's pulling out a flower from behind his back and placing it behind your ear. You can only barely register what it is before it's out of your sight: a red rose.

“You're the most amazing person I've ever met. A-And not just because you're a Goddess! You've always been there for me even when I don't ask you to, and have my back no matter what. You're just really nice, and funny and kind... I-I..”

You can't take it anymore and before your mind registers what's happening, you're already kissing him.

As you pull away, both your faces are as red as tomatoes and you can feel the smile on your face turning large and goofy. Giggles erupt from you both.

“I love you...”

“I love you, too...”

“And I love how long it took you two lovebirds to admit it.”

Athena's owl is gazing at you both and it almost sounds as it's chuckling while you two hide your faces in each other's shoulders.

Coming to Ithaca was the best decision you could've ever taken.

#epic the musical #telemachus #telemachus epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #telemachus x reader

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ramp-it-up · 3 days ago

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Boss

Summary: Your boss, Henry Cavill, is CEO of a company that changes lives. He is also a bit of a jerk. None of that stops you from being in love with him. And he with you.

Pairing: Ceo!Henry Cavill x reader au

A/N: I think Henry Cavill is a beautiful man, idc, idc. He is the faceclaim to my fantasies. Today. Big props to @nissaimmortal for tolerating my lust in her inbox and giving advice. Here it is. Read, react, alladat, please. :) I am fed through your interactions, so please like, comment and reblog. I live for that shit.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Idiots in love, slow burn, mutual pining, age gap. Angst, a tinge of lonliness, no work/life balance, jerk Henry, slightly insecure, but smart reader. Jealous Henry, references to male masturbation, wild thoughts on both of your parts, references to oral sex (f receiving), whoo boy, the kiss. And the challenge.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

You never meant for this to happen.

You were just practicing self care in the season of love.

The flowers weren’t for anyone but you, a way to remind yourself that you were worth it, even if no one else thought that.

You knew the office would be flooded with bouquets today, desks overflowing with flowers, cards, and candies. It was the one happenstance of your first whirlwind month on the job that stuck with you.

You vowed that your desk wouldn’t be empty this year, and no one would look at you with pity while asking you what you were doing that night.

So you sent flowers to yourself.

They were nothing dramatic, just some pretty little pink peonies and roses with a card that you’d written to yourself.

But Henry, your boss, your gruff, frustrating, inspiring, six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, dark haired, storm-eyed asshole of a boss, apparently, didn’t see it that way.

—--

You’d worked for Henry for a little over 14 months, and there had been a tension between you since your interview when he just sat there and stared at you as if you were some alien sent from a distant world.

Despite that, he grilled you about your personal vision, told you he admired your qualifications and you were hired.

What ensued was a year of hard, but gratifying work with a company that valued diversity and helping the planet. Henry Cavil was the CEO of that company, and as his assistant, you weren’t just a glorified secretary.

You were right-hand to changing the world.

Henry seemed to care for nothing but work, and was professional to the point of extreme with you, even when you two worked late and long hours side by side.

Holidays were unimportant to him, weekends were just another day, and he didn’t seem to notice that you might feel differently.

You didn’t, but it would have been nice to have been asked.

It would have been nice if he noticed you as a human, if he asked about your family, what you liked to do in your free time....Whatever that was.

And sometimes, you looked up to see him looking at you as if he were going to ask about one of those things, but in each instance, he just looked back down to what he was working on, continuing with the discussion at hand.

You let it slide, because being by his side was all that you wanted. Even if he just tolerated you.

Because you were in love with him. Since the moment before he offered you the job at the end of your interview.

You could help millions of people around the world, but you couldn’t help yourself from falling in love with Henry, a man at least ten years your senior who was emotionally unavailable.

You were a sad case.

Your boss was your secret obsession, the man who’d starred in your most delicious fantasies for far too long.

But Henry would never take a second look at you romantically.

You were doll-sized next to him, you’re too nerdy, too curvy, and too headstrong to be the kind of compliant arm candy that you heard he went for. You were destined to pine for your boss with the superhero looks, destined to be the sidekick in the romance of his life.

—---

Henry had been in torment for 14 months 12 days, and 7 hours, the moment you walked into his office for your interview. And he’d been in love with you for 14 months, 12 days, 6 hours and 45 minutes.

But he vowed that you should never know how he felt while sentencing himself to the daily torture of working side by side with you every day.

He tried to put you out of his head, but his favorite thing was to send you ahead of him to meetings and to fall in behind you on the long walk to the boardroom, your sumptuous ass giving him lots of spank bank material.

Every night he went home to shower, fuck his hand, and paint the tiled wall with copious amounts of spend as he thought of the way you looked that day and your adorable little quirks:

The faint smiles you gave him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

How you nibbled on that fucking sexy bottom lip when you were deep in thought and gazing at him, or hunched over your laptop and typing away.

The way that you walked, those tempting curves of yours that made him ache to throw you over his shoulder and have his way with you.

Henry had ordered you the finest oak desk that he could find during your first week on the job. The glass one in the office was fine, but would be a bit flimsy in the off chance that he should throw you over it and eat you out until his jaw was sore and until your voice grew hoarse from screaming his name.

You’d been the fire in his blood for the entire time he’d known you, and he couldn’t help himself from being irretrievably under your spell.

But instead of telling you that, for the last 14 months, he'd settled for every minute that he could wring from you for work, because there could never be anything more than that.

—---

This evening, Henry had stopped in your office doorway with menus for dinner, when he saw the flowers and crossed his arms over his huge chest.

Your eyes slid down his form, noticing how the sleeves of his crisp white button down strained around his biceps, the vest he was wearing highlighted the thick inverted triangle of his body, and his dark slacks hugged his muscular thighs.

It should be illegal for him to look that fucking good, especially at this hour in the evening, on this night of love. You looked up at him, at his dark eyebrows drawn together over those piercing blue eyes, looking at the bouquet like it personally insulted him.

Then he looked at you.

There was heat in his gaze, something that made your toes curl in your heels, and for a moment you were frozen. Damn, he was hot, especially when he was perturbed.

"Who sent them?"

His deep voice was low and calm, but there was a dangerous edge to his sexy ass British accent. Goosebumps raised on your skin.

You were caught between confusion and a being flustered from direct attention from him. He usually avoided eye contact and more than a few grunts at a time, so this was new.

Henry was always intimidating, but tonight, he was also extra attractive, with his tie loosened, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark curls slightly messy as if he'd been running his hands through it.

Oh, and it didn’t help that his jaw was clenching and his blue eyes seemed to be burning.

"Excuse me?" you asked, keeping your voice as neutral as possible.

You were tired, but there was a deadline to meet, despite the fact that this was a night for lovers.

You two were the perfect pair to still be at work, because you were the furthest thing from romantics. You and Henry were workaholics, dedicated to your job, with no time for love.

Henry’s gaze flicked to the small card nestled between the flowers.

You knew exactly what it said.

You are desirable. You are unforgettable. You deserve to be loved the way you love others.

A self-affirmation just for you. Something no one else was supposed to see.

But when Henry read it, he mistook the meaning.

"So who is he?"

His look was dark and his eyes were stormy, causing your stomach to drop.

"What?"

Henry’s fists clenched at his sides.

"The person who sent these. The one who wrote you that."

His voice dropped lower, like he was trying to hold back something.

"Who. Is. He?"

You realized that he thought you had someone. And he sounded jealous. But that would be…

No. It was impossible.

Your pulse became erratic with the thought

Henry was always particular: demanding, impatient, exacting. But he was also never unfair and never once let you fail. He always pushed you to be better and gave you glowing performance reviews, even when his actions conveyed that you were the most frustrating person on the planet to him.

You always assumed that he just tolerated you. That you annoyed him. But at the moment, he looked like a man barely holding himself together because he thought someone else had sent you flowers.

This was a development.

Before you could respond, Henry stepped closer to you. You tilted your head back to gaze up at him towering over you, broad and built like a damn brick wall. One that you wanted and needed to climb.

"You didn’t answer me," he murmured, voice rough. Boy, those eyes could chill you to the bone.

"Why do you care?"

You were perturbed now, and it was clear in your response.

Henry’s jaw ticked and something flashed in his eyes, there and gone too quickly for you to analyze.

“Careful, Little One.”

He’d never called you that, so you cocked your head with curiosity and watched as he sat on the edge of your desk, hiking his pants up on his legs, showcasing his massive thighs, and yes, the long, thick rod between them.

Your eyebrows shot up and your eyes went wide, too surprised at his words and actions to pull the well-practiced mask over your features.

Henry caught you looking, but you didn’t catch the way his mouth hooked up in a half smile at your reaction.

You licked your lips and watched as his hand moved slowly upward, until he was brushing his fingers over the petals of one of the roses. The act felt intimate, like he was imagining something else beneath his fingertips.

Or maybe you were the one imagining.

“You deserve to be loved the way you love others," he repeated, more softly.

He gazed at you, eyes blazing.

"And you think this guy, whoever he is, can give you that?"

Your throat went dry. You should’ve just told him the truth. But you didn’t.

Because you knew he was jealous. And he was about to lose it. And you wanted to see what happened when he did.

You chucked your chin up at him, a challenge.

"And what if he can?"

Henry knew he was pathetic because you were his employee, and he had no claim to you, no right to feel possessive at the thought of you with another man.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting to track down the mutherfucker that sent you those flowers and beat him to a bloody pulp. And that didn't stop him from wanting to grab you and kiss you until you realized that you were fucking his.

That you’d always been his, from the moment you first looked him in the eye.

The air between you crackled with energy as his entire body tensed as he stood up again, those massive hands curling into fists like he was restraining himself from something. His jaw flexed, his breath deepened, and he reached out for you, hand on your waist, drawing you in to press you against his very solid body.

And then Henry’s mouth was on yours, hot and demanding and so fucking perfect that you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but give in.

You grunted in surprise as his full lips pressed on yours and his delicious tongue slid inside your mouth. All of your senses came alive in a cacophony of sight, taste, smell, and sound. And of course, touch.

You let yourself melt into his kiss, reaching up and tugging at the soft curls rioting over his collar, and then he pulled back, panting. His hand came up to wipe the moisture from your lips with his thumb, which he then inserted into his mouth and kept eye contact with you as he suckled his digit.

You imagined those lips doing the same to various points on your body and you nearly swooned, especially when he pulled his thumb out with a plop and then released you.

Henry stepped back, baring his teeth in a dangerous smile.

Your mind was scrambled, but you knew one thing for certain: Henry was attracted to you. Just as much as you were attracted to him.

Who would have thunk?

Henry adjusted his cuffs, highlighting those distracting veins on the back of his hands. He nodded at the flowers, then at you, a dangerous smile on his lips.

"Hope he’s ready to compete," he murmured, leaving you stunned.

“Get your coat, we’re going out to dinner tonight.”

And then he walked back into his office, leaving you staring after him, heart slamming against your ribs, lips feeling swollen and bruised from the kiss.

You had no idea what those flowers just unleashed in him.

But you were about to find out.

#ask dj #dj will answer #ceo!henry cavill #Henry Cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill au #henry cavill smut #henry cavill imagine #valentinemas #x reader

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ariahmichelle · 3 days ago

Text

Fake It Till You Feel It- Part 4

Rafe Cameron x Reader Series

Link to Series Masterlist Here

Summary: You see your ex with a new girl wrapped around him after he told you “wasn’t ready for a relationship” after you had slowly started to fall for him. The betrayal stings. Rafe Cameron is dealing with his own issue—Amelia, a girl who refuses to take the hint that he’s not interested. One night you impulsively pretend to be Rafe’s girlfriend to get her to back off. To your surprise, it works. You also notice Alex looking pissed. This starts to become an unspoken routine between you when either Alex or Amelia are around. Simple right? However, longer this goes on, the more the lines blur between what’s real and what’s not.

Part 4- Two Can Play This Game

•••••••••••••••••••• •••••••••••••••••••••••

Since the night you saved Rafe from Amelia, things between you had shifted. Subtly at first—more texts, more inside jokes, more excuses to see each other.

Random late-night drives. Ice cream runs. Arguments over which flavor was superior.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just part of the game.

But the problem was, it felt real.

Rafe: Change of plans. Party at one of the Kildare U guys’ houses @8. You’re not gonna make me pick you up looking like shit, are you?

You: I never look like shit, Rafe :))

Rafe: Nah, you don’t. That’s the problem.

You stared at his text a second longer than necessary, your stomach twisting in a way you didn’t care to examine.

It was just Rafe being Rafe. He was a flirt. This was routine.

And yet, Paige didn’t seem convinced.

“You sure you’re not in over your head?” she asked from where she lay on your bed, watching as you swiped lip gloss over your lips.

You rolled your eyes. “I told you—it’s just a game.”

“Right,” she drawled, twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger. “Except you’re losing.”

You scoffed. “I’m not losing anything.”

Paige arched a perfectly manicured brow. “You’re catching feelings, babe.”

Your stomach clenched. “No, I’m not.”

She just gave you a knowing look. “You sure about that?”

You grabbed your purse, ignoring her completely as you walked out the door.

—

Rafe’s car was already idling in your driveway, and the second you stepped outside, he leaned out the driver’s side window, smirking.

“Took you long enough,” he called.

“You were early,” you shot back, climbing into the passenger seat.

He hummed like he was considering that. “Or maybe I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse quickened anyway.

“Oh hi, Paige, it’s great to see you.” Paige mocked from the back seat before huffing dramatically. “You two are insufferable.”

Rafe just grinned as he backed out of your driveway. “Missed you too, Paige.”

—

The party was already in full swing when you arrived. The beach house was buzzing with music and the scent of alcohol, the ocean waves faint in the background.

And from the moment you stepped inside, you felt eyes on you.

You knew why.

Word had gotten around. People were still adjusting to the fact that you and Rafe Cameron were apparently a thing.

But one person, in particular, wasn’t adjusting well.

Alex.

He was near the kitchen, arms crossed, his stare heavy as he watched you walk in—watched the way Rafe’s hand instinctively settled on your waist.

You weren’t sure why it made your stomach tighten. Maybe because, for once, you were the one who had the upper hand.

“You want a drink?” Rafe murmured near your ear.

“Yeah.”

Without another word, he laced his fingers through yours and led you toward the kitchen—deliberately making sure Alex saw every second of it.

Rafe leaned against the counter, still holding your hand, his fingers idly tracing along your skin. He grabbed a beer, twisting the cap off effortlessly before passing it to you.

“You look good tonight,” he said, voice just low enough that only you could hear.

Your breath hitched.

You forced yourself to play it cool, taking a sip of your drink. “You told me not to look like shit, remember?”

Rafe smirked. “Guess I did.”

And then—

“Didn’t know you two were a thing.”

Alex’s voice cut through the moment like a blade, and when you turned, his gaze was already locked onto you, unreadable.

You lifted a shoulder. “Guess you’ve been too busy to notice.”

Alex’s jaw twitched. “Since when?”

“Does it matter?” Rafe cut in smoothly. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, fingers skimming the bare skin just above your skirt. “You had your chance, didn’t you?”

Alex’s knuckles whitened around his drink. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Rafe let out a quiet chuckle, clearly enjoying this. “It means you told her you weren’t ready. So, what? You thought she’d just sit around waiting for you?”

Alex’s entire body was coiled tight. His blue eyes flicked to yours, searching.

“I think,” he said carefully, “it’s interesting that you—of all people—suddenly have feelings for her.”

There it was. The challenge. The silent accusation that this was all just a game.

And maybe it was.

But not in the way Alex thought.

Rafe grinned. “What can I say? Guess I’ve got good taste.”

You almost choked on your drink.

Alex’s stare burned into you, waiting—hoping—for some kind of hesitation.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you turned to Rafe, tilting your head up at him with a sweet smile. “Wanna dance?”

Rafe barely hesitated. “Thought you’d never ask.”

And just like that, he was leading you away, leaving Alex behind—standing there, fists clenched, looking like he wanted to punch something.

—

The moment you were far enough from Alex, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Jesus Christ.”

Rafe laughed, low and smug. “That was fun.”

You shot him a look. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

“Maybe a little.” He smirked, unrepentant. “But you can’t tell me you didn’t.”

You bit your lip, unwilling to admit how satisfying it had been to watch Alex seethe.

“Still,” you muttered. “You didn’t have to go so hard.”

“Yes, I did.”

His voice was quieter this time, more serious.

You looked up, and something in his expression had shifted.

He wasn’t grinning anymore.

The teasing was gone.

But as fast as it went, it was back.

“Relax princess, gotta make it believable.” He grinned placing a hand on your lower back, almost too low.

Your heart is pounding, but you keep your expression calm, shifting your hand so your fingers trail over his chest watching the way his smirk falters slightly.

Two can play this game.

You lean into him slightly, lowering your voice. “Careful, Cameron, if you keep this up,” you whisper. “You might actually start to like me.”

—————————

Just wanted to show a lil more of their dynamic in this part but the next part is going to be longer and definitely exciting 👀

Taglist:

@rafecameronsbaeee @drewwhor

@wtfisastiles @emmafitzzz

@yourmomdotcom42069 @yasmin-oviedo

@pogueprincesa @maybankslover

@rrosiitas @my-name-is-baby

@rafecameronsslut1234 @ggraycelynn

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prettealolilol · 2 days ago

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So, I love the headcanon of the batfam being menaces in the kitchen, and that half of them are banned from entering for the rest of their life.

However, you can't tell me that Batman, the man who has contingency plans for his contingency plans, who carries shark spray repellent, the man who travelled for a year (i think ?) on his own with only a backpack (and a lot of money but still), doesn't know how to cook. There is no way, he can't fend for himself in any type of situation (apocalypse ? ready; zombies ? ready; stranded on an island on his own ? ready). He can definitely take care of himself without Alfred, because Bruce is paranoid and there's the eventuality of the butler dying. And anyway, he probably learnt some dishes when he was younger so he could help Alfred around the house (it made him feel closer to the only caring adult in his life). He also definitely learnt traditional dishes while travelling and every time he adopts (it's his way of showing he cares).

(Cooking was one of the ways he bonded with Jason. The boy was tense and wary, not used to having so much food for free. When Bruce realised Jason cooked, he offered to teach him a few dishes he learnt around the world. It was the first time Jason called Bruce 'dad'. Every year they would cook (and make a mess) for Alfred's birthday.)

There's this whole thing with Dick only eating cereal (I don't know much about him, sorry) and being close behind Bruce as a kitchen menace. I don't really know how life in a circus works, but I'll go with the fact that they didn't always have access to a kitchen while traveling, so the food was never sophisticated. Yet, with the circus, Dick travelled a lot and met wonderful people. Some locals would sometimes bring them traditional plates, and even teach him how to cook them. The reason he doesn't really cook is because he finds the kitchen too complicated. Who needs so many utensils ? It's disorienting and feels too clinical (Dick associates cooking with sweet lessons from his mom and having fun with the people from the circus.).

(The times he actually took the time to cook at the manor was when Jason joined and they would try to bake. Dick cooks with Damian sometimes. At first it was to make him comfortable by being domestic, giving the excuse of learning to work together, but now it's just to bond. Bruce joins them sometimes.)

As said previously Jason knows how to cook. I'm not sure if it's canon, but he cooked for his mom, and is never banned from the kitchen in what I read. Similarly to Dick, he grew up cooking easy things. He didn't have access to much food, most of the time stealing from markets and fighting for bread in back alleys. He would stand in the shadows, staring at the window of a restaurant kitchen until he knew the moves by heart and would redo them at home (he'd spend days saving money and stealing the adequate ingredients). It was always simple dishes though. So when Jason first stepped in the kitchen ? He was amazed, and felt like one of those chefs he would observe for ours. The first weeks, he'd wait until everyone was in bed and sneaked in to cook (Alfred always acted like he didn't know). When he came back to Gotham after the pit, he began stress-cooking a lot. He'd steal money from Bruce and cook enough to feed a whole building in Crime Alley (he ate some once and threw up immediately. It tasted too much like home. He never ate anything he cooked again).

(Cooking with Alfred became an excuse to come to the manor and stay for dinner and sometimes even the night. (The first few times, the butler was the only one Jason could be with without activating his fight or flight instinct.) Watching his family unknowingly eat something he cooked and praising the food makes him feel like he may be allowed to be part of the family. Slowly, he starts leaving food to them (on the batmobile because he knows Bruce didn't eat before patrol, in Tim's office because he overworked and didn't go home, in Dick's kitchen because he got hurt during his day job), and nobody ever mentions it.)

I already explained my point of view for Tim in a previous post. Whether his parents were loving or not (fanon vs canon), they still travelled a lot. So Tim grew up having to learn to cook because there wasn't always someone at Drake's manor, and Drakes don't call people in the middle of the night because they're hungry or a little sick. So Tim knew the basics to care for himself, he learnt to wrap and stitch his own wounds at ten after being too close to an explosion where Batman and Riddler fought (seeing later the pictures he got, Tim thought getting some glass in his arm was completely worth it). Of course, he doesn't know any complicated dishes, he does enjoy the chemical aspect of it, the reactions between the ingredients, the way the molecules change with time and temperature variations. Tim also enjoys the historic aspect of it, so he'd learn to make dishes just because he liked the story related to its invention (it has proven useful in many social gatherings to know so much about food and culture). When he started as Robin, those skills became useful when he had to cook for Bruce in the middle of the night because he wouldn't wake Alfred up. After moving in the manor, Tim kind of dropped this little hobby. Alfred is here to cook, and he has other things to worry about (Jason coming back, then Damian being introduced, the whole time stream issue...).

(When he has some time, Tim scrolls on his social media, saving videos about recipes and learning about dishes and their history. He promises himself he'll find some time to try them. When Jason starts leaving each of them food, Tim buys a recipe book. As often as he can, he cooks something, prints a copy of the recipe and drops it off at Jason's current place. One time, when Damian is sick and no one else but Tim is at the manor, he ends up cooking an Arabic dish (a grandma recipe for sick children). Damian stops saying he's useless after this.)

Again, I don't know much about Cass, so it's really how I feel about it. Cass grew with simple dishes. When she joined the batfam, she didn't understand the importance of sharing a meal, people eating together, Alfred spending so much time in the kitchen, or why there were so many ways to cook one ingredient. Just like Dick, the kitchen feels too unnecessarily full, too many things that are just not imperative. To her, food was here to feed and strengthen the body. Cooking should be fast and easy because food was not supposed to be pleasant, just necessary. She doesn't really know how to cook. She can prepare food so it's edible, hunt or light up a fire. But growing up with her father taught her that food is only here to feed. She actually discovers its importance after walking in on Jason and Alfred cooking together. It was one of the rare times Jason would go farther than the cave and into the manor. They were not talking, and yet the atmosphere was soft, acknowledging. Reading Jason's body, she saw happiness and contemptment, the usual tension and anger nowhere in sight. She asks Tim about him (because he's the one who offered to teach her sign language, the one who she goes to when she needs a definition.) and he tells her how cooking can be many things, it can be an offer, it can be death, it can be love, it can be survival...

(Alfred once explained how it was his way of caring. He'd make different dishes depending on people's mood or state. When Cass understood that cooking was a form of language, she took it upon herself to learn. She watches Alfred cook for days, asking questions. She goes to Jason's place to ask him his opinion, teasing him when he gets flustered under her staring. She learns to cook and enjoys it.)

At the league, Damian was a prince. He didn't cook, it was beneath his status, there were servants for that. Like Cass, although he had access to higher quality food, it was only there to feed you. When he arrived at the manor ? The shock to see only one servant, and that his Father sometimes cooked for himself. His Father, who her mother had represented as a king, someone powerful enough to have his grandfather's respect, the man he was supposed to become. It took time for Damian to step into the kitchen for different reasons. First of all, the kitchen was not his place to be, it's Pennyworth's territory. He was not welcome there and knew that to make an enemy out of the man that raised his Father. Secondly, Damian was taught restraint, he would not give in to his basic urge. He could wait until morning even if he felt like his stomach was clenching on itself. The reason for walking in the kitchen was Grayson dragging him inside, promising some bonding time necessary for working together (it was fun, although Damian would not admit it).

(After realising the importance of cooking in the household, Damian decided he could not not know how to cook. Everyone seemed to have the knowledge it wouldn't do for him not to know. Maybe, he also felt like cooking would teach him to be a better part of the family and be accepted as the method he was taught all his life did not work. He learnt to cook on his own, sneaking in the kitchen and training. When he finally mastered a dish, he announced to Alfred he'll be cooking for the evening. Even if he'd never admit it, the praises he received that evening made him feel lighter, like he belonged. And no Grayson, he was not blushing.)

When Duke moves in the manor, it's kinda weird to have a butler. Duke was raised in a normal, middle class family, so cooking is a normal thing he helped his parents with. He would come home from school and help his parents cook dinner, sometimes doing it himself if they were still at work. He didn't know anything fancy or foreign dishes, but he could cook well. So having Alfred do it alone all day ? Not how Duke was raised. The first weeks, he would go into the kitchen and offer his help to Alfred, who would constantly refuse, joking about letting him do his job or he might become useless in his old age. Although it was a joke, Duke (who had just moved in and didn't really know how to act) stopped asking, not wanting to make the butler think he was taking his place.

(He still cooks sometimes, when he feels nostalgic. Cooking reminds him of his parents, his mothers' laughter and his father(s warm hand on his shoulder. When Duke discovers that Cass is learning to cook, he decides to do it with her, learning new recipes from around the world. It helped him a lot to feel at home at the Wayne manor.)

My point is, love the massacre this family can be when left unattended in a kitchen, but they definitely know how to cook.

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sunflower1experiment · 1 day ago

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Tape #1

“Risk”

Leith stares at you, then at Harley, then to Stella who was begrudgingly standing beside the two. There is no way Harley actually won your bleeding heart!? You! The scientist psychologist who doesn’t even know half the truth!?

Goodness it was too much, so he nods to Harley then you both lock eyes. “Good to see you again Mz.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” You stride past him to your office, Stella goes after you, next he was watching you both talk, then you both begin to enjoy some carbonated soda from the shop down the street. This was you, the person that somehow got Harley to stop sneering with snark in his tone of words? What exactly was it? Was it the way you talked, your simple answers or simple actions.

Leith didn’t envy Harley, he was simply astonished someone would lower their guard around this man, that narcissistic, arrogant, apathetic with no regard for others: Harley Sawyer.

“You’ve been quiet for a while Leith.”

“…..Just surprised someone is willing to put up with you, was it a facade? Or maybe you…”

Leith looks at Harley, then to you. His eyes say a lot, as a businessman Leith always knew how to read customers but not someone like, Sawyer.

His eyes were, focused, filled with a certainty that would assure he was right about his own work ahead. It made Leith uneasy, especially when he gave you those flowers, a Tuberose. Surely you knew the meaning, you always ranted about them, so why…

“…..They represent love, sensuality, dangerous love and innocence..” He says while you place a yellow Tulip in his vase; the man wasn’t really phased, more of annoyed at your friendly demeanor.

“What has you smiling ear to ear?”

“This is my resting face Pierre, plus I’m setting up a food festival for the children. With my own budget.” He blinks at your forwardness, every punctuation and word that left your lips made the man wanna deadpan but also ask more. Festival, food, what food?

Did Harley know of this? Of course not, you’re his partner not his pet or experiment…

“Good luck then.” He says curtly, you pass by him with a nod while your shoes clink on the floor out the door.

The man went to see you afterwards, watching you feed these children, care for their needs. Giving them water while they take some, and share. There was one moment that made him slightly smile, a child grabbing a bowl of fruit, then he went and grabbed two extras. Leith watches this child give the two bowls including the first one to three other children before he had his own.

You gave the child a big embrace while patting his hair down, it was…beautiful.

Elliot was right about you, when it came to children your heart was practically open and on the sleeve. Something Harley dismissed, now here he is, dating you.

Honestly it made Pierre feel nauseous at the idea of Harley even creating a family with you.

By the stars why did he think that way.

It was things like this that made him notice different dynamics in people, the way Harley would manipulate you, or he’d talk to you while you worked. Even going as far to interrupt your conversation with Stella, that was until he found you staring at the children with a longing gaze.

“Are you alright?”

“Mhm, just thinking about Quinn.”

Quinn, right that boy who you were planning to adopt, he was quiet but super obedient and always clinging to your side. “I wanted to adopt him.”

“Well it’s not too late.” He replies curtly, you hug your stomach with shame after he says that. “……Your words…hurt.”

Leith sighs then gets ready to leave, he simply couldn’t bear your words. But then you continue, “But they made me realize something, that you’re just as bad as I am….don’t get me wrong Pierre, you can claim to be a good man. But you’re greedy, eager for money. Like a typical corporate Ceo….he has a friend who cares for the children but you, it’s money signs. Yet you still show signs of being caring.”

The man was quiet ever since you said that, how could you even say that so easily. Was he that easy to read? Well not really, you were there with Elliot, and you were listening. In some occasions there was a few words of the in tune semblance you shared with Ludwig. One day you pull him aside, holding your stomach with sad eyes as unshed tears rise, only to get blinked away.

“I’m pregnant. Pierre.”

His breathing halts for a second and he felt embarrassed, scared, angry. “Why!? What did….are you serious!?”

You look away and speak once more, “You never told me he killed Quinn.” Pierre covers his face, of course he didn’t. Not when Harley would throw a fit, but you already knew about the experiments so why did this affect you so much!?

“I’ve been feeding them, loving them, nurturing them. Wanting to adopt some of them and someday make a home to raise them at. Only to find out I was the gentle voice that they’ll grow to hate…” The more you describe playing apart to their agonizing futures the more it irritates his soul, you were having Harley’s child! Yet you still show the attentive passion for these orphans.

“After all of that, you still care for them?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Just because you have the luxury to play god with orphans doesn’t mean I’d be happy to work this so called “miracle” you deluded yourself to believe. I was an orphan too, did you intend to force me to be a toy?” You exclaim through your own tears, he could only stare while the room went silent from the intense emotions that spurred within. “…..I never knew.”

“Of course not, after all, I’m his “favorite” experiment….Leith I’m scared. I so badly wanted to adopt him and have a child. Raise this child into a beautiful flower, but to find out your own partner, hah not find out. I knew and fell in love with a facade.”

You sit down, hugging yourself again, “Two months pregnant. I once asked him about the idea of children, it was foolish. Sometimes I was debating on….quitting, but then I changed my mind for these children…”

Now sitting beside you the man was carefully speaking, “Look, you’re a brave person. But you can’t just tell me and not tell him, how do you think he’ll feel?”

“He already knows, Harley is a fool but he is not naive…”

You knew so much about him and nothing at all, it was so tragic, hearing you blame yourself while he probably knew and had every intention to potentially keep you away from the bigger truth. “I’m going further down, to the prison.”

Pierre was quiet as he nods at your statement with no room to argue, getting up again he watches you stay on the couch. “…..Leith, if I do end up having this child…do you mind if I bring the baby into work?”

“Why…?”

“You don’t intend to help the children, do you? The least I can do is care for them, Feed them properly.”

When Leith left, he was stuck in deep thought about you. After all the things he said towards and about you; the willingness to tolerate him or even talk with Stella. It was impressive how you kept such professionalism with the three of them, but nothing irks his soul more than hearing Harley’s rants about you.

“We lost the child, now everything is ruined…Why didn’t you simply stop this from happening!?”

“Sawyer you’re out of line, you both were together! You had every chance to change for them, but you’re to stuck with the idea of control and recognition from your lover and others.”

Harley sneers, “Oh get real Leith, we all know why you didn’t stop my partner. Did it bother you knowing that someone actually saw me beyond what you all paint me as?”

This made him snap, Harley really was so foolish and arrogant. “Not at all, as of matter of fact nothing I’m very much unbothered by the fact that: you can so easily etch your way into someone’s life, infiltrate that person’s house, then not only get your partner pregnant but then to turn the child you both knew about and the one your “dear” so badly wanted to adopt into a bigger body. None of that bothers me one bit, sure it made us money but how will we get obedient children..?”

He jabs at Harley with a snark in his tone, “If you decide to date the only person who can easily give them hope, that false hope calms the children. Now because of this your dear partner will most likely feed and nurture them into rebellious children who may fight back or when they become toys use their obedience as ways to catch us off guard. Who knows….but hey, least that miscarriage made them less likely to disobey you…”

Pierre stares Harley down, the man sucks in his breath before he just curses under his breath. Pushing his coworker aside he slams the door, Leith sits down. “……That was cruel…”

It was cruel to use your child as some leverage against him…

Leith once again sat beside you in silence, “I’m sorry..”

“…….you don’t have to apologize. I’m done wallowing in self pity, you were right…I was foolish like him and in love with a facade. Politeness, and curiosity…”

“You still love him.” Pierre accuses you lightly, you nod curtly.

Of course, of course you still love him.

Especially after he had the order to have him shot, you loved him simply because it’s in your nature to love and care for others. Including Pierre….

Maybe that’s why you warned him about your plan to release the toys, because in someway you had hoped he’d be better…naive.

Always naive…

The tape ends, the worker stares at the tv. Hearing Leith’s narrative and recount of everything. They felt sorry for you, grabbing more tapes the worker stops before a couple notes…

Grabbing them there was a confession and an apology.

‘Mz…you were someone I resented, because you had that beautiful heart, that smart perception of everyone. Stella and I loved you for that, sometimes I wish you were the head of the project…sometimes I wish we could’ve all been friends, maybe in another universe. You could’ve adopted Quinn, Marie, Matthew, Kevin, Theo, and the other children…whatever happens I hope Harley doesn’t hurt you. Maybe I’m too late on that factor however, he hurt you mentally, and we were both too late to stop it.’

#ppt harley sawyer #harley sawyer x reader #harley sawyer poppy playtime #harley sawyer #leith pierre #Leith pierre x reader #ppt leith pierre #poppy playtime leith pierre #stella greyber #quinn poppy playtime #poppy playtime x reader

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agreeeeeeeeeee · 12 hours ago

Note

hi congrats on 1000 followers!!!! i seriously love your work sm the bill weasley magic lessons series altered my brain chemistry. idk if you write for aged up harry potter but if you do can you please write “1000 tears” with harry i love him in deathly hollows era when he’s all angsty and it’s soooo good when people write him to have a crazy reunion with the reader when he gets to shell cottage after saving them from malfoy manor it’s always giving peak hormones lol

hi love!!! tysm for the request, and I'm so glad you enjoyed Magic Lessons! angsty Harry is also my favorite, so I had a lot of fun with this one. Hope you enjoy! 🤍

1000 tears | H.P.

feat. Harry Potter x reader

cw: MDNI 18+, smut, love confessions, war stuff, mentions of blood/injury, angsty Deathly Hallows-era Harry, friends to lovers, reader has an implied close relationship with Remus and Tonks (parental), Dobby lives bc this is my fic and I can do whatever I want

1000 things prompt list (closed!) | masterlist

You sat curled up in your bed, knees to your chest, and stared at the crack in the bedroom door. Lupin had sent you to your assigned room with a piece of chocolate an hour prior, insisting you try and get some rest. But you couldn't even get yourself to lay down, the chocolate lying untouched on the bedside table.

You'd lost track of how many tears you'd shed.

Harry was out there, having disappeared while searching for a Horcrux with Ron and Hermione hours and hours ago without communication. He refused to let you go with them, having all but begged you to stay behind at Shell Cottage.

Where it's safe, love.

And now, you had a bone-deep feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. It wasn't like Harry to not send any kind of communication, and if he couldn't, Hermione always did.

Thing between you and Harry were…complicated. You weren't together. Who would be reckless enough to start a new relationship in the middle of a war? But the connection between you was strong, having grown from a schoolyard crush to an all-consuming devotion over the past few years, and you knew Harry felt it too. But there were more important things to worry about at the moment—romance could wait until after the war. If there was an after.

The clock ticked audibly on the wall above your head.

This was ridiculous. You couldn't just sit here. If Harry thought something happened to you, nothing would stop him. Not Lupin, not Molly, not Moody—

A crash and a wail echoed through the silent house. You immediately recognized the cry as Dobby’s, and jumped out of bed, grabbing your wand from the night stand.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you approached the closed door, turning the ancient knob as quietly as you could. Wand raised, you pulled open the door, stupify on the tip of your tongue.

“What on earth happened! And where have you been?!” Molly bellowed, and you paused in the hallway.

“Malfoy Manor,” you heard Ron reply just before Dobby loosed another shriek of pain.

“Harry Potter saved Dobby! Harry Potter is Dobby's hero!”

“It’s alright, Dobby—let go—Dobby, they have to—”

You flew down the stairs and around the corner, finding Ron, Hermione, Lupin, Molly, and the wounded House Elf crowded into the foyer. Harry was trying to gently pry the bleeding Dobby from his pants leg, his handsome face smeared with dirt and blood, expression tight with frustration and exhaustion.

But he was alive.

“You're supposed to be asleep,” Lupin scolded, noticing you hovering in the hall, and Harry’s head snapped up, green eyes melting with relief.

“Dobby and Hermione need a Healer,” Harry said, his gaze locked on you. You could tell he was white knuckling his self-control, trying to stay calm and prevent the terror from whatever just happened to them spread to the rest of you.

“Good thing I was awake then,” you replied, giving Lupin a pointed look as you moved into the crowded foyer. You stooped to survey the House Elf's injuries. A blade had grazed his side, blood blooming beneath his tunic, but it was shallow. “Episkey,” you murmured, and the wound knitted itself most of the way closed, ceasing the bleeding.

“Oh, thank you Miss Harry Potters friend! Thank you!”

“My pleasure, Dobby,” you sighed, pushing to your feet.

You hadn't realized how close you were to Harry, too focused on healing Dobby, and now we're standing nearly chest to chest, nose to nose.

The look on his face knocked the air from your lungs. His usually serene eyes were burning, heavy-lidded and bruised with exhaustion. He smelled of smoke and the sting of dark magic, his black hair tosseled and knuckles bloody.

His index finger brushed the edge of your hand, so light you almost thought you'd imagined it, and you swallowed a shudder, your body reacting as if he’d done something cataclysmic.

Everything in you wanted to throw your arms around him and kiss the pain away, steal it all for yourself so he'd never have to suffer under the burden of responsibility again—but you resisted.

“Boys, can you get Hermoine into the kitchen?” you asked, shifting to step away before you completely lost focus.

For a split second, Harry’s index finger hooked your pinky, wanting to keep you close, but he quickly dropped his hand and turned to his friends.

“C’mon then, hold onto me,” Harry said, crouching down to their level. Hermione looped an arm around Harry's neck, the other already around Ron’s waist, and together they lifted her up.

She groaned, her head lolling onto Ron's shoulder, but protested no further as they carried her into the kitchen and set her gently onto a chair.

“Don't overtax yourself,” Lupin warned, catching you before you left the foyer. “Be smart.”

“I'm fine, Remus,” you bit, pulling away from him.

You followed them into the kitchen, pretending not to be jealous at the easy contact between Harry and Hermione. You knew there was nothing romantic between them, and you loved their friendship. His depth of love for his friends was one of the things you admired most about him. But her ability to touch him so freely, a luxury you could only imagine, made your stomach twist.

To distract yourself, you set to work making some tea and preparing your supplies. Usually, the three of them would chat amongst themselves, strategizing, reminiscing, poking fun, but they were strangely quiet. The house sat heavily around the four of you, the silence almost tangible, broken only by the cottages occasional creak and groan.

When you set Hermione’s tea in front of her, made just the way she likes it, plus a pinch of goldenrod for the pain, she barely managed a whispered ‘thank you’. Her face was buried in the crook of Ron's neck while he held her close.

Oh, how lucky they were to be loved out loud, even if they hadn't admitted it to themselves yet.

Harry was leaning against the counter, eyes flitting anxiously between his friends and you, so you poured him a cuppa as well.

When you brought it to him, intending to set it on the counter beside him, he instead reached out to take it from you. His cool fingertips brushed yours over the heated ceramic. “Thanks,” he murmured, voice gravelly.

“’Course,” you said through the tightness in your throat. His touch lingered a moment longer before he brought the warm cup to his chest.

You set up your supplies and sat beside Hermione, gesturing for her to set her injured arm on the towel you laid out. She obliged, grimacing when the drying blood pulled at her skin.

As gently as you could, you used a rag soaked in warm water and antiseptic to clear away the blood. You nearly recoiled when the injury revealed itself.

Mudblood.

“Hermione, what—” you gasped.

“Bellatrix,” Ron hissed. “Tortured her while we were locked up.”

You were speechless, shocked to your core, and instinctively turned to Harry, but he was looking at Hermione's arm, eyes swimming with pain.

“I'm so sorry,” you whispered, turning back to Hermione.

She shook her head, dismissing your sympathy. “Just do what you can,” she said through gritted teeth. “Please,” she added.

So you did. Bellatrix had used an enchanted blade, so the word would scar, but with some time and attention, you were able to get the wound partially healed, and most importantly, the pain under control.

At one point you had urged the boys to go get cleaned up, their brooding energy weighing on your heart, but neither budged an inch. Ron stayed glued to Hermione’s side, catching every one of her tears, while Harry hovered over your shoulder, only moving away when you needed something, like fresh gauze or a refill of your tea. A strong herbal blend you developed to keep you focused during long nights spent studying in the common room.

It had come in handy more times than you cared to admit since the war began.

You secured the last bandage around her forearm, and looked up to find her asleep on Ron's shoulder, his head leaned against hers, eyes closed.

The roll of gauze was lifted from your hand, and you felt Harry's heat at your back. Even blindfolded and deaf, you'd be able to sense him anywhere.

“What are you—”

“Cleaning up,” he replied. “You've done enough.” His tone was gentle but firm, and you rolled your eyes.

“Me? I've been sitting here for days while you—”

“And I'm sure you worried yourself half-to-death,” he cut you off, and you clamped your mouth shut. “I can put away some bottles while you rest for a second,” he said, grabbing the vials from in front of you.

“Can't help but worry about you,” you muttered petulantly.

Harry's footsteps paused just behind you, and your breath caught in your throat. Then, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, warm and solid and home, and he buried his face into the curve of your shoulder.

“Please don't,” he whispered, exhaling a shaky breath. “Because if you ever asked me to stay—”

“I would never ask you to stay.” Tears burned behind your eyes, heart aching with relief and something too similar to grief to bear another name. You twined one of your hands with his, the other coming up to tangle in his dark waves. “That’s why I asked to go with you.”

His grip tightened. “I would never ask you to go.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. “I know.”

Ron stirred, and Harry slid his arms from around you, leaving you cold. You wiped the tears from your face before he could see them, though you had no doubt he knew they were there.

“Ron, you gotta take Hermione to bed,” Harry said, shaking his friends shoulder, and Ron came fully awake.

Ron gave a grunt in acknowledgment, then lifted Hermione into his arms, cradling her against his chest like she was the most precious thing in the world. “Thanks, mate,” Ron said to you, nodding his head.

“No need to thank me. Just glad you're all alright,” you replied, waving him off.

“Me too.” He glanced at Harry, something unspoken passing between them, before turning and carrying Hermione down the hall to her room.

The silenced stretched between you until it became unbearable. “I guess I'll head to bed before Lupin bites my head off,” you joked, though it landed flat.

Harry, sweet, always supportive Harry, gave you a weak smile anyways. You knew he wouldn't ask you to stay up, even though he'd likely be up until sunrise, but it still hurt when he answered with a single nod and turned away, walking into the living room without another word.

You had just climbed into bed when there was a knock on your closed door. Wiping away the tears that had collected once again, you pulled open the door, fairly certain you would find Lupin or Tonks standing there, ready to scold you for not going to sleep when your were told.

Harry stood in the dark hall, his glasses reflecting the silver moonlight like coins. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“Sorry? For wha—” Harry pushed through the door, directly towards you. You barely had time to gasp before he was grabbing your face and hauling you in for a messy, breath-taking kiss. He kicked the door shut with his foot, the bang a little too loud for the quiet house, but Harry didn't falter for a second. You barely heard it though, your ears ringing as your blood rushed under your skin, your mouth moving instinctively against his, matching every desperate push and ravenous pull.

His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips and tangling in your hair and pressing at your back, like he wanted to fold you under his skin, fuse your bodies together in every way imaginable.

“Harry,” you whimpered when he broke the kiss to breathe, your lungs burning along with the rest of you. It took you a moment to register that he was crying. “Harry, what—”

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I couldn't—” a strangled sound cut off his words and he sank to his knees, his grip on your hips going slack. “I tried, I—”

“I-I don't know what you mean,” you said, fighting back your own confused tears as you stroked his hair, his face buried into your abdomen.

“I thought I could wait, could keep you from getting too close, but I—I can't.” Harry looked up at you, pain-stricken face streaked with tears and glasses crooked, his mouth pulled down in a sorrowful curve. “I need you, but I can't risk losing you.”

You lowered yourself to his level, taking his face in your hands and drying his tears with you shirt sleeve. “You aren't going to lose me,” you tried to soothe, but your own emotion made your voice tremble. You both knew that it was entirely possible one of both of you would die in this war. Countless others had, and if love could overpower mortality…so many lost would still be living.

He shook his head. “If they know about you, what you mean to me—they'll—” another sob ripped from his chest, and it felt like it ripped out your heart with it, the sound so agonizing you wanted to cover your ears. “What they did to Hermione—I can't hear you scream like that, I can't—”

You were left speechless, crushed under the weight of what your friends, your Harry, must have experienced. Had one thing been different, he wouldn't here right now, in your arms where he belonged. You never would have kissed him, never would have held him, never would have known—

“Just tonight, then,” you whispered, watery and half-pleading. “Just one night, Harry, please.”

“I don't want just one night,” he snapped, though you know his sudden anger wasn't directed at you. “I don't want to wait. I don't want to fight. I don't want to be Harry fucking Potter. I just—” his breathing was labored, his jaw flexing under your palms. “I just want to be yours.”

“Harry—” your voice caught on the words, so used to swallowing them that speaking them felt as foreign as it did exhilarating. “Harry, I love you.” His eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching. “In my heart, you're mine. You're my Harry.”

He opened his eyes, their green brighter than you'd ever seen it, stark against the red of his lids and black of his damp lashes. “I love you too. So fucking much,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your inner wrist, up your forearm until he reached your lips, molding them together in a timid, salt-licked kiss.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him closer, and he quickly reciprocated, deepening the kiss until it reached the same fervor as before. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest, racing alongside yours as he reached behind you and yanked your quilts and duvet onto the floor.

You were about to ask why when he kissed his way down your neck, leaning you back onto the pile of blankets. His body weight was warm and delicious pressed against you, filling a space long empty in your chest, and you sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“So soft,” he murmured, nursing a spot under your ear that made you gasp, the sound twisting into a breathless moan. His hips canted forward in response, an involuntarily flex of muscles, and he whined. “Sorry, lovely. I'm so sorry—”

You silenced him by dragging his mouth back to yours and kissing him as fiercely as you could. Testing the waters, you rolled your hips against his, fiending for even a little friction, and it was his turn to gasp. You seized your opportunity and licked into his mouth, chasing his tongue with yours, and he completely melted into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his hands sliding under your shirt to paw at your bare skin. He kissed back down your neck, teasing the sensitive spot he found and making you squirm. You felt him hardening rapidly against your hip, losing his breath every time your hips bucked into his.

“Harry,” you pleaded, not entirely sure what you were asking for, only that you needed more of him. All of him.

He grunted when you shifted to roll your hips directly against the bulge of his cock, the thin fabric of shorts doing little to mask the rough texture of his jeans. One of his hand slipped from your body to undo his pants, his weeping, flushed cock springing free from his pants and slapping against your lower belly.

“Baby, I need to—Merlin, I'm so sorry,” he panted against your neck as he pulled your shorts and panties to the side and spread his fingers through your slit, exposing your drooling pussy to the cold air of the room. He plunged one finger in, then another, stretching you with quick, deliberate strokes.

“Please fuck me, please, please, please,” you babbled, digging your nails into his back when he withdrew his fingers to fist his cock, dragging the head through your slick and coating himself in your honey.

“Baby, fuck, you're so wet. My good girl, yeah?” He peppered your throat and chest with kisses, like he was atoning for some great sin while he pushed that first few inches into your tight heat. You cried out, and he clamped a hand over your mouth, startling you both. “Sh, sh, have to be quiet f'me. I’ll be gentle, but I just need to—” His hips stuttered forward another inch when your gooey walls clamped around him. “Fuck, lovely, I'm sorry, you just feel so—”

You lifted your hips and he slid a bit deeper, sinking nearly half-way into the wet grip of your cunt, and he made a pained sound in his throat, your own mewl muffled by his rough palm. Your whole body was humming with pleasure, like he was ripping through the dark curtains of your soul and letting the light finally spill out.

“Fuck, I'm sorry.” He rested his forehead against yours, biting the back of his hand covering your mouth to keep from crying out as he pushed deeper, almost there. “I love you, and I'm trying to go easy but saints. You make it so hard to be good.”

You nodded desperately, locking your eyes onto his and trying to convey what you wanted. I know you love me, but fuck me like you hate me.

His eyes searched your face. “Tell me what you want, love,” he said, removing his hand from your mouth to grip your jaw.

“I don't want to hold back anymore,” you replied, voice breathy and high.

Something in him snapped. His hips thrust forward, his pelvis smacking against yours as he finally bottomed out. His cock kissed your cervix, the stretch bright and delicious.

“Fucking hell, you're so goddamn tight,” Harry growled against your neck, grinding his hips against yours. You'd be shocked to hear his speak so roughly, but you were on another planet, nails carving lines down his back as you clung to him.

His fingers dug into to meat of your thigh, lifting your leg up to wrap around his waist, helping him drive even deeper as he started pounding into you. Long, deep strokes that had your mind-melting, toes curling, and a too-loud cry slipped free.

“Baby,” he scolded, covering your mouth again and slowing down his thrusts.

“M’sorry,” you mumbled against his palm. “Please don't stop.”

“Have to be quiet, okay?” He removed his hand, pressing a soft kiss to you lips. “Lupin will kill me.”

“Lupin can bite me,” you giggled, pulling him back down for another kiss.

Harry smiled against your mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip and tugging gently. He snapped his hips forward, knocking the air out of your lungs as pleasure bolted through you. “He'll have to go through me first,” he purred.

Seeing this more assertive side of Harry was doing funny things to your brain and your heart, your pussy fluttering around his iron length.

Was this what it was like to be his?

You pushed at his shoulder, throwing your leg to roll him over, landing in a straddle over his waist. His eyes widened in surprise, but quickly rolled back when you circled your hips, his length hitting an entirely new angle inside of you.

He tugged his shirt off, then yours, pulling you flush down against him as he fucked up into you, too impatient to hold still.

He was hitting it just right, abusing that soft spot inside of you that made your eyes cross, and you could feel your release rapidly approaching.

Sweat collected between you as your furiously ground your hips together, fucking each other with everything you had. Completely lost in the feeling of one another, desperate to push the other over the edge. The lewd slap of your sopping pussy was driving you both crazy, heightening the risk of being caught substantially, but you were too far gone to care anymore.

“Need you to come for me, baby. Please. Need to feel you, before—fuck, that's it, I’m so close—” Harry managed to get a hand between you, his middle finger making quick circles over your clit. His hips snapped up a final time, and you both were done for.

Your orgasm exploded through you, whiting out your vision with searing pleasure, and you buried your face in his neck to keep from screaming his name.

He bit down on his fist, a grunt of pleasure escaping as he continued fucking you, his thrusts growing languid and sloppy as your cunt milked him dry.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” you whined in his balmy skin, twitching and shaking in his arms as he finally sagged against the ground.

He removed his hand from his mouth, pinpricks of blood emerging from the wounds he'd sustained earlier reopening. “Saints, I love you so much. You're so beautiful,” he panted, kissing along your sweaty hairline. “Did so good for me, my lovely girl.”

“I love you too,” you sighed happily, nuzzling into the space under his jaw and brushing your lips against his light layer of stubble, letting your body relax into his.

He ran his fingers through your hair, holding you close as he caught his breath, the two of you basking in the afterglow.

“I meant what I said—anyone that wants to hurt you will have to go through me first,” he murmured after a few moments of quiet, his voice turning serious. “I'll do everything I can to protect you.”

You pushed yourself onto your elbow, meeting his eyes. They were shadowed with uncertainty, a bit glassy with collecting tears. His hand came up to hold your cheek, his thumb smoothing a long your kiss-stung lips.

“Whatever happens, this will be worth it,” you said, trying to inject as much conviction into your voice as you could, though seeing his tears brought your own back to the surface. “Even if this is the only night we get, it's worth the risk.”

He nodded, bringing your lips together in an airy, tearful kiss. “You're worth fighting a war for,” he whispered, catching your tears with his thumb. “And I'll get you to the other side of it if it's the last thing I do.”

You shook your head, burying it into his neck as a sob forced it's way up your throat. “I’d rather you take me with you.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, his grip tightening as he forced your head up again. “You have to promise me that no matter what happens, you'll live to help build what comes next.” You started to shake your head again, but he didn't let you. “Promise me.”

“I can't—”

“You can. And you will. This world is better with you in it, my love.” He rested his forehead against yours. “And I'll promise to do everything I can to stay with you.”

You drew in a shaky breath, your heart so full you could hardly breathe. “I promise, Harry.”

He flipped you beneath him, molding your lips together like it would set your promises in stone. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Tonight, we’re celebrating.”

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siri-ike · 20 hours ago

Text

Gut feeling: Bad Ending

Bruce stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He could have sworn he didn't need a stepstool before. He ran his hands over his naked scalp, his fingers along the two, long, surgical scars. Starting just behind each ear and curving all the way up to his temples. The stitches were coarse and sharp, but it didn't hurt.

A soft tumbling sound caught his attention. Frostbite fell into the bathtub. "You're brand new. You don't need a bath." He giggled, scooping his friend up and pretending to towel him off.

His ears perked up at the sound of the door to his room opening and footsteps entering the room. "Come on, dad promised to bring snacks."

His room was so boring and white, and not getting to leave it is a stupid rule. Just 'cause he could "get sick and die" or "horribly injure himself" due to his "impaired motor skills" and "partially exposed cranium." Bunch'a babies.

"You're not my dad." He accused.

"And you're not supposed to be out of bed." An old woman entered his room. "My name is Doctor Leslie Tompkins. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?"

The name sounded familiar, but he'd much rather his dad say if she's safe or not. "What kind of questions?" He tightened his grip on Frostbite.

"I would also like to run a few tests." She said as she pulled cards out of her bag. "I'll grade you if you like."

Ha! He's not gonna fall for that.

She gave him a look, "First I want you to write your name-"

"I know how to write my own name!" He defended. One day, he won't fall for that. Annoyed, he climbed into the bed and pulled out the tray table. Without an ounce of effort, he wrote his signature on one of the blank cards.

Danny F.

...

Danny F?

Who the hell is Danny?

He turned the card around and tried again.

Danny F.

Both look exactly the same. Like it was a practiced signature. But he'd never seen it before.

His name isn't Danny, it's... it's uh, drrr? Brrr. Baron? Boris? Bruce! His name's Bruce! Ofcorse it is.

He pulled another index card from the stack. This time slowly writing out the name Bruce Wayne. But, it's wrong. That's not his signature. It's sloppy and looks like any other word. The other one had personality. This one just looks like any other word. He tried a few more times until Leslie interrupted with a different test.

Drawing a clock, arranging pictures into a story, and pointing out objects in a picture was easy. But then she asked questions about his past. Names of places and people. He's lived in Gotham his whole life. There's no Casper high here! There's no Sam and Tucker! And there certainly isn't a portal to hell in his basement!

He's thinking clearer than ever, so why is he still full of shit?!

Dan- Bruce kicked at the table, and it swung back to the wall.

"I trust you'll want to handle this." Leslie exited the room and Nightwing entered.

His eyes lit up, "dad -" the exitement drained away, and he slumped back down with realization. "Are... you?"

Nightwing took a deep breath. "No... I'm sorry."

Who was this guy? Just some imposter who somehow looked exactly like his dad? Or was it the same person? Has he just been pretending the whole time? No, no, that can't be. This has to be some trick. Of course, his dad's real! He's just pretending! Bruce glanced over to his signatures all over the floor. He's just pretending.

"But," Nightwing drew his attention. "I could be. If you want me to." He put his hand on his back. "But I might not be your best option." He joked, unsuccessfully.

"What's, what's your name?" He no longer spoke in Bruce's cadence.

Nightwing sat down on the bed next to "??" the boy. "My name is Dick." He whispered, careful not to let the doctor on the other side of the glass hear. Leslie and Duke (Currently dressed as "vague medical staff") were watching, but so was some random resident. "But in this outfit, I'm Nightwing." Normal volume this time

Without missing a beat. "Is that like, your Glam Rock alter ego?" That had to be Danny because it couldn't be Bruce.

Dick couldn't help but giggle. Not even laugh, giggle, like a child. "It's something like that."

He looked so satisfied with the reaction he'd garnered. "Why'd you let me think you were my dad?"

"You had enough to deal with. We considered plenty of potential outcomes, and in most of them, we found that letting you believe what you wanted was for the best." Nightwing slid his hand from the child's (he looked like he could be around 10 now) back down his arm and held his hand. He looked to the floor, covered in index cards, and gestured to the other to do the same.

"Bruce" hesitated to acknowledge the papers.

"It's ok. You can ask when you're ready." It's the right thing to say. Dick knows it. He checked. He prepared. But making the best choices in a bad situation doesn't guarantee a good outcome. And those sad little eyes looked so much like all his brothers when they were little. So small. In need. "But we'll need to call you something." He tried. "Maybe you could pick a, "Glam Rock" name, too."

He smiled brightly at the prompt. The game. Getting to pretend. He could be like his dad. It should be something similar. Little wing? Night- uh- feather?. He proudly announced, "Phantom." No, that's not-

"Ooh, spooky." Praised Nightwing.

Yeah, it's perfect.

#dp x dc au #danny phantom #fanfic #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc #dc x dp #hes having... a time #that time when your whole world is crumbling around you #i wrote some of this in between reps at the gym #is there a “good parenting” tag? because there's a lot of it in the clone danny Saga

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a3rosp4ce · 17 hours ago

Text

younger izuku who'd watch younger katsuki's sleeping face in genuine awe until he begins to wake so izuku quickly shuts his eyes and tries to act like he's sleeping, not understanding that people who are asleep do not in fact tense up and hold their breath to avoid making any noise. younger katsuki wakes up and sees izuku fake being asleep again. he stares and stares and stares at izuku's puffed up cheeks for who knows how long, intenting to catch him in the act until he sees izuku's face growing considerably redder. katsuki huffs as he gives in, turning away and going back to bed so that stupid izuku can breathe again.

more than a decade later and izuku still has the same habit of watching katsuki as he sleeps, this time not only out of admiration but also paranoia. he observes katsuki's slowly rising and falling chest as he breathes steadily, his lips slightly parted with occasional sighs slipping out, his lashes fluttering as he twitches in his sleep.

izuku lightly puts his palm on katsuki's chest. he feels katsuki exhale and he exhales himself, successfully confirming once again that his kacchan is still alive and well.

when he feels katsuki start to stir, izuku retracts his hand and quickly turns with his back facing the other, shutting his eyes and hoping that the blond won't realize he was awake.

he hears katsuki yawn, followed by some rustling and the bed dipping from what he assumes was katsuki sitting up. izuku keeps his eyes closed and tries to make as little noise as possible, even when he feels katsuki begin to lean closer to him. he tries not to flinch when he feels katsuki's breath ghosting the side of his face, his lips brushing izuku's ear as he whispers,

"you're still shit at pretending to be asleep."

#“weirdo” says katsuki with a grin on his face #bkdk #dkbk #bakudeku #bnha #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #aeroideas

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goldfades · 2 days ago

Note

Can you do a fix on Booker where his gf is iffy about him buying stuff for her and always tries to pay her half and how he tries to break her out of it? 💕 luv your writing btw we really need more Dbook writers

hii lovey, thank u sm<3 i love devin sm i actually wanna cry sm, he's just so cutesy yk? i'm so glad u enjoy as much as i like writing!!

Devin hated your obsession with splitting the bill.

It was cute at first—endearing, even. He liked your independence, the way you never expected anything from him, the way you insisted on pulling your weight. It was different from what he was used to, a refreshing contrast to the usual gold-digger stereotypes that came with being an NBA player.

But now? Now it was just getting ridiculous.

Like last week, when he tried to buy you sneakers—something simple, nothing crazy—and you refused to let him pay, insisting you could get them yourself. Or the time he booked a vacation for you two, and you fought him over sending him half the cost for the flights.

And then tonight.

You were out to dinner at one of his favorite restaurants—nothing too fancy, but nice enough that the bill was going to be a little ridiculous. He didn’t even think about it when the check came, just reached for it instinctively.

And then your hand was there, quick as lightning, grabbing at the other side of the black leather check holder like you were about to enter a full-on tug-of-war match over who got to pay.

“I got it,” you said, so casually, like it was nothing.

Devin barely held back a groan. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” you insisted, already reaching into your bag for your wallet.

Devin shot you a look. “Are we really about to do this again?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I just don’t want you always paying for everything.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because!” You gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. “It’s just—it’s weird. I don’t need you to pay for me, Devin. I have my own money.”

He leaned back, giving you a look. “I know you do. That’s not the point.”

You sighed, your fingers drumming anxiously against the table. “It’s just a thing for me, okay? I don’t want to feel like I’m just—taking from you.”

Devin let out a slow breath, his head tilting slightly, like he was really trying to understand where you were coming from. But also? Like he was trying to figure out the best way to break you out of this.

Because he wasn’t about to let his girlfriend treat herself like a damn charity case every time he wanted to do something nice for her.

And tonight?

Tonight, he was putting an end to it.

Devin didn’t move right away. He just watched you, fingers tapping against the table, your brows pinched in that way they always did when you were overthinking. He knew that look too well.

You were already building an argument in your head, already ready to fight him on this. And that was crazy to him.

Because what you didn’t seem to understand—what he needed you to understand—was that this wasn’t about money. It was about you.

And he wanted to take care of you.

Not because he thought you needed him to. But because it was how he showed love.

So he exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face before sitting forward, his voice lower now. Steadier. “Alright. Explain it to me.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Explain what?”

“This.” He gestured between you two, between the check still sitting on the table, between this entire situation. “Why does this bother you so much?”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, playing with the edge of your napkin. He knew you were stalling.

Finally, after a long pause, you muttered, “Because I don’t ever want you to think I’m with you for the wrong reasons.”

Devin froze.

For a second, he just stared at you. Then his jaw clenched, something flickering behind his eyes—something that made your stomach twist.

“You really think I’d ever believe that?” His voice was low, almost hurt.

You swallowed. “It’s not about you believing it. It’s about other people.”

Because that’s what it came down to, wasn’t it?

You had seen the headlines. The Twitter comments. The whispers whenever you and Devin were out in public together. Gold digger. Another NBA girlfriend just riding the wave. She’s only here for the lifestyle.

You hated it.

And yeah, Devin had money. More money than most people would know what to do with. But you never wanted that to define your relationship. You never wanted people to look at him—at you—and assume it was just about that.

Devin’s jaw ticked. “So, what? You’re gonna keep splitting every bill for the rest of our lives just to prove a point to people who don’t even know us?”

You flinched. “It’s not about proving a point.”

“Then what is it?”

You let out a sharp exhale, suddenly feeling exposed, like you had been backed into a corner with no way out. “It’s just—it’s weird for me, okay? I’ve always taken care of myself. I’ve had to. Letting someone else do it feels… I don’t know. Like I’m losing something.”

Devin went quiet at that.

His fingers drummed against the table once, twice—like he was processing—before he nodded slowly, leaning back, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

“Alright,” he said. “I get it.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how easily he was letting it go.

“Wait, you do?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I get why you feel like that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So… we’re good?”

Devin let out a slow breath, his lips twitching—like he was trying really hard to hide a smirk. “No. Not even a little.”

You frowned. “Then—”

“I get why you feel like that,” he said again, tapping his fingers against the check. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you keep doing this dumb shit.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Dumb shit?”

“Yes.” He nodded, casual as ever, fully ignoring the way you were now glaring at him. “Because you’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Multi-Millionaire. Some of us didn’t grow up with an unlimited budget.”

Devin rolled his eyes. “Baby, I didn’t either.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but—okay. Fair point. Devin didn’t come from crazy wealth. He had worked for it. Earned every dime.

“But that’s exactly my point,” you argued. “You earned it. You should get to spend it on whatever you want.”

He gave you an exasperated look. “And I want to spend it on you.”

You paused.

Devin sighed, leaning in, his voice softer now. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“That it makes me happy to do this for you.”

Your breath hitched slightly.

His gaze was steady, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly against the side of his glass. “I want to take care of you. Not because I think you need me to. Not because I think you can’t take care of yourself. But because you deserve to have someone who wants to do things for you.”

You swallowed hard. “Dev—”

“No, listen.” He tilted his head slightly. “You do so much for me. You deal with the travel, the media, the bullshit that comes with dating someone in the NBA. You support me constantly. You make my life easier in ways you don’t even realize.”

You were silent.

“So, if I want to take you to a nice dinner, or buy you a pair of sneakers, or book a trip just because I know you’ll like it—why the fuck would you fight me on that?”

You let out a breath, your frustration softening into something more like… guilt.

Because when he put it like that…

You bit your lip. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Devin let out a quiet laugh—not mocking, not patronizing, just… fond.

“You think you could take advantage of me?” He shook his head, smirking now. “Baby, you won’t even let me buy you coffee half the time.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

He grinned, leaning forward. “No, what’s embarrassing is you thinking you have any real say in this.”

You peeked through your fingers, frowning. “What does that mean?”

Devin grabbed the check, pulled out his card, and slid it in like it was final. Like this was done.

“Means I’m paying for dinner,” he said simply.

“Devin—”

He held up a finger, stopping you before you could argue. “And next time, I will tackle you if you try to split it.”

You deadpanned. “You wouldn’t.”

His smirk was all teeth. “Try me.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing your hands up in defeat. “Fine. You win.”

Devin just shook his head, amused. “Oh, baby.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, his voice nothing but a murmur.

“I won the second I met you.”

#devin booker #devin booker x reader #devin booker fic #devin booker imagine #nba x reader

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favefandomimagines · 2 days ago

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I Know Places 3 (r.c)

Summary: how will Rafe and Y/N’s first date actually go?

AN: part 3 of the Rafe Cameron series!!! I hope you all like it

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Taglist: @luvrclub

Y/N couldn’t shake the guilt that had been clawing at her chest since the night by the bonfire.

Every time she was with the Pogues, every time she laughed at one of JJ’s ridiculous jokes or shared knowing glances with Kie, a small voice in the back of her head reminded her of the secret she was keeping.

She had always been the honest one. The level-headed one. The one who talked JJ down when he was ready to throw hands and reminded him that not every battle was worth fighting. The one who always said, we don’t lie to each other.

And now here she was, lying straight to their faces.

JJ would kill her if he knew she was talking to Rafe Cameron, let alone going on a date with him. It didn’t matter that Rafe seemed different, that he had listened to her in a way few people ever had. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t once made her feel like she was some charity case or a reckless thrill to be chased.

All that would matter to her friends was that she had broken the unspoken rule: you don’t mix with Kooks.

Especially not Rafe.

The day of their date, Y/N tried to push it all to the back of her mind, throwing herself into work at the bait shop.

Summer meant long days and an influx of Tourons, which meant keeping everything stocked, handling customers, and making sure JJ didn’t get caught for scamming people out of extra cash.

But the second they closed, she felt it creeping back in.

She told JJ and the others she had errands to run—nothing unusual, just a vague excuse to get out of the house for a while. She could tell JJ wasn’t paying much attention, too busy laughing with Pope about some plan to rig the annual fishing tournament.

Kie, however, had looked at her.

Not in an accusing way, not like she knew, but in the way only a best friend can. The kind of look that said, something’s off with you, and I know it.

And Y/N had smiled, pretending like nothing was wrong.

The guilt was suffocating.

Even as she got ready for the date, she could feel it sinking in, making her stomach twist. She wasn’t even doing anything wrong, not really. It was just a date. Just dinner.

Right?

She stood in front of her mirror, smoothing down the hem of her sundress, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in her chest.

This wasn’t her. She wasn’t the girl who snuck around, who kept secrets.

But she also wasn’t the girl who had ever been looked at the way Rafe had looked at her on the dock.

And maybe—just for one night—she wanted to see where that led.

Rafe sat in his truck outside Tannyhill, his fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel.

His head still ached from the hit he’d taken during the break-in, but that wasn’t what was keeping him up at night.

He knew who had done it.

The second he had come to and seen Y/N kneeling over him, everything had clicked into place. This wasn’t a random robbery.

It was about money.

More specifically, his money—the money he owed.

When his father died, Rafe had inherited everything: the business, the estate, the weight of a name that carried both power and expectations. But he wasn’t his father. He didn’t run Cameron Development like Ward had. He made reckless investments, chased bigger deals, and, in the process, lost more money than he could afford.

Instead of owning up to it, instead of paying back the people he owed, Rafe had done what he always did—distracted himself.

He poured everything into trying to make more.

Triple. Quadruple.

If he just made enough, the debt wouldn’t matter anymore.

But some people don’t wait to be paid back.

Some people take what they think they’re owed.

Rafe clenched his jaw, staring out at the vast expanse of the property. He should be hunting them down. He should be making it clear that they messed with the wrong person.

But then he thought of Y/N.

Of the way she had looked at him—not with judgment, not with pity, but with genuine concern.

Y/N was good.

She was pure in a way he had never been. She wasn’t untouched by hardship—he knew that much—but she hadn’t been corrupted by it. She still had something he had lost a long time ago.

And the last thing he should be doing was pulling her into his mess.

He shouldn’t have asked her out.

He shouldn’t have let himself want this.

But Rafe had never been good at self-control.

So he was going to pick her up, take her somewhere where no one could see them, and—for one night—pretend like none of the other shit mattered.

Even if he didn’t deserve it.

Even if, deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before everything caught up with him

The night air was crisp as the ferry cut through the water, the soft hum of the engine filling the quiet space between them. Y/N stood near the railing, the cool breeze playing with the hem of her sundress and lifting strands of her hair. The salty air clung to her skin, grounding her in the moment, in the reality that she was actually here, on a date with Rafe Cameron.

Rafe leaned against the railing beside her, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans, the other resting casually against the metal bar. He had this effortless confidence about him, but there was something different about it tonight—less showy, less like he was trying to prove something.

It was just him.

“I can’t believe you actually showed up,” Rafe said after a beat, amusement lacing his voice.

Y/N smirked, glancing at him. “I figured if you were planning on murdering me, you’d pick a less public place.”

Rafe let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. There goes my plan.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but there was an ease between them that she hadn’t expected.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the gentle slosh of water against the ferry’s hull. The lights of the mainland shimmered in the distance, the glow stretching across the horizon.

Rafe glanced at her, his eyes tracing the way she absentmindedly ran her fingers along the railing. “So,” he started, tilting his head slightly, “what’s your excuse gonna be?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Excuse for what?”

“For why you disappeared for the night,” Rafe said, smirking. “You tell JJ and the Pogues you had to rescue an injured seagull? Maybe return some overdue library books?”

Y/N snorted. “Very funny, Cameron.”

Rafe chuckled. “I try.”

She sighed, tilting her head back to look at the stars. “I told them I had errands to run. Didn’t get any questions, but…” she trailed off, her fingers tightening slightly around the railing.

“But what?” Rafe asked, watching her.

Y/N hesitated before exhaling. “But I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like they know something’s up.”

Rafe nodded slowly. “Sarah was suspicious when she saw me at the bait shop the other day.”

Y/N groaned. “Great. So, she’s probably putting it together as we speak.”

“Doubtful,” Rafe mused. “Sarah doesn’t think you’d ever go for someone like me.”

Y/N smirked, side-eyeing him. “And why’s that?”

Rafe leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make her stomach flip. “Because I’m the villain in your story, right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t ignore the way her heart skipped at his proximity.

“I mean, you were a massive asshole,” she pointed out.

Rafe laughed. “Ouch.”

“Just stating facts,” she teased.

Rafe let out a slow breath, his amusement fading slightly. “Yeah, well… I deserved that.”

Y/N glanced at him, surprised by the sudden honesty in his tone. She expected him to be cocky, to deflect like he always did, but instead, he looked… regretful.

“I wasn’t exactly a saint,” Rafe admitted, his gaze fixed on the water. “Especially to JJ.”

Y/N didn’t respond immediately. She had seen the worst of Rafe Cameron—the arrogance, the entitlement, the fights with JJ. But tonight, there was something different in his posture, in the way he carried himself.

Like he was tired of being that guy.

“So, what changed?” Y/N asked.

Rafe exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Life.”

Y/N studied him, her curiosity growing. “Care to elaborate?”

Rafe hesitated before speaking. “For a long time, I thought all the Kook-Pogue shit mattered. I thought it meant something, like it made me better than you guys. But now? I don’t know. It’s just a stupid line people draw to make themselves feel like they belong somewhere.”

Y/N stared at him, genuinely caught off guard.

She had never once expected Rafe Cameron to admit something like that.

“Wow,” she said after a beat. “Didn’t know I was going on a date with a philosopher tonight.”

Rafe smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.”

“I’m just saying,” Y/N teased, nudging his arm. “If you keep talking like this, I might start thinking you have actual depth.”

Rafe shot her a sideways glance, his smirk returning. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Pretty Girl.”

Her stomach did a little flip at the nickname, and she hated how much she liked the way it sounded coming from him.

She turned back to the water, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck.

“So,” Rafe said after a moment, breaking the silence, “tell me something about yourself that I don’t know.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Anything,” Rafe shrugged. “Something real.”

She bit her lip, considering for a moment.

Finally, she sighed. “I have this dream of leaving the Outer Banks one day.”

Rafe looked at her, intrigued. “Really?”

Y/N nodded, her voice softer now. “Not forever. Just… long enough to see something else. Something bigger than this place.”

Rafe’s lips quirked up slightly. “Yeah?”

She glanced at him. “You ever feel that way?”

Rafe exhaled, his gaze drifting to the horizon. “Yeah,” he admitted. “All the time.”

There was something in his voice, something deeper, something unspoken.

For the first time since the date started, Y/N realized that maybe—just maybe—Rafe Cameron understood her better than she thought.

The ferry horn sounded in the distance, signaling their arrival. The moment between them lingered, unspoken but there.

Rafe turned to her, his smirk softer now. “Come on, Pretty Girl. Let’s go see if I can impress you with my restaurant choice.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she smiled, following him toward the dock.

And as they stepped off the ferry, she couldn’t help but think that maybe—just for tonight—she didn’t mind keeping this secret

The restaurant Rafe had chosen was a quiet little seafood place tucked away on the mainland, far from the watchful eyes of the Outer Banks. It was the kind of place where no one would recognize them, and for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt like she wasn’t walking on eggshells.

A candle flickered between them as they sat in a cozy corner booth, the air filled with the scent of salt and lemon butter. Rafe looked relaxed, leaning back in his seat, one arm draped over the back of the booth as he watched her.

“So, Y/N Maybank,” he said, smirking as he speared a piece of grilled shrimp. “You never told me what you actually want to do with your life.”

Y/N took a sip of her drink, swirling the straw between her fingers. “What do you mean?”

Rafe shrugged. “I mean, I know you run the bait shop with JJ and the Pogues, and I know you love them. But what do you want? Like, if you could do anything, what would it be?”

Y/N hesitated. No one ever really asked her that—not in a way that made her feel like her answer mattered.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “For a long time, I thought I’d just… stay. Run the bait shop, keep JJ out of trouble, live my life here. But lately…” She trailed off, chewing on her lip.

“Lately what?” Rafe prompted, leaning forward.

“Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe I want more,” Y/N said. “Not that I don’t love my life—I do. I love my brother, I love the Outer Banks. But sometimes I feel like… I don’t know, like there’s a whole world out there, and I’m just stuck in the same place.”

Rafe nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I get that.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Do you?”

His lips curled into a small smirk. “Yeah, I know what it’s like to feel trapped.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “I thought you had everything. Money, the house, the business.”

Rafe exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, turns out none of that means shit when you don’t know who you are.”

She studied him for a moment, trying to piece together this new version of Rafe Cameron—the one who wasn’t just the Kook prince, but something more complicated.

She wasn’t sure why, but that realization made her want to tell him more.

Maybe it was the way he was looking at her—like he actually cared about what she had to say. Maybe it was the fact that for once, she felt like someone was listening. Or maybe it was just the wine making her bold.

Either way, before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.

“My dad used to hit us,” she said suddenly, staring down at the table. “JJ and me.”

Rafe stilled, his entire body going rigid.

Y/N swallowed, gripping her glass a little tighter. “I mean, it was mostly JJ. He was the one who always fought back. But I got it too, sometimes. When he was drunk enough. Or mad enough.”

The air between them shifted, the playful energy from earlier dissolving into something heavier.

Rafe knew of Luke Maybank. When he used to buy cocaine from Barry, he’d see Luke around the house, most of the time high out of his mind. There were rumors that Luke hit his kids, but Shoupe couldn’t prove it. Topper and Kelce used to make fun of JJ for it, they’d even make fun of Y/N.

But he never thought that those rumors were actually true.

“I remember this one time,” she continued, her voice holding a sense of nonchalance. “JJ and I were like, thirteen, and I don’t even remember what set our dad off. But I remember him getting in JJ’s face, screaming at him. And I remember JJ just standing there, fists clenched, trying so hard not to react because he knew it would only make it worse.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to meet Rafe’s gaze. His blue eyes were dark, unreadable.

“And then he turned on me,” she spoke. “I guess he figured I was an easier target. But JJ—he lost it. He jumped in, tried to get between us. And our dad—” She sucked in a breath, blinking rapidly. “He hit him so hard that he split his lip open.”

Rafe’s grip on his fork tightened, his knuckles turning white.

“After that, JJ started fighting back more. But I think he hated it more when it was me. That’s why he’s so protective. He doesn’t ever want me to feel like I did back then.”

All Rafe could think about was what kind of monster hits their kids? Especially when one of them was as perfect as Y/N. It made him wish that he could go after Luke, make him wish he never laid a hand on Y/N.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, laughing weakly. “I don’t know why I just told you all of that. I’m sorry.”

Rafe shook his head immediately. “Don’t be.” His voice was rough, edged with something she couldn’t quite place. Anger? Guilt?

She gave him a small, uncertain smile. “I don’t usually talk about it.”

Rafe exhaled, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Neither of you.”

Y/N shrugged. “It’s in the past.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still matter,” Rafe said firmly.

She blinked, a little caught off guard by the conviction in his voice.

There was a long pause before Rafe spoke again, quieter this time. “I’ve known JJ for a long time. We never got along. But if I had known…” He trailed off, his jaw clenching.

Y/N reached across the table, hesitating for only a second before placing her hand on his. “It wasn’t your responsibility. It wasn’t anyone’s.”

Rafe’s gaze flickered down to where their hands touched before looking back up at her. His fingers curled slightly, not quite holding hers but not pulling away either.

After a beat, he exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I was already out of my depth with you before, but now? I don’t stand a chance, do I?”

Y/N smirked, squeezing his hand once before pulling away. “Nope.”

The rest of the night felt… different after that. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made everything feel a little more real.

Rafe continued asking her questions, learning about her favorite books, her dumbest childhood memories, the things she wanted but never let herself say out loud. He told her about the pressure of taking over his dad’s business, about how suffocating it felt trying to live up to something that never felt like it belonged to him.

By the time they finished dinner, the tension from earlier had melted into something easier.

On the ferry ride back, Rafe leaned against the railing, his fingers idly playing with the hem of her sleeve. “So, was this better or worse than you expected?”

Y/N hummed, pretending to think. “I mean, I figured you’d either stand me up or take me to some overpriced Kook restaurant and make me pay the bill.”

Rafe scoffed. “Wow. Way to have faith in me.”

She grinned. “You exceeded my expectations, Cameron.”

He smirked, bumping his shoulder against hers. “High praise from a Pogue.”

By the time they reached the docks, Rafe walked her to her car, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Guess this is where you tell me you had a great time and drive off into the night,” Rafe mused.

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled. “I did have a great time.”

“So… second date?”

She crossed her arms. “You’re eager.”

Rafe grinned. “Can you blame me?”

Y/N sighed dramatically. “Fine. But you better make it good.”

“Oh, I will,” Rafe promised, eyes twinkling.

Y/N shook her head, biting back a smile as she climbed into her car. As she drove home, her heart was still light, the warmth of the night lingering.

But then she saw it.

The truck.

Parked across the street.

All the windows were rolled up, too dark to see who was inside.

Her stomach twisted.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, almost as if whoever was inside had realized she had seen them, the truck’s engine roared to life, and it peeled off down the road.

Y/N sat frozen in her car, watching the taillights disappear into the darkness.

And suddenly, the warmth from her night with Rafe was gone.

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