#Anything in his field of vision. My there has been a lot going on. But this is a solid well written episode. If only more of s.3 existed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goldfades · 5 months ago

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my boredom's bone deep / this cage was once just fine / am i allowed to cry? / crashing into him tonight, he's a paradox / i'm seeing visions, am i bad? / or mad? or wise? | joe burrow⁹ (part 1/4)

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.1k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | trapped in a relationship that feels more like a losing game, you find yourself drawn to the one person you shouldn’t want—the one who sees you, the one who listens, the one who makes you feel alive. but temptation is a dangerous thing, and once you’ve had a taste of something real, there’s no going back.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and LOTS of angst, switching between second and third person (it'll make sense and it's only for a couple of scenes where it's needed) slow-burn tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, toxic relationships, manipulation, emotional turmoil, guilt and desire intertwining in the worst ways, heavy themes of self-discovery and repression, morally gray decisions

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | okay guys, i couldn't resist... here is another long ass joe burrow mini-series because taylor swift has struck me with creativity... AGAIN. this will be a 4 parter and it will have a happy ending, but for now... just enjoy the slow burning of it and hate my made-up bengals player -- miles !

You used to think love was supposed to feel like this—steady, predictable, something you could fold into like freshly washed sheets. You and Miles had been together so long that your names practically rhymed in people’s mouths, like you were one of those inseparable, inevitable couples that just made sense.

And for a while, it did make sense. You were the girl on his arm at every event, the perfectly curated extension of his success. The engagement ring—a little too big, a little too heavy—sat on your finger like a trophy of its own. A prize.

But lately, it felt like Miles had stopped seeing you as anything more than that. A fixture in his life, expected and unremarkable. Like the luxury watch he only wore on game days or the expensive car he barely drove. You were always there, always waiting, always his. And he loved that, in the way someone loves knowing their favorite shirt will still be in the closet when they reach for it.

You just weren’t sure you loved it anymore.

The thought made your stomach twist. Because if you weren’t his, then who were you?

And then—Joe Burrow happened.

But, Joe Burrow was not supposed to happen.

Not to you, not to the carefully constructed life you had built around Miles, not to the girl who had spent years perfecting the role of the unwavering, effortlessly beautiful fiancée of an NFL star. But Joe moved through your world like a dropped match in a dry field—quiet, unassuming at first, and then suddenly, everything was on fire.

It wasn’t instant, not in the way stories like this usually go. There was no slow-motion moment, no breath-stealing epiphany. It started subtly, like the shift in seasons, like the way you don’t notice the days getting shorter until you’re standing outside at five o’clock and it’s already dark.

At first, he was just there—new to the team, new to the city, new in a way that made him sharp against the dullness you had started to sink into. You watched as he learned his place in the locker room, the way veterans sized him up, the way he answered with quiet confidence instead of arrogance. He was young but didn’t feel young. Polished, but not in the way Miles was. Miles was effortless charm, all grins and easy words, the kind of man who could shake a hand and win a deal in the same breath.

Joe was something else entirely. He didn’t just talk—he listened.

And that, you realized too late, was dangerous.

Because one night, at some event you barely wanted to be at, standing next to a fiancé who had long since stopped noticing the way your fingers curled anxiously around your champagne glass, Joe looked at you like he saw you. Like he had been watching, waiting, wondering.

And for the first time in years, you felt something shift.

Miles had always been the guy. The Bengals’ golden boy, the name fans chanted, the one reporters turned to after every game. When you first met him, he carried himself like a man who had already won. Six years older, already established, already adored—he had that presence, the kind that made people lean in when he spoke, the kind that made you, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, feel lucky just to stand beside him.

But now, there was Joe.

And whether Miles would admit it or not, it was getting to him.

It started small. A lingering glance at the TV when Joe’s highlights played instead of his. A clipped response when someone mentioned Joe’s name at dinner. But then, it became you.

"Do you still think I’m the star?"

The first time he asked, you laughed, thinking he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

You saw it in the way his fingers tightened around his glass, the way his shoulders tensed like he was bracing for impact.

"Of course you are," you had said, reaching for his arm, pressing your nails lightly against his sleeve.

And that was all he needed. A little reassurance. A little something to smooth over the edges of his pride. But then he asked again. And again.

"I mean, you don’t think people are, you know… forgetting?"

"You don’t think he’s—" a pause, a swallow, a carefully constructed smirk—"overshadowing me?"

And every time, you lied.

Because what were you supposed to say? That the shift was undeniable? That Joe walked into the locker room and the energy changed? That when people talked about the future of the team, they weren’t saying Miles’ name anymore? That you had started noticing it, too—the way Joe was young, sharp, hungry, while Miles had begun to settle into his success like a man reclining in a chair that used to be upright?

So you told him what he needed to hear.

"Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still everything."

But even as you said it, the words tasted false. Because when Miles spoke about himself, it was always in the past tense—I was the first star, I was the franchise guy, I was the one they built around.

And when people spoke about Joe, it was all about the future.

That was the difference.

And maybe—just maybe—that was what made you start looking at him, too.

You watched it happen in slow motion—the way Miles and Joe orbited each other, circling like two planets on a collision course, neither willing to acknowledge the gravity of the other.

At first, Miles played it cool. He was the veteran, after all. He had been here first. He had built his career brick by brick, through losing seasons and empty stadiums, back when the Bengals were a team people barely bothered to watch. When you met him, that was what he always talked about—the work he had put in, the years of carrying this franchise on his back.

"I made this team what it is," he would say sometimes, stretching out on the couch after a game, watching highlights on TV with a half-smirk, as if waiting for you to agree.

And back then, you did.

Because you had watched him grind, had seen the early mornings, the bruises, the exhaustion that clung to him after every brutal season. You had been his—the girl in the stands, the hand on his chest when he got home, the soft place he could land.

But now, the team didn’t belong to just Miles anymore.

Now, there was Joe. And Miles hated that.

At practice, you saw the way he measured himself against Joe, the way his jokes about the rookie’s "new car smell" had just a little too much bite. How he watched when Joe got called for post-game interviews, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

"They should be talking to me," he muttered one night after a game, dropping his phone on the table like it had personally offended him.

"Miles, they still talk to you," you had tried, voice gentle.

"Not like they used to."

And it was true.

At first, Miles had treated Joe like a little brother, ruffling his hair, giving him shit for his outfits, cracking jokes at team dinners. But then Joe started winning. Started throwing passes that made the crowd gasp, started playing with that quiet confidence that made people lean forward in their seats.

And suddenly, Miles’ jokes didn’t land the same way.

He started pushing harder in practice. If Joe made a good throw, Miles made sure his next one was better. If Joe got interviewed, Miles found a way to insert himself into the conversation. He started pointing out things—"He’s good, but let’s see how he handles the pressure. He’s young. He hasn’t been hit the way I have."

Like he was trying to convince himself of it more than anyone else.

And you—God, you noticed.

You noticed the way Miles had started looking at Joe like a threat instead of a teammate. You noticed the way his hand tightened on your hip when Joe walked into a room. You noticed the way he suddenly started talking about his legacy, about what he meant to this team.

And worst of all—you noticed the way Joe looked at you.

Because unlike Miles, Joe wasn’t trying so hard. He wasn’t overcompensating, wasn’t clawing to prove something. He just was. And when he looked at you, it wasn’t with the expectation that you would tell him he was still the star.

It was like he already knew who he was.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, you were starting to wonder who you were, too.

The event was like every other one before it—too loud, too crowded, filled with people who weren’t actually listening to each other, just waiting for their turn to talk. Miles was somewhere across the room, laughing a little too hard at something an exec said, one hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon, the other resting on the shoulder of someone who mattered.

You were used to this part.

The waiting. The being-seen-but-not-heard. The polite smiles and empty small talk, the way people’s eyes would flicker over you before refocusing on Miles, because that was where the real conversation was.

You had perfected it—the art of looking engaged without actually being included. So when Joe Burrow slid into the seat beside you, you didn’t think much of it. At first.

And then he spoke.

"You always look this bored, or is it just tonight?"

You blinked, thrown off, turning your head to find him watching you. Not in the usual way—not in the quick, cursory glance men usually gave you before looking away, like you were set dressing, like you were just an extension of the man they actually wanted to talk to.

No, Joe was looking at you.

And he was smirking.

You scoffed before you could stop yourself. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He leaned back in his chair, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. His suit fit well—not flashy, not desperate, just right. Effortless. His tie was loosened, just slightly, like he couldn’t be bothered to play by the rules all the way. "You’ve been staring at the same spot on the floor for the last ten minutes. What’s down there? Something more interesting than all this?"

"Wouldn’t take much."

"Fair." He nodded, like you’d made an excellent point, then stuck his hand out. "Joe."

"I know who you are."

"Yeah?" He tilted his head. "Funny. You don’t look like you care."

You should’ve laughed. Or brushed him off. But there was something about the way he said it—like he wasn’t trying to be charming, like he was just stating a fact.

You hesitated. Then, almost begrudgingly, shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, I guess."

"‘I guess,’" he repeated, amused. "Damn. That’s all I get?"

"You want a standing ovation?"

"Wouldn’t say no."

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, tugging upward just slightly. He caught it—of course he did—and grinned like he had already won something.

"So, what’s the deal?" he asked, nodding toward where Miles was deep in conversation, gesturing animatedly. "You actually like these things, or just contractually obligated to show up?"

"Contractually obligated," you admitted, swirling the drink in your hand. "You?"

"Nah. I just like free food."

You let out an actual laugh at that, brief but real.

Joe’s smirk deepened like he had been waiting for that exact reaction.

"So how long have you been stuck in the NFL Wife-To-Be role?" he asked, tone light but gaze sharp.

"Long enough."

"And how long is that, exactly?"

"You really want to know?"

"Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t."

You eyed him for a second, waiting for the punchline. The usual "just making conversation" energy you were used to from these kinds of interactions. But there wasn’t one. He actually seemed interested.

"Since I was 19."

His brows lifted slightly. "Damn."

"What?"

"Just young, that’s all."

"And what, you weren’t young once?"

"Not that young," he said, shaking his head. "I was in college at 19. Drinking shitty beer and wearing the same hoodie five days in a row. You were—what? Coming to things like this?"

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. "It wasn’t that bad."

"Doesn’t sound fun, either."

"And what were you doing at 20 that was so much more fun?"

"Winning a championship," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You stared at him, blinking.

"Oh," you said finally. "Right. LSU."

"Yeah. Ever heard of it?"

"Vaguely."

"Damn. Humbling experience."

You smirked, shaking your head slightly. "Wait, so—how old are you now?"

"Twenty-four."

Your lips parted slightly. "Shit."

Joe raised a brow. "What?"

"You’re only a year older than me."

"And you sound offended by that."

"I’m just—" You exhaled, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. "I don’t know. I feel like I should be older."

Joe gave you a look like he already knew why.

"Because of him?" he asked, flicking his gaze toward Miles.

You hesitated.

"Because of everything," you said instead.

Joe didn’t press. He just hummed slightly, tapping his fingers against his glass.

"Well," he said after a moment, smirking again, "if it makes you feel any better, you look like you’re at least twenty-five."

You narrowed your eyes. "That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever gotten."

"I was going for honesty."

"Try harder next time."

"Noted."

And then, just like that, the conversation shifted. It wasn’t flirtation, not exactly. It was something else—something easier, something lighter.

For the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t talking to you like Miles’ fiancée.

Joe was just talking to you.

It started as a passing thought. A curiosity Joe couldn’t quite shake after that conversation at the event. You weren’t what he expected. And maybe that was the first problem.

Miles had been around forever. The Bengals’ golden boy before Joe got there. A veteran. Respected. The kind of guy you built a franchise around—or at least, that’s what people used to say. But now, with Joe in town, the balance had shifted. Miles wasn’t the star anymore, and everyone knew it.

Even Miles knew it.

Joe could see it in the way he carried himself, the way he lingered after practices, pushing himself harder, talking about his old stats like they were some kind of proof that he still mattered. He’d joke about it, but there was always something underneath. So, Burrow, you think you’re the guy now? Said with a grin, but the weight was there. The question lingered in the air between them.

Joe didn’t care much about that. But he did care—more than he wanted to admit—about you.

It wasn’t even in a way yet. Not in any way he could name. It was just there. That curiosity, that thing in the back of his mind that wouldn’t go away.

So one day, in the middle of practice, while the guys were running drills, he decided to ask.

Casual. Offhand. Like he wasn’t actually that interested.

"Yo, what do you guys think about Miles’ girl?"

Tee was the first to react, barely hesitating before letting out a low whistle.

"Whew, man. That’s a dangerous question, 9."

"Is it?" Joe asked, tilting his head.

"I mean, you have seen her, right?"

"Obviously."

"Then you already know," Tee said, shaking his head like the answer was obvious.

"Know what?"

Ja’Marr snorted. "That he’s punching."

Joe raised a brow. "Out of his league?"

"By a long shot." Tee shook his head, gripping the football in his hands. "It’s crazy, too, ‘cause she’s just… cool. You ever actually talk to her?"

Joe hesitated for a half-second. "Yeah. Once."

That was enough for the guys to give each other looks.

"Ohhh, so that’s why you’re asking," Ja’Marr teased.

"Chill, man," Joe rolled his eyes. "I was just curious."

"Sure."

"Nah, for real, though," Tee said, tossing the ball to Ja’Marr. "She’s mad sweet. Like, actually nice. Not just in a ‘stand-there-and-smile’ way, either. She remembers shit. Like, I saw her at some event last year, and she asked me about my sister. Nobody ever asks about my sister."

"She’s solid," Tyler added, jogging past them. "Like, real solid. You don’t meet a lot of girls like that in this life."

Joe frowned slightly, rolling his shoulders. "So why’s she with him?"

That made Tee pause, gripping the football tighter.

"Man…" He let out a breath, shaking his head. "I dunno. She’s been with him forever. Since she was, like, a kid."

"How much older is he?"

"Six years."

Joe blinked. "Damn."

"Yeah. And, like—don’t get me wrong, Miles is cool and all, but…" Tee trailed off, glancing at Ja’Marr, like he was debating how much to say.

Ja’Marr finished for him. "He’s kinda—" He made a so-so motion with his hand. "You know. A little selfish. Talks about himself a lot."

"A lot," Tee agreed.

"You ever seen them together?"

Joe thought about it. Really thought about it.

Miles was always talking. And when he wasn’t, he was making himself seen. When you were with him, you were quiet. Smiling. Nodding. Like you had a script to follow. Like it was second nature.

Joe remembered the way you’d looked at that event, absentmindedly twisting your ring around your finger. The way your face had shifted, just slightly, when you realized you and Joe were almost the same age. Like you’d never really thought about it before.

"Yeah," Joe said finally. "I’ve seen them."

Tee nodded like that told him everything he needed to know.

"Miles is a lucky dude," Ja’Marr said after a moment, stretching his arms above his head. "Just don’t think he knows it."

That part stuck with Joe the longest.

You had always wanted a quiet life. Not small, necessarily, but yours. Intimate. A life where love wasn’t measured in carats or headlines, but in moments. In the way someone reached for you without thinking, in the way they listened—really listened. But you knew, from the moment you started dating Miles, that privacy was a luxury you would never have.

Not with someone like him.

Miles was big. A presence. A personality. A man who took up space and made sure everyone knew it. And, in the beginning, maybe that had been exciting—the way he talked about you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was flattering. Addictive, even.

Until it wasn’t.

Until it became less about you and more about the idea of you.

The engagement was when you realized that fully, undeniably. When the last piece of the illusion shattered.

You had told him—so many times—how you dreamed of it happening. Something quiet. Personal. Maybe somewhere beautiful, just the two of you. No cameras, no crowd. Something real.

And instead, he did it during a game.

A packed stadium, the roar of the crowd, the flashing lights. And you—sitting in the stands, already feeling like a spectator in your own life—watching in horror as your face appeared on the jumbotron.

Miles, down on one knee in the middle of the field. Smiling like he had just won the Super Bowl. Holding out a ring so massive it caught the stadium lights like a diamond chandelier.

You felt it like a blow to the chest.

Because this wasn’t for you. It had never been for you. It was for the spectacle. The story. The legend of Miles Johnson, star receiver, locking down the perfect woman.

He had looked so proud of himself, so smug, soaking in the cheers. He didn’t even look at you, not really. Not to see you. He just waited, arm outstretched, knowing you would say yes. Because how could you say no? Not here. Not with thousands of people watching. Not with cameras broadcasting your reaction to the world.

So you said it.

"Yes."

And the crowd erupted, and Miles pulled you into a kiss like he had just won a trophy, and your hands shook as they slipped into his.

Later, when the adrenaline had worn off and the reality of it settled in, he had taken every opportunity to brag about the ring. Thirty grand. He told his teammates, his family, reporters. You see that? Got my girl the best. He would bring it up casually, waiting for people to react, for them to nod and pat him on the back like he had done something incredible. Like he had bought you.

The truth was, you hated the ring.

Not because it was expensive, but because it felt foreign on your hand. It was heavy, suffocating, too much. Too Miles.

Like everything else in your life.

Somewhere along the way, you had stopped being a person and had become a reflection of him. His fiancée. His prize.

And maybe you could have kept pretending it was enough—maybe you could have convinced yourself this was what love looked like—if Joe Burrow hadn’t looked at you that night at the event, sat beside you, and talked to you. Like a person. Like someone worth knowing.

Like you still existed.

It hit you a month after the engagement.

The NFL Honors had been a blur of flashing lights and stiff smiles, your body on autopilot as you stood beside Miles, your arm hooked around his like a delicate accessory. You had smiled for photos, laughed at the right moments, leaned into him like you belonged there. Like you wanted to be there. Like you weren’t suffocating beneath the weight of it all.

And then it was over.

The glamor, the noise, the people. Gone.

You were back in the house—Miles’ house—miles of sleek marble and vaulted ceilings, an architectural masterpiece designed to impress. To be envied. And yet, it had never felt like home.

It was too big, too curated, too cold.

It wasn’t you.

It had never been you.

The silence was deafening, pressing in around you as you sat curled up on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, searching for something to fill the emptiness. And that was when you saw it—post after post, comments, pictures.

"Miles' girl." "Mrs. Johnson-to-be." "The most beautiful trophy wife in the NFL." "He really locked that down." "She’s perfect for him."

Not one mention of you. Not one comment about who you were, what you liked, what you thought, what you dreamed of. Just a never-ending stream of praise for Miles and how lucky he was. How you were his.

His. His.

You weren’t even Y/N anymore.

Just beautiful Y/N. Miles' perfect trophy. The girl who got the ring.

A weight settled in your chest, pressing against your ribs, thick and suffocating.

You hadn’t realized you were drowning until it was too late. Until you were so deep in it, you weren’t sure how to claw your way back to the surface.

Who even were you outside of him?

Your only friends were the other WAGs—women who smiled just like you did, laughed at all the same jokes, wore the same dresses to the same events, whose lives revolved around their husbands, their fiancés, their boyfriends. And Miles’ family—people who adored you, yes, but only as an extension of him. As the woman who would carry his last name, bear his children, sit in the stands and cheer him on.

You had spent years convincing yourself this was love. That this was what it meant to love someone—to mold yourself into what they needed, to take up less space, to fit neatly into their world without ever disrupting it.

And soon, you would be Mrs. Johnson.

And you would disappear entirely.

Miles came home late that night, the door clicking shut with the kind of ease that only came with routine. He never announced his arrival, never called out for you. He just assumed you’d be there—waiting, ready, exactly where he left you.

You were in the kitchen, sitting at the marble island, fingers curled around a half-empty glass of wine. He barely looked at you as he walked in, dropping his keys onto the counter, scrolling through his phone.

“Hey,” you said, voice softer than you meant it to be.

“Hey.”

A beat of silence. The air felt thick, heavy. You weren’t sure why, but you knew you needed to say something, anything to fill the space before it swallowed you whole.

“I was thinking of picking up a new hobby,” you tried. “Something creative. I don’t know, maybe painting or—”

“How much do you need?” Miles cut in, still looking at his phone.

You blinked. “What?”

He sighed like you were exhausting him. “How much? I’ll transfer it now.”

Your grip tightened around the stem of the wine glass. “I don’t need money, Miles. I just—”

“Then what?” He finally looked up, brow furrowed like you were the confusing one here. Like this conversation was a waste of time. “I don’t get it.”

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I was just trying to tell you something. About me. About my life.”

“Your life?” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “What life, Y/N? You don’t work. You don’t have to worry about anything except looking good and showing up when you need to. What else do you need?”

It hit you square in the chest. The final nail in the coffin.

What else do you need?

Not who are you? Not what makes you happy? Not tell me more baby, I want to know.

You swallowed, a sharp bitterness curling in your throat. “I need a husband who actually listens to me.”

That made him pause. His brows pulled together, his lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Then—“Don’t start this shit, Y/N.”

And just like that, something inside you snapped.

“This shit?” you repeated, voice climbing, hands shaking. “You mean talking? You mean actually having a conversation for once?”

Miles groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jesus, you’re always so fucking dramatic.”

“I’m trying to talk to you, Miles! And you can’t even pretend to care for five seconds!”

His eyes darkened. “You have everything, Y/N. A perfect life. A perfect goddamn ring. And you’re still not happy.”

“Because none of it feels like mine!” The words came out harsher than you intended, but they were true. “It’s your house. Your money. Your world. Where do I fit into any of it?”

Miles shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to give a shit!”

“Well, maybe I don’t have time to sit around worrying about feelings all day!” He slammed his phone onto the counter. “I have a career to focus on, Y/N. A team to lead. You think I have time to deal with your little identity crisis?”

It felt like a slap.

A sharp, cold, humiliating slap.

You stared at him, heart pounding, mouth dry, but you had nothing left to say. Nothing left to fight for.

The silence stretched, long and unforgiving.

Miles exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and left, his heavy footsteps fading down the hall.

And you—

You stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he had just been, before you finally moved. You crawled into bed alone, pulled the covers up to your chin, and let yourself cry.

The next morning at practice, the air was thick with late summer humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel heavier. The guys were halfway through drills when Miles started talking—loudly, for anyone who’d listen.

“She was crying when I left last night, man,” he said, shaking his head as he lined up for another rep. “Over what? Some bullshit about a hobby. A hobby, bro. Like, what even is that? She has everything.”

Joe clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the yard line ahead as he rolled out his shoulders. He wasn’t trying to listen, but Miles wasn’t exactly subtle.

Tee Higgins, standing next to Joe, let out a low whistle. “Damn. You sure you wanna be sayin’ all that out loud?”

Miles scoffed. “What, like it’s a secret? Everyone knows she’s got the perfect life. But somehow, that ain’t enough.”

Joe exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He knew why it wasn’t enough.

And before he could stop himself, the words were out—sharp, biting. “Maybe ‘cause it’s your version of perfect, not hers.”

A pause.

Miles turned his head slowly, expression hardening. “What?”

Joe shrugged, keeping his voice even. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should listen to her instead of assuming she’s just complaining for fun.”

The guys around them shifted, suddenly very invested in stretching. Ja’Marr muttered something under his breath about not getting in the middle of shit, but Tee smirked, glancing between them like this was the most entertainment he’d had all morning.

Miles let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “And what do you know about relationships, Burrow? You got a girl I don’t know about?”

Joe didn’t answer. Just stared back, unblinking.

Miles tilted his head, and his voice dropped lower. “Or are you just real interested in mine?”

The energy shifted. The air got tighter.

Joe rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to stay calm. “Nah. Just think you should be careful who you shit talk your fiancée to.”

“Fiancée, huh?” Miles’ mouth curled into something ugly. “You wanna date her instead or something?”

The words hit the ground between them like a live wire. The whole group went quiet.

Joe kept his expression blank. “That what you’re worried about?”

Miles took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Nah. I’m not worried about shit. But maybe you should be careful.”

Joe didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t give Miles the satisfaction of a reaction.

Instead, he let the silence stretch, watching as the frustration crept into Miles’ expression.

Then, finally—Joe smirked. Just a little. Just enough.

And that pissed Miles off more than anything.

Miles' jaw tensed, nostrils flaring. His hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to say more—like he wanted to do more—but there were too many eyes on them now. The tension between them was so thick, so sharp, that even the guys who usually loved a little locker room drama weren’t sure if they wanted to be part of this one.

Tee let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Man, y’all gonna throw hands before practice even starts?”

“Ain’t nobody throwing hands,” Ja’Marr cut in, stepping between them like he already knew where this was headed. “Miles just real defensive all of a sudden.”

Miles scoffed, dragging a hand down his face. “Nah, y’all are just real nosy all of a sudden.”

Joe just smiled again, the same easy, slow smirk that had already set Miles on edge. He could see it in the way the older man’s shoulders went rigid, in the way his fists flexed. And Joe wasn’t dumb—he knew he was playing with fire. But Miles had been running his mouth since the moment practice started, acting like his relationship was some kind of burden, and Joe wasn’t the type to sit back and pretend he didn’t hear it.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, the other guys—those who hadn’t already quietly backed away—started chuckling, shaking their heads.

The laughter died down, but the damage was already done. The idea had already been planted—Miles wasn’t the prize in this relationship. She was.

Joe could see it in his face. The way his jaw twitched, the way his eyes flickered with something insecure, something raw.

And it made sense now. Why Miles paraded her around like a trophy, why he made sure every room knew she was his, why he proposed in front of an entire stadium instead of in private where she might’ve actually wanted it.

It was never about her. It was always about him. About making sure everyone knew he was still the star—on the field, in the locker room, and in his own damn relationship.

Miles exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking off the conversation. Then he turned his glare back on Joe, pointing a finger at him. “You? Stay the fuck out of my business.”

Joe lifted his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Wouldn’t have to if you stopped airing it out in the middle of practice.”

Miles stared at him for another second—long enough that Joe could see the battle happening in his head, the urge to keep pushing versus the reality that they were still standing on the damn field, still surrounded by teammates, still at work.

Eventually, Miles just muttered something under his breath and stalked off toward the sideline, shoulders tight with frustration.

Joe exhaled, shaking his head as he lined up for the next drill.

Tee clapped him on the back, grinning. “Oh yeah, you definitely got under his skin.”

Joe just smirked, eyes flickering in the direction Miles had gone.

Good.

You woke up feeling off.

Not sick, not exactly—but weighed down, heavy, like your body had absorbed the exhaustion of the night before and decided to make a home of it. The bed was cold next to you, a reminder that Miles had never come back from the couch. That should’ve brought some kind of relief, but instead, it just settled deeper into your bones.

You stared at the ceiling, the light creeping in through the expensive sheer curtains—ones Miles had picked out because they looked good, not because they actually blocked anything. You felt like you hadn’t slept at all. Maybe you hadn’t.

Last night was the first time in a long time that the silence had cracked, that the resentment bubbling beneath the surface had finally boiled over. And now, in the daylight, you couldn’t tell if you felt better for it—or worse.

It wasn’t like it was one fight that made you feel this way. It was years of being Miles Johnson’s fiancée, before that, his girlfriend. Years of being reduced to an extension of him, even when you hadn’t noticed it happening.

But you did now. And you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You were nineteen when you met him. Miles was twenty-five. Six years older, in the prime of his career, a star. And you? You were just a college sophomore at a school you weren’t even sure you loved, in a major you had picked because it seemed practical, not because it felt right. You had plans for your life, dreams, but they were all vague and out of focus, waiting for the right moment to take shape.

And then there was Miles.

Charming, cocky, larger than life—he had walked into the bar that night like he owned the whole damn city. You hadn’t even known who he was at first, but your friends did. They whispered about him like he was something untouchable, an idea more than a person. And then, somehow, he was standing in front of you.

“You’re the prettiest girl in here,” he had said, like it was a fact. And when you had rolled your eyes, he had laughed, delighted.

“Not gonna fall at my feet, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

That had made him try harder.

It was easy, then. Easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of being pursued by someone like him—older, successful, with the kind of confidence that made you believe he knew everything about the world. He took you to expensive restaurants, bought you things you would never have dared to pick out for yourself. He introduced you to people who lived lives you couldn’t even imagine. And when he kissed you, when he pulled you into his orbit, it felt like stepping into a life bigger than your own.

You didn’t notice the shift at first.

Didn’t notice how the little things that made you you started slipping away, how your world slowly became about his—his career, his schedule, his needs. You told yourself it was just part of the relationship, part of loving someone like Miles. That it was normal to bend, to adjust, to let go of the things that didn’t fit anymore.

You stopped talking about the things you wanted to do—because, eventually, you started forgetting what they even were.

And then, somewhere along the way, you became his.

Not just his girlfriend, but Miles Johnson’s girlfriend. A title, a role, something people recognized before they even knew you. And you had played the part well. You were the beautiful, supportive, ever-smiling woman on his arm. The one who laughed at his jokes, who cheered for him from the stands, who let him hold court in every room while you lingered in the background.

And now, you were his fiancée.

And soon, you would be Mrs. Johnson.

And you would disappear completely.

Joe had never been the type to dwell on things.

His whole life had been about moving forward, about the next step, the next goal, the next game. He had always known where he was going—to the NFL, to the kind of career most people could only dream about. That had been the plan since he was a kid, and he had never once let himself get distracted from it.

College had been a blur. Not in a reckless, partying-until-dawn way—he had been too focused for that—but in the sense that everything outside of football had been… secondary. Background noise.

Yeah, he always had a girl on his arm. It wasn’t hard—he was Joe Burrow, after all. But they were never the girl. They were just there. Pretty, fun, something to fill the gaps between practices and film sessions, but never something that took up space in his mind once they were gone. He never let them.

He had bigger things to worry about.

And now, he was here.

The NFL. The dream, the destination. And he had everything he had worked for—millions in the bank, a city that worshipped him, a career that was just getting started. He was playing on the biggest stage in the world, living out every goal he had ever set for himself.

And yet.

Lately, there was something he couldn’t shake.

He wasn’t unhappy, exactly. He loved football. Loved the grind, the competition, the high of a perfect game. But there were nights—when he was alone in his place, when the buzz of the locker room had faded, when he saw his friends posting about engagements, weddings, families—when he wondered if maybe he had spent so much time chasing one dream that he hadn’t realized he might want something else, too.

Not in the I need to settle down right now way. He wasn’t miles away from that thought. But he just felt… off. Like there was something missing, something just out of reach.

And that feeling had been lingering at the edges of his mind for a while now, but he hadn’t really thought about it—hadn’t really felt it—until he met her.

She wasn’t supposed to be interesting.

He had seen plenty of women like her before—NFL girlfriends and fiancées, always perfect, always polished, always a step behind the star they were attached to. He didn’t have anything against them, but he had never given them much thought. They were part of the scenery, the expected.

But she was different.

He had noticed it the second he talked to her.

That night at the event, when everyone else had ignored her, when she had been sitting alone while Miles soaked up the attention like a sponge, Joe had been curious.

So he sat down next to her.

And the second she looked at him, he saw it—the sharpness behind her eyes, the way she was there but not present, the way she seemed to be existing in a world that had been built for her but not by her.

And she had challenged him. Not in a playful, flirty way, but in a real way. He had expected her to be polite, to give the kind of empty small talk he always got at these things.

But she had given him something real.

And now? Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Not just because she was gorgeous—she was, maybe one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—but because she was interesting.

She didn’t fit the mold. He could tell.

And maybe it was selfish, maybe it was just because he was bored with everything else, but for the first time in a long time, Joe had found someone who made him want to know more.

And he was going to figure out why.

You were curled up in bed, your phone the only thing keeping you company as you aimlessly scrolled. You barely heard him come in, barely looked up when Miles greeted you, his voice low and familiar. You felt the soft kiss he pressed to your neck, but your body tensed, just slightly. He didn’t notice, or maybe he chose not to.

His lips trailed lower, his hands finding their way to your waist, his voice dropping into that coaxing tone you knew all too well. “Been thinkin’ about you all day. Missed you.”

You exhaled, a slow, tired sound slipping from your lips. “Miles.”

He lingered there, waiting for more, but you didn’t give him anything. Your eyes remained on the ceiling, your phone discarded on the nightstand. You felt him nuzzle into your hair, his fingers brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, but you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The energy between you felt… off. He asked if you were mad at him, but that wasn’t it. Not really.

You didn’t answer at first. You just pulled away, just enough to let him know that you weren’t in the mood. That you didn’t want this.

He blinked, confused, his voice softer when he tried again. “Y/N?”

But you didn’t want to deal with this now. You were tired. Exhausted, in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “I’m just tired, Miles,” you murmured, your voice distant, but you couldn’t help it. You weren’t mad at him. You just didn’t feel like being pulled into whatever he was trying to fix tonight.

You felt him sit back, his gaze heavy on you as if he was seeing you for the first time in a while. The silence stretched between you, thick and uneasy. Then, his voice broke through it again, suggesting that maybe you should get a job, do something with yourself to feel better. It wasn’t the most thoughtful thing he’d said, and you knew that. You weren’t sure if he even meant it or if he was just trying to patch things up in the way he knew best.

You looked at him, your gaze searching, unsure if you were hearing him right. “You’d be okay with that?” you asked, needing to know if he meant what he was saying.

He shrugged, a little too casually. “Yeah. You don’t gotta, obviously. You got everything you need, but if you want somethin’ to do, I’ll support you. Whatever makes you happy, baby.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You just let his words hang in the air, feeling like he was offering something you didn’t know if you wanted. But there it was—the tiniest flicker of relief in your chest as you nodded. Maybe you were grasping at something, anything, to feel like yourself again.

He exhaled, like he’d solved something. But you knew better. There was still a gap between you, unspoken, unresolved. For now, though, you’d let it go.

The night is warm, thick with the scent of grilled barbecue and chlorine, laughter spilling into the air like music. The backyard is packed—players, coaches, WAGs, and staff all buzzing with the energy of a new season, of fresh starts and high expectations. The pool glows under string lights, the surface shimmering as people dip their feet in or wade lazily through the water, red Solo cups in hand.

You’re sitting at the edge of a lounge chair, your bare legs stretched out in front of you, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs as you sip from your drink. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this—light. The WAGs are in a good mood tonight, looser than usual, buzzing from the excitement of the upcoming season, from the warmth of the alcohol.

"I swear to God, if I have to listen to one more fantasy football draft strategy," one of them groans, rolling her eyes as she leans back against her chair.

"Girl, my man has a binder full of statistics. Like it’s a college thesis or some shit," another one laughs.

You giggle, shaking your head, the sound feeling foreign in your own ears. It’s been a while since you’ve been able to just be—to feel like you’re back in college, before your entire identity became wrapped around someone else’s.

And across the yard, Joe Burrow cannot stop staring at you.

He’s not even subtle about it.

His drink sits idle in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest of a patio chair, his gaze cutting across the party, locking onto you like a magnet. He watches the way your shoulders shake when you laugh, the way you tilt your head, the way your dress clings to the curves of your legs when you cross them.

"Bro, you gotta stop looking before Miles notices," Ja’Marr leans in, a lazy grin on his face.

Joe just shrugs, bringing his drink to his lips. "What’s he gonna do? Kill me?"

Ja’Marr snorts. "I mean, you are staring at his fiancée like you’re trying to solve a puzzle."

"She’s beautiful. He should know people are gonna look at her," Joe says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Ja’Marr shakes his head, muttering something about how Joe’s got a death wish, but Joe just keeps watching.

And across the way, the WAGs notice.

"Okay, so I need you to tell me what you did to get Joe Burrow to look at you like that," one of them teases, nudging your shoulder.

Your brows furrow. "What?"

"Oh, come on," another one smirks. "That man has not taken his eyes off you for the last twenty minutes. I’m actually starting to feel bad for Miles."

Your stomach twists—not in discomfort, not in guilt, but in something else entirely. Something you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

You feel wanted.

Not in the way Miles wants you—like a prize to show off, like a thing to possess—but in the way you used to feel when you were younger, when boys would flirt with you at college parties, when someone’s gaze made you feel interesting, not just beautiful.

And it makes you feel alive.

You shake your head, laughing it off, even as your pulse picks up just a little. "You guys are imagining things."

"Oh, we definitely aren’t," one of them hums, taking a slow sip of her drink.

You glance back across the yard.

And Joe is still looking.

But this time, when your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away.

The night hums around you, a warm breeze sweeping through the backyard, making the string lights above sway gently. The scent of charred meat still lingers in the air, mixed with chlorine and expensive cologne. Laughter spills from the pool, from the deck, from the little clusters of people standing around, but none of it touches you.

Not now.

Not with him walking towards you.

Joe Burrow is moving through the crowd like he has nowhere to be, like he’s got all the time in the world to just be here, under these lights, on this night. And he’s heading straight for you.

The WAGs had just left, off to mingle with their husbands and boyfriends, leaving you alone in your chair with your mostly empty drink. You didn’t mind—being alone was something you were used to these days.

But apparently, Joe did mind.

"Need a refill?" His voice is smooth, the faintest trace of amusement in it, like he already knows the answer but just wants to hear you say it.

You glance down at your glass, condensation dripping down the sides, ice melting, barely a sip of anything left. You nod. "Yeah, actually."

He doesn’t hesitate. Just reaches out, plucks the cup from your fingers with a little smirk, and walks off toward the bar like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You watch him go, blinking in mild disbelief.

Joe Burrow, one of the biggest names in the NFL, just walked away to get you a drink.

And God, that does something to you.

A moment later, he’s back, handing you your glass, and when your fingers brush against his, there’s a flicker of something electric, something dangerous.

You swallow and bring the drink to your lips. Cold, crisp, refreshing.

Joe drops into the chair across from you, sprawling out like he belongs there, his legs spread wide, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair. He watches you take a sip, his gaze half-lidded, like he’s already settled in for a conversation he doesn’t plan on cutting short.

"You looked like you needed rescuing from whatever the hell they were talking about," he says, tilting his chin toward where the WAGs had been sitting earlier.

You let out a breath of laughter. "You ever heard a thirty-minute conversation about throw pillows?"

His brows raise. "Can’t say I have."

"Yeah, well, consider yourself lucky," you tease, shaking your head. "I love them, but sometimes I swear they could write dissertations on interior decorating."

Joe smirks. "And you? You an expert on throw pillows too?"

You snort. "Not even close."

"Shame," he murmurs, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "I was really hoping you’d have some strong opinions on lumbar support."

You roll your eyes. "God, shut up."

"That’s not a no," he quips, and you groan, throwing your head back.

"Fine. If you must know, I do think most decorative pillows are pointless, because you just end up throwing them off the bed or couch anyway."

Joe grins, slow and smug. "So you do have strong opinions."

You open your mouth, then close it, glaring at him. "I hate you."

His smirk deepens. "No, you don’t."

And for some reason, that makes your stomach flip.

There’s something so easy about this, about him. The way the conversation flows, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he’s teasing you, the way he leans in just slightly, like he’s actually interested in what you have to say, like he’s not just making conversation to fill the silence.

It’s been a long time since someone talked to you like this. Since someone made you feel interesting, not just beautiful, not just Miles’ fiancée.

And God, you must be blushing, because Joe’s eyes flick over your face, and his grin turns downright wicked.

"You’re blushing," he says, voice all silk and amusement.

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "No, I’m not."

"Yeah, you are," he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. "Damn, if I knew I had this effect on you, I would’ve started teasing you way earlier."

You narrow your eyes at him, but your lips are twitching, and he knows it.

"You’re insufferable."

Joe just chuckles, sitting back again, watching you over the rim of his glass. "And yet, you’re still sitting here."

And you don’t have an answer for that.

Because the truth is, you want to be here.

You want to sit in this chair, under these lights, on this warm summer night, and feel like this—like yourself, like a person, like something more than what you’ve been reduced to.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone.

Miles spotted them the second Joe sat down.

At first, it was just an awareness, the way his eyes naturally gravitated toward her—like they always did in a room full of people. It was a habit, second nature, an unconscious thing. A glance, then another. But then he saw the way Joe was looking at her.

And suddenly, he wasn’t just watching. He was staring.

Something inside him, something dark and unfamiliar, curled up tight in his chest.

He wasn’t used to feeling like this.

Miles had never had to be jealous before. Never had to worry. She was his. And that had always been enough.

But now?

Now, he was watching another man sit in front of her, lean in, smirk at her like she was something to be won. And worse—so much worse—she was laughing.

Really laughing.

Not the polite, social laugh she gave when she was playing the role of his perfect wife. Not the strained, forced kind that meant she was bored but trying to be nice.

No, this was different.

This was easy, genuine.

This was the kind of laugh she used to give him.

His grip on his beer tightened, fingers pressing into the damp glass, jaw locking so hard it ached.

Joe fucking Burrow.

The golden boy. The franchise. The quarterback who could do no wrong.

And now, apparently, the asshole who thought he could sit across from Miles’ wife and flirt with her in plain fucking sight.

What pissed him off the most was that Joe didn’t even try to hide it. He wasn’t subtle, wasn’t cautious. It wasn’t the kind of half-assed flirting guys did when they were just testing the waters, unsure if she was off-limits. No, this was deliberate. This was the kind of thing that happened when a man already knew what he wanted.

And the way he was looking at her, the way he smirked every time she tried to argue with him, the way his gaze lingered on her mouth just a second too long—he wanted her.

And she was letting him.

Miles' stomach twisted, something sour curling in his throat.

Had she ever smiled at him like that in the last few months? Had she ever looked that light, that carefree, that… happy?

A flash of memory hit him—her voice, sharp and tired from their last fight.

"I just want to feel like more than your fucking wife, Miles."

His throat tightened.

Because fuck, he knew he hadn’t been perfect. He knew things had been off between them, knew she wanted more, needed more.

But was this it?

Was this what she needed?

Some other man’s attention? Some other man making her blush, making her tuck her hair behind her ear like she was some shy, sweet little thing who wasn’t married?

He set his beer down a little too hard on the table beside him, the sound loud in his ears.

"Man, you good?" Tee asked, glancing at him.

Miles barely heard him.

Joe was leaning forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low, saying something that made her shake her head, biting her lip like she was trying not to laugh.

And Miles saw red.

He had never—never—felt something like this before.

He wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t the jealous type.

He never had to be.

She’d always been his. And no one had ever challenged that. No one had ever looked at her and thought they had a chance because they didn’t.

But here Joe was. Sitting there, flirting with her like Miles didn’t even fucking exist.

And Miles hated him for it.

"Yo," Tee said again, nudging him. "What’s up?"

Miles’ hands curled into fists.

"Burrow," he muttered, eyes still locked on the scene in front of him.

Tee followed his line of sight, then let out a low whistle. "Damn," he said, shaking his head. "He really don’t give a fuck, huh?"

No. He didn’t.

And that was the problem.

Because Joe fucking Burrow wasn’t scared of him.

He wasn’t worried about stepping on toes, wasn’t concerned about boundaries.

Because in his mind?

Miles didn’t matter.

And that?

That was fucking unacceptable.

You don’t notice Miles at first.

Not really.

You’re too caught up in the moment, in the way Joe makes it so easy to talk, to laugh. It’s been so long since you’ve had a conversation like this—one that isn’t about game schedules or dinner plans or how many charity events you have lined up for the season.

But then Joe’s eyes flicker up for half a second, and you know.

You know before you even turn around.

Miles is standing there, casual as anything, beer in hand, that unreadable half-smirk on his face. He’s trying to play it cool, you can tell, but you know him. You know the sharp edge of his jaw when he’s holding something back, the way his fingers tap against his bottle when he’s annoyed.

"Looks like you two are having fun," he says, voice light, teasing.

You open your mouth, but Joe beats you to it.

"Yeah," he says easily. "She’s good company."

Miles’ smirk twitches, just a little, just enough for you to notice.

"That right?"

Joe just grins. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Miles shifts his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on his beer, then turns to you. "We should get going."

You blink. "What? Why?"

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he hadn’t just interrupted your conversation. "It’s late."

You frown. "It’s not that late."

Miles looks at you for a long second, then smiles. "You wanna stay?"

"Yeah, I do."

Joe leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying every second of this. "Can’t blame her," he says with a smirk. "It’s a good party."

Miles doesn’t look at him, just keeps his eyes on you. "One of your friends was looking for you," he says, smooth and easy. "Said they needed to talk."

You hesitate. "Who?"

He just shrugs again, taking a sip of his drink. "Not sure. But they seemed like it was important."

You glance between him and Joe, feeling something heavy settle in your stomach. You know what Miles is doing. He’s giving you an out, a way to leave without making a scene.

And part of you wants to fight him on it.

But the other part?

The other part just sighs.

"Okay," you say eventually, standing up. "I’ll go find them."

Joe watches you go, and just before you’re out of earshot, you hear him chuckle.

"You really don’t like me, huh?" he says, and you don’t have to turn around to know that Miles is seething.

Miles doesn’t answer Joe right away.

He just stares.

And for the first time in his life, Joe watches a man who’s always been effortlessly self-assured hesitate. Miles Johnson, the guy who’s never questioned a damn thing in his life, the guy who walks into every room like he owns it, the guy who doesn’t lose—he’s standing there, jaw tight, grip flexing around the neck of his beer bottle, seething.

Because this isn’t just about some guy flirting with his girl.

This is about Joe Burrow flirting with his girl.

Joe, who has everything Miles does. Joe, who isn’t just some backup wide receiver on the depth chart but the quarterback, the golden boy, the face of the team. If it were some random guy, Miles wouldn’t even be thinking twice about it. But Joe? That’s different.

Joe has already been given the world, and now—now he’s looking at his girl like he has a shot at taking that, too.

Miles lets out a breath through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "You think this shit is funny?"

Joe just smiles. "Kinda, yeah."

Miles’ jaw clenches.

"You got something to say, man?"

Joe takes his time leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees, beer dangling from his fingers. "Me? Nah. I think you already know what I’m thinking."

Miles steps closer.

The tension is thick, crackling, and Joe—Joe just sits there, cool as ever, because he lives for this shit. He’s spent his whole life on a football field, has stared down 300-pound linemen trying to rip his head off, has played in stadiums so loud he couldn't even hear his own thoughts, and this?

This is just funny.

"You got a problem with me, Miles?" Joe finally asks, voice easy, relaxed.

Miles doesn’t answer. Because yeah, maybe he does have a problem with Joe.

And Joe fucking knows it.

And just when it looks like Miles might actually say something, Ja’Marr appears like he’s got some kind of internal alarm for bad ideas.

"Hey, hey, hey," Ja’Marr says, stepping between them before anything can go further. "What the hell is goin’ on over here?"

Joe leans back, grinning like nothing happened. "Nothing."

Miles scoffs. "Yeah," he mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. "Nothing."

Ja’Marr looks between them, clearly not believing that for a second. "Right."

Miles exhales sharply, trying to regain some control of the situation. He looks back at Joe, his voice measured. "Look, I don’t know what kinda game you think you’re playing, but let me make one thing clear—she’s mine."

Joe just tilts his head. "No one’s arguing that."

"You sure?" Miles asks, voice low.

Joe just lifts a shoulder. "One hundred percent."

Miles stares at him, trying to read between the lines, trying to see if Joe is bullshitting him, and Joe gives him nothing. Just a calm, neutral expression.

Joe finally sighs, running a hand through his hair like this whole thing is just exhausting for him. "Look, bro, you got nothing to worry about," he says, and his voice is so assured, so calm, that for a second, Miles wants to believe him. "Focus on your season, your career. You’re a lucky man. No one’s trying to step on your toes."

He even throws in a little bro-code for good measure, because that’s what guys like Miles eat up.

And just like that—Miles relaxes. Not completely, but enough that he lets it go.

"Good," he mutters after a long moment.

Joe nods, casual as anything, and then Miles finally—finally—walks away.

Ja’Marr watches him go, then turns back to Joe.

"That was some bullshit," he says.

Joe just grins. "Yeah. But he bought it, didn’t he?"

The drive home is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful, but the kind that makes your skin prickle, the kind that sits heavy in the air, thick with something unsaid.

You’re still in a good mood. You can feel it in the way your body is still buzzing slightly, the aftereffects of laughter and good conversation. For the first time in a long time, you’d felt light. Like the version of yourself that existed before all of this—before the responsibilities, before the expectations, before you became someone’s wife—had peeked through the cracks of who you’ve had to become.

And Miles hates it.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel it. The weight of his stare on the road, the way his grip on the wheel is just a little too tight. He’s never been good at masking his emotions, never been the type to hide his displeasure. You learned that early on.

When you get home, you don’t even make it to your bedroom before he speaks.

"So," Miles says, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you with an expression that isn’t outright anger, but something close to it. "You had fun tonight."

It’s not a question.

You pause, placing your purse on the counter carefully, your heartbeat just slightly picking up. "Yeah," you say slowly, hesitantly. "It was nice to be around everyone before the season starts."

He hums. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, something calculating, and you don’t like it.

"You and Joe seemed to be having fun," he continues.

And there it is.

Your stomach twists—not in guilt, but in frustration.

"Don’t do that," you say, turning fully to face him now. "Don’t make it into something it wasn’t."

Miles tilts his head, his mouth twisting like he’s the one who should be annoyed. "Make it into something?" he repeats, letting out a sharp little laugh. "Baby, I was there. I saw it."

You inhale deeply through your nose. "Saw what?"

Miles scoffs, pushing off the counter, stepping closer. "You really want me to spell it out for you?"

Your jaw clenches. "Yes, actually, I do. Because from where I was sitting, all I did was have a conversation, and now you’re acting like—"

"Like what?" he cuts in. His voice isn’t raised, but there’s a sharp edge to it, a barely restrained irritation. "Like I didn’t have to sit there and watch my wife giggle at another man’s jokes? Like I didn’t have to watch him look at you like he was thinking about shit he shouldn’t be thinking about?"

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "That’s what this is about? Because someone looked at me?"

Miles exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. "No, this is about you letting him."

Your stomach drops.

There it is.

The shift. The moment where he stops being annoyed at the situation and starts being annoyed at you.

Your hands clench at your sides. "I can’t control how people look at me, Miles."

He takes another step forward, closing the distance, voice lowering. "But you can control how you react to it."

You stare at him, searching his face for the man you used to know, the one who once made you feel like you were the center of his world.

"I didn’t do anything wrong," you say, and you hate the way your voice comes out softer, like you're trying to convince him.

Miles exhales, and for a second, he just looks at you.

And then—he sighs.

It’s long and dramatic, and he runs a hand down his face, shaking his head. "You’re right," he finally says, and it’s so sudden that it almost gives you whiplash. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

Your brows knit together in confusion.

"I—I didn’t?"

He steps forward again, hands landing on your waist now, pulling you closer. "No, baby," he murmurs, his voice shifting, softening. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you did."

Your brain is scrambling to catch up.

"You—" you swallow. "You just—"

"I know, I know," he sighs again, dropping his forehead to yours. "God, I hate fighting with you."

You exhale shakily. The tension that had built up in your chest doesn’t fully leave, but it starts to shift.

Because this is the part where he fixes it.

The part where he pulls you into his arms, presses his lips to your forehead, and makes it okay.

"You know I just—I just love you so much," he murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw, your neck. "And I see someone else getting your attention, even for a second, and I just—I don’t know, baby, I just lose it."

You close your eyes. Your hands move to rest on his chest out of habit. "Miles—"

"Shh," he hums, lips brushing your ear now. "I forgive you, okay?"

Your breath catches.

"You forgive me?"

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

And that’s how he does it.

That’s how he wins.

Because somehow, you’ve gone from defending yourself to being the one who is forgiven.

And the worst part?

You let him.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fan fic #bengals #jb9 #joe shiesty #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc

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hornedstorys · 2 months ago

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One Piece Shanks x Reader - Pirate bride

Warnings: Age Gap - (iam not sorry for this ;-;), Forced Marriage

You stood at the railing and stared out to sea. The sun had just set and the crew had gone to bed. The day had been relatively strenuous and had sapped the crew's strength. But you couldn't sleep. You felt restless inside and the sound of the sea mostly calmed you down.

You had been with the red-haired pirates for some time now and they were like family to you. You had grown together and your trust was growing. You laughed, ate and celebrated together and weathered every storm. Above all, you had a deep bond with your captain.

Shanks. The only man who ever became so deeply embedded in your mind that you almost went insane. But you became equally addicted to it. You couldn't deny that you had feelings for this man, despite the fact that he was older than you. But his cheeky manner made him seem ten years younger and that annoying… but breathtaking grin he always gave you made your legs go weak.

You sighed and the cold wind brushed your cheeks. You thought about how often he had saved your life. One moment in particular had marked you…

It was your wedding day. The day you thought you were looking forward to, but you weren't, because you were supposed to marry someone you didn't love and didn't know. Was there anything worse?

You knew Shanks before this big day through your friend Makino. You had worked in her bar in the meantime and had seen Shanks and his crew a lot.

“You look depressed, little one,” Shanks said, his eyes staring intently at you. Your heart warmed when he showed you that he noticed how you were feeling. You told him and the crew your story, not realizing how Shanks gripped his beer mug tighter and his eyes darkened.

He saw the tears in your eyes and the longing for unbridled freedom that you weren't allowed to have because it was simply taken from you without asking you what you even wanted. His usual cheeky manner had disappeared and he seemed thoughtful as you turned back to your work.

He and the crew came by every now and then and one day, they stayed a little longer. Right on your wedding day, as if it was destiny. You stood at the altar in a dress that felt tight even though it fit and with your heart pounding, but not with joy.

What had you done to deserve this? All you wanted was to be able to be yourself and make your own decisions. You had hoped for a miracle when the words were spoken: “If anyone present has any objections to this union, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

Please… all you needed was a miracle…

A single miracle… that's all you wanted…

Suddenly the door of the church was flung open and a familiar red mop of hair entered your field of vision. It was Shanks, closely followed by his men. Your eyes widened and your heart started pounding again, but this time with joy.

“I have an objection,” growled Shanks, a dangerous and confident grin on his face. Panicked pairs of eyes settled on the dreaded pirate, who was now striding towards you. His eyes never left your form for a second. You could feel your body arching in his direction as if it were magnetic.

“I'm going to get my wife back.”

Your eyes widened and Shanks pushed your intended aside, only to throw you over his shoulder. None of the people present said anything. They were too afraid of taking Benn's bullets to the face. Shanks carried you out of the church and towards his ship.

The crew jeered as their captain lowered you down, your veil still over your face. Shanks' eyes were on you again. Then he held out his hand in your direction.

“May I?” You faltered briefly, then realized what he was about to do and nodded, eyes wide. You didn't know what hit you when a stifled laugh came out of your mouth as he placed the veil over your head. But the laughter soon turned to crying and you sniffled.

“Don't cry, (Y/n). Isn't today a special day?” His voice was soft and you sniffled. He gently brushed a tear from your cheek and you blinked up at him.

“My horrible wedding?” you asked and a grin returned to Shank's lips.

“No, silly. Today is a special day because you're free to do whatever you want!”

At his words, your eyes widened and your mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. You just stared at the red-haired man.

Did he say free?

Shank's face contorted in surprise as you jumped into his arms and hugged him tightly. Tears ran down your face and wet his top. He gently placed his hand on your head.

“You don't have to worry anymore, little one,” Shanks whispers and you release yourself from his grip and look at him.

“How can I ever thank you, Shanks?” you asked, and again you let him wipe away your tears. His features were gentle as he spoke, “Stay with us.”

Actually, he wanted to say 'stay with me', he wanted you to stay with him because you were better off with him. He could protect you and give you what you needed without you having to worry about being locked up in a life you didn't want.

You didn't think twice and joined him. Then a grin crept onto your lips.

“Your wife, yes? I didn't know I was your wife, Shanks,” you teased him and you saw his cheeks turn pink and he scratched his head in embarrassment. But just as quickly as the embarrassment came, it went away and his look became more confident again as he scrutinized you.

“Well, you're already wearing the right dress.” You laughed and playfully punched him in the arm. But what you didn't tell him was that you would rather marry him than anyone else.

You woke up from the memory as footsteps approached. You knew exactly who was coming towards you and your head turned in the direction the footsteps were coming from.

“You're still awake?”

“I couldn't sleep.”

Shanks joined you, also staring out at the dark sea. You eyed him from the side.

“You still owe me a dance,” you said and Shanks furrowed his brows briefly. “A wedding dance,” you added, and now a light came on for Shanks. His head swiveled in your direction and you licked your lips. His shoulder touched yours and you felt the tingle forming in that spot.

“Is that so?” he asked teasingly and your cheeks started to glow.

“Yes!” You hesitate and your look becomes a little sadder. “Unless you don't want to.”

He looked almost offended, like a kicked puppy. Then he detached himself from the railing and bowed nobly, offering you his hand. His gaze lifted and there was something intense in his eyes.

You took his hand and suddenly he swept you away. You laughed as he led you across the deck. Whether you could call it dancing was a matter of opinion, but you had your fun. At some point, you were standing close to each other, swaying back and forth.

“You know, Shanks. When you said I was your wife, my first thought was that I would rather marry you than any other man in the world. There at the altar, I was really just waiting for you to get me out of there.” You tried to keep your voice steady as you confessed your thoughts to him.

You clung to Shank's coat as if you were afraid he would just turn around and leave. You were afraid of his reaction and whether he would push you away. But he didn't, quite the opposite. Out of nowhere, he pressed his lips to yours and you froze. Did that really just happen?

You returned the kiss and it quickly turned into a small, gentle battle of emotions. Unfortunately, you had to break away due to a lack of oxygen.

Shanks leaned forward.

“If you only knew how pleased I am to hear that, my pirate bride.

#x reader #shanks x reader #one piece #one piece x reader #one piece shanks x reader #oneshot #shanks x reader oneshot #marriage

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supernatural-bias · 1 year ago

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𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐳𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ warnings: mentions of cannibalism and porn

↳ song: hit the road jack—ray charles

↳ notes: i can't believe i'm posting this (derogatory)

masterlist | commissions | carrd

• You had decided to move into the hotel after a particularly flashy poster caught your eye

• You were just walking to your run down apartment from a shift at your work, messing with the frayed ends of your sleeves, when a burst of neon red and yellow entered your field vision

• It was a poorly drawn advertisement colored head to toe in bright hues and glitter, advertising a hotel that would offer you a shot of getting out of hell

• With a shrug and a tug of the poster, you slipped it off the brick wall and into your pocket

• It’s not like you had anything else going on, and a free room was a free room. Besides; if the redemption thing turned out to be real, that would just be an added bonus

• Upon arriving at the doorstep of the hotel a few days later with a duffel bag in hand and the other rapping against the front door, you were nearly knocked over by a thin demon with red cheeks excitedly asking if you were there to check in

• “Oh my gosh hi! How are you! Because you look amazing and oh my gosh I’m so happy you’ve decided to check in!” She all but shouted in your ear. Cringing slightly, you leaned away from her embrace to slip inside

• “I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of guests?” You asked slowly as she closed the door behind you, some nearby dust stirring up at the action. The inside looked to empty to be a hotel

• “Nope!”

• Your first sign that you were getting more than you had bargained for should have been the sound of scuttling feet as a small demon made her way across your feet to impale a bug on her claws. She was lightly scolded for ‘accidently frightening our new addition’ before running off with the insect

• "Sorry about that! Nifty is really passionate about her job." The demon next to you laughed nervously. You just shifted your weight and nodded awkwardly in response

• Looking a few feet over to the living area, there was a lanky fellow covered in fuzz and lounging on a sad looking couch. He was flicking through channels on a T.V. You caught them occasionally landing on one and laughing before moving on, never staying entertained for too long

• The demon caught your eye, and waved two of his four hands at you in a lazy greeting

• “Oh, that’s Angel Dust! Our other resident." The woman, you now knew as Charlie, fussed. “He’s been with us for a few months, and has shown incredible progress! Something I’m sure you will find yourself doing!” She bounced on the balls of her feet happily while steering you around by the shoulders

• “Uh huh.” You couldn’t help but nod slowly, only now noticing that the channels Angel had been focusing on were blasting various types of porn shows

• A hasty tour was promptly carried out through the rest of the building. You were shown different rooms, all in various states of decay, while simultaneously meeting the other hotel inhabitants

• A fierce lady with a spear— Vaggie, as she had been introduced as —didn’t seem too up for conversation, only giving Charlie a peck on the cheek and you a suspicious glare before climbing a pair of stairs to take care of something else

• Back downstairs, the local bartender didn’t even bother to look at you, instead mumbling something under his breath while playing cards with a snake like demon

• “Don’t take it to heart. Husk is a big sweetheart, really.” Charlie waved at you with a closed eye smile, missing the way that Husk flipped her off grumpily. “And that’s Sir Pentious over there! Besides Angel Dust, and now you I guess, he’s our only guest.”

• The snake simply offered a loud and hissing hello before demanding with theatrical outrage that Husk was cheating. At least you think it was theatrical outrage. He seemed high strung either way

• But by far, the most memorable staff member you met on the tour was a tall demon with a red suit and fluffy ears; the likes of which you and Charlie had barged in on as he ate a plate of what looked like flesh. Whether animal, or something else, you couldn’t tell

• “Finally, this is our facility manager, Alastor! He helps out with all kinds of things here, and will be a key element in your redeeming process.” Your cheery guide announced. She seemed to ignore the slight tension in the air as the other member in the room smiled tightly, but the feeling disappeared as the tall demon stood up in greeting

• “Why Charlie!” Alastor’s voice crackled with heavy static, reminding you of audio from a gramophone. Or perhaps one of those old fashioned radio’s. “If I knew we were having company, I would have made myself more presentable!” He chuckled without ever looking anywhere but you

• You had to tilt your head up to look at him completely. There wasn’t a wrinkle on his suit, and every one of his hairs sat perfectly on his head. Even his monocle appeared to be freshly polished

• “Presentable.” You said slowly and without emotion, aware of Alastor’s highetened gaze on you. “Right.”

• Charlie was quick to get you to your new room after that

• It was weird, trying to fall into a rhythm with a group of people that had already become so aquatinted with one another, but you managed

• The trust exercises were cheesy and took too long, chores were a daily task for everyone, and Alastor snuck around in the shadows too much for your liking, but at least you had a place to live

• Besides. Who was to say you couldn’t make a few friends along the way?

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 2 months ago

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the giordanos

buttercup, chapter fourteen

a/n: all aboard to angst city!!! choo choo, bitch! 🚂

summary: “I still don’t believe you,” he scoffed lightly, “and even so, I can’t just let you go. Your little devil has been sniffing around where he shouldn’t be. There has to be some consequences,” he spat, tapping the heft pliers in his other palm, “so even if you can’t give us any information about him, then maybe you could just become a message, cute as you may be…”

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, lots of angst, the black daredevil suit, kidnapping, torture, violence, injuries, blood, crying, mafia drama

word count: 1324

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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“Just drop the act already,” the gangster muttered as you doubled over in the chair you were bound to, crimson slowly leaking from your lips as you panted for pained breaths, “we know, we’ve seen him, multiple times, stop by your little bakery after closing hours and getting something very different than what you’re selling out front…” he uttered of the habit Matthew had formed, stopping by to check up on you whenever you worked a late shift, “so, come on, just tell us. Tell us, and this will all be over,” he knelt down before you to get into your hazy field of vision, “what is his name? Your little boyfriend in the mask.”

Rain pounded against the dark windows of the vacant warehouse you’d been taken to. Shifting carefully against the tight ropes around you, you tilted your chin up to face the criminal directly.

“I–… I already told you,” a whimper escaped you as your bloodshot eyes met his dark ones, “I don’t know–, ah!” your words promptly faltered as one of the goons off to the side, the pair who’d snatched you from the bakery late the night prior, raised a rag back up against your skin before cracking a pipe against your shoulder, nearly dislocating it from the hit, though the fabric barrier prevented the skin from splitting too much, making their pending clean up job much less gory.

“Is it the hitting?” the mobster rose from his knees as you puffed for air to handle the agony, “is that not working for you?” his tone stayed chillingly casual, “because I can switch it up if that’d help, whatever floats your boat, sweet cheeks. Let’s see here…” he murmured as he then neared a table close by and let his gaze flicker across the supplies he had previously organised in a neat line. Picking up a pair of pliers, he then stared at the tip and snapped it a few times, biting the air, before his glance shifted back upon you, “maybe if you lost a few fingernails, then you’d become more talkative, huh?”

“No! Please!” you sobbed, instinctively tilting back as he once again neared, even though you knew you had nowhere to run, “just let me go, I don’t know anything!”

“I still don’t believe you,” he scoffed lightly, “and even so, I can’t just let you go. Your little devil has been sniffing around where he shouldn’t be. There has to be some consequences,” he spat, tapping the heft pliers in his other palm, “so even if you can’t give us any information about him, then maybe you could just become a message, cute as you may be…”

But as he then grasped one of your hands, restrained to the armrest of the chair, a ruckus suddenly sounded from the open doorway behind him, the remnants of a snuffed-out yelp from one of the gangsters down the hall.

Once he’d cast an alarmed glare over his shoulder, the man who’d done most of the talking then twisted towards the two mobsters off to the side and barked, “go see what’s going on.”

“Yes, boss,” one of them conjured a small knife before the pair disappeared further into the cold building.

You barely managed to suck in a breath before another loud scuffle then sounded before silence took its place and drowned out the entire warehouse.

The remaining gangster before you then tossed the pliers in his palm before getting out his gun and cocking it before the then exiting the room as well, leaving you all alone the echo of your torture.

A gasp filled up your lungs as you soon heard a deafening gunshot ring out, making you tremble against the itchy ropes. Footsteps then found your ears, making all of your aching muscles clench even tighter in anticipation of the mobster’s return, but instead, the figure who appeared in the doorway caused all of the air to slip from your lungs at once.

Clad in his black suit, it clung to Matthew’s frame like a second skin from the rain that was pouring down outside. Shadowing the doorway for a moment, his shoulders shifted jaggedly with every laboured breath he sucked in.

And as your lungs finally expanded once more in a breath, you watched with blurry eyes as he rushed towards you, swiftly kneeling down in front of you before his hands, which had seconds earlier accomplished unspeakable things, floated up to gently cup your tear-soaked cheeks.

His touch then drifted down to the ropes around your frame, though as he tried to undo them, a gravelly hiss swiftly escaped him as he tugged at the tight knots, “shit.”

Letting his efforts cease, his touch stayed glued to you as he then concentrated a moment, tilting his head, before he then shifted towards the table where all of the instruments were layed out. Grabbing a small switchblade, Matt then returned to your side and first sliced through the ropes that looped around the length of your forearms, fastening them both to the chair’s armrests, before he then twisted to free you from the ones enveloping your ankles.

And as soon as he cut through the last of your restraints, your frame collapsed down against him. Wrapping his strong arms around you and hugging you tight, your own hands only managed to weakly curl up against his chest as they trembled against him.

“Shh, I’ve got you…” he continued to catch his breath, panting against the crown of your head as sobs billowed out of you, “I’m here now…”

“I knew you’d come for me,” your tears joined the raindrops that still clung to him and soaked his shoulder further, “I knew it…”

His forehead then bowed down to rest against your own and stayed there a moment before he slowly shifted to press a peck against it.

“Can you stand?” he soon asked, though when you then attempted to get up from the chair, you swiftly lost your balance as your fatigue smacked you in the face and you nearly passed out, “woaw,” he promptly picked you up, scooping you into his arms before you could take a nosedive, “I’ve got you, it’s okay…”

The shock hadn’t worn off and let your body stop its violent shaking even after you’d lost track of how long you’d sat on the couch in the middle of your neighbour’s apartment.

Tears still silently rolled down your cheeks as Matthew helped you into some dry clothes, the both of you being drenched by the downpour you’d just trekked through.

Your injuries, thankfully, weren’t as horrific as they could have been. A few kicks and nasty bruises, a black eye, the ache in your empty belly and dryness in your sore throat, but nothing physical you couldn’t recover from in due time.

Though as you sat there on the couch, melted down against Matthew’s broad frame beside you as he held you in his arms and listened closely as your heartbeat gradually began to slow, the thought of shifting, even just a few meters into the bedroom, made you feel like the dam inside of you would burst right back open. So instead, you simply stayed right there, frozen in the embrace, in hopes that your body would soon surrender and let itself truly feel that it was all over.

But then, as the sun began to peek over the skyline, and Matthew finally seized his whispered apologies, profusely placing the blame solely on himself, you instead heard him murmur into your ear, “I’d like you to stay here…” he uttered slowly, “just until I’ve taken care of them,” his thumb shifted just an inch, gently sweeping across your skin as if you were made out of glass, “I can’t–…” his voice then suddenly broke, causing you to blink up at him, “I need to know you’re safe,” desperation began to wobble his tone, “please…”

#lea’s writing #buttercup series #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fanfic #matthew murdock imagine #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #matt murdock series #matthew murdock x reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock angst #matt murdock hurt/comfort

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adimouze · 7 months ago

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post-las vegas WDC max/daniel, rated M. ~1300 words. @girlsdads mentioned something about a lil bit of LL hating in a fic so. I did a lil bit of LL hating too.

A face floats into Max’s field of vision probably three hours into the fifth different party Max had been shepherded to since the race ended. He’s about ninety-percent sure he’s still in Las Vegas. He blinks blearily at it, hoping at least it’s pretty enough to look at. It has been a while since. Since.

Liam Lawson blinks back. Not who he was expecting. Gross.

“Max,” he says, sounding too sober for whatever time it is. The club is loud but Max can still unfortunately hear him. “Are you okay?”

Max attempts a sweeping gesture, he’s carrying a glass of something and it hits someone’s back, making Max drop it with a smash. Liam cringes, looking like he’s about to complain. “This is my party, mate,” Max says, cutting off whatever Liam was going to say. “I’m fucking great.”

“Christian just left,” Liam says, and Max kind of hates how he talks but what can you do. Maybe he just doesn’t like Liam. “I think there’s another party happening a few blocks from now, do you want to join me?”

If Christian left that means Max can leave without theoretically offending anybody, even though it is his party. Half of the people around him don’t seem like people he knows anyway. “Nah man, you go on ahead, I’ll head back to the hotel –”

“Oh then I’ll head back with you,” Liam’s probably the most cheerful he’s been since Max met him. “Yuki scored and left me here.”

Pity isn’t something Max feels often, but he does feel a bit of pity now. In his first year he was never left alone in clubs, either Carlos or Daniel were always there making sure they were around to get him back to wherever before they took someone home or to their hotel rooms. More often it was Daniel, and more often Daniel didn’t take anyone home, because they were sharing a room and more often it was just fun to watch onboards together, side by side.

No one else but them.

Then again, Max was a teenager in his first year and Liam’s twenty-two. He wouldn’t need babysitting.

“Alright,” Max isn’t sure where he is. He doesn’t know how to ask Liam without sounding like an absolute idiot.

“I have a car waiting,” Liam adds, after Max stared off into the distance for a few seconds, willing someone to appear with a car. Maybe Max isn’t being as subtle as he thought he was.

_____

Red Bull and VCARB drivers are often put up in the same hotel, usually the standard room but Helmut had finangled him a penthouse upgrade on Thursday, telling Max that he deserved a proper room to party in, like Max was going to bring home an orgy.

He’s pretty sure Liam couldn’t possibly have gotten a penthouse upgrade too. He’s sure hotels only have one penthouse? He’s sure. If he was less drunk he would be surer. But Liam makes no move to push any buttons.

“Mind if I come up for a nightcap?” Liam asks, smiling. This is the most Max has seen him smile ever since he got Daniel…ever since Daniel left and he jumped in the car. Max does not want him to come up for a nightcap but Max is feeling generous tonight.

“Sure, why not.” Someone had spilled what seems like a bottle of champagne on him at some point in the night and his shirt is sticking to him. He’s too tired to shower. Meh. It’ll be a problem for hungover Max tomorrow.

The lift goes up insanely fast but still feels too slow for Max tonight. He’s WDC, four times WDC, he’s used to faster things, sue him. Liam is still staring at him.

“Good driving tonight,” Max says, for want of anything better to do or say. He has no idea where Liam finished to be honest.

“I finished 16,” Liam says flatly. Yikes. Well.

The door dings open onto Max’s floor. And.

Daniel’s sitting on the giant sectional of the penthouse living room.

He looks gorgeous. Max wants to stare forever. He looks broad and good and tanned, his beard has filled in a lot more than when Max last saw him in Monaco, his hair thicker. The sweatshirt he’s wearing looks less oversized than usual, fitting his shoulders instead of drooping over them, and his trousers make his thighs look great.

He’s smirking. He looks like a frat guy. He looks like one of those men from Victoria’s magazines that Max definitely didn’t jerk off over.

Max is probably drooling, and Liam runs into him as he’s stepping out of the lift.

“Oh sorry mate I – Daniel, hello.” Liam’s voice is a bit high. Confused. Probably scared. “Didn’t realize you were in Vegas. Red Bull didn’t…”

Daniel stands up and comes over. Max is still staring. Daniel moves like an apex predator and Liam’s just the runt of litter in this. “Hey Liam. Well. Red Bull doesn’t own me anymore mate, do they? I can be wherever I want.”

He claps Liam on the shoulder in greeting then grabs Max’s limp hand. “Came to see my boy be the World Champion again.”

Liam’s probably saying something but Max doesn’t care, because Daniel’s pulling him in, arms going around Max, sticky shirt and all, and Max is going to swoon because Daniel smells good, good, good, their lips meeting after ages, Daniel’s lips and tongue the best, most refreshing thing Max has tasted all night. Someone’s moaning.

It’s him.

“Um…”

Liam’s still there.

Max tries to pull back but Daniel’s got his hands on his ass, lifting, lifting, and Max’s legs going around him in response, and Daniel’s got them on the sofa in a second, Max perched on Daniel’s wide wide thighs without even separating their lips once. It’s the hottest thing Max has ever felt. He’s going to come just from the thought alone.

“Liam,” Daniel’s saying, pulling back a few centimeters to give Max some breathing space. “I’m going to fuck my husband on this sofa right now, and he’s going to be screaming loud enough to be heard from the moon. So like,” he pops the k, and Max’s dick twitches, precome dripping into his underwear, “unless you want a front row seat to that for some reason, shouldn’t you be heading to bed?”

“Husband?” Liam’s stuttering. “Excuse me? You can’t – Does Christian know? He’s going to be so mad at you, Max what the fuck –?”

“Get out,” Daniel says. Max has never heard him sound like that. “Now.”

“I’m calling Christian,” Liam says as a parting shot. “He won’t – he’s not going to allow this.”

“Yeah you do that, mate,” Daniel rolls his eyes then squeezes Max’s ass harder. God, he’s so hot. Max feels insane. Husband husband husband. “What’s he going to do, fire me again?”

The lift dings shut again. They’re blessedly alone.

“Husband?” Max snorts, shivering as Daniel’s fingers undo his pant buttons. “Bit presumptuous of you, don’t you think?”

“The ring’s in the suitcase, baby,” Daniel says, smiling like a wolf, fingers curling around Max’s dick. Max grinds into the feeling, needing Daniel inside him right now. This is the best day of his life. “Was hoping you’d say yes.”

“Let me think about it,” Max laughs, and Daniel bites his nipple through his shirt. “Liam’s probably told the Herald by now.”

“I’ll personally send him the wedding photos,” Daniel cackles, licking up Max’s neck, leaving wet trails in the cold air con of the room, “if he promises to send me photos of Christian when he tells him I was about to fuck him in front of you.”

“Stop talking about Christian and fuck the World Champion already, husband,” Max says, his laughter turning into moans when Daniel all too willingly complies.

#max verstappen #maxiel #f1 #daniel ricciardo #dr3 #my fic

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hunter470 · 8 months ago

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My 9-1-1 RANT

Ok, I don’t normally do these types of posts, but I can’t move on until I get some things out. These are just my thoughts about the latest episodes of 9-1-1 as well as overall comments on the Buck/Tommy relationship. These opinions are mine and are based on the countless hours of TV I’ve watched in my 54 years on this planet, as well as my knowledge of writing and how Hollywood operates. I’m not confirming that any of this is true or are the real intentions of anyone involved with the show. Just my opinions. So, you can agree with me or not. I’m not trying to persuade anyone in any way. Also, I’m not going to get into endless arguments about my opinions but feel free to comment if you want, I just don’t promise I’ll reply.

Ok, here we go. Sorry it’s so long. Like I said earlier, I just needed to get it out. So many wasted opportunities.

If you think TM cares what the fans want, you’re seriously kidding yourself. If he did, Buddie would have been canon a long time ago. The only thing he cares about is ratings and his vision for the show, which can change at a moment’s notice with no rhyme or reason as we’ve seen.

Although I loved Buck and Tommy together, I knew the show wouldn’t do their story justice. So, no matter what TM or OS have said, the bi story was only to garner publicity, draw in new viewers, and increase ratings especially with the show moving to a new network. There was no altruistic reason behind it so don’t kid yourself. They knew there was an audience for the story because of all the Buddie shippers. Just remember, it’s called show business, not show friends for a reason.

Do you think OS really cares about bi representation? Based on his latest comments and non-apology it’s obvious he only cares about getting the stories that garner him the most screen time and press. Seriously, read his latest interviews. He’s excited to get to have fun now. So, congrats OS, Buck gets to F around. Just shows how most, if not all, actors are ego driven no matter what they say. Sorry not sorry.

TM has commented that he doesn’t owe anyone anything. In fact, I recall him saying to Buddie fans if they don’t like it, read fanfiction. If that didn’t clue you in, then you weren’t reading the room. Kinda reminds me of another show runner…for those who watched H50 you know who I’m talking about. That’s why I don’t get heavily invested in these shows. I’ll watch but I never expect anything I like to last…especially if it has to do with gay relationships.

It says a lot that the show remained completely silent about the bullying and death threats Lou received just for playing a role he was happy to play. Again, they really didn’t care because they knew he wasn’t going to be there after episode six. What a great message for all the bullies…just keep bullying and you’ll get what you want.

Again, reread OS’s interviews. He was doing the Hollywood double speak. Says just enough to keep you hooked with hope to get you to watch even when he knew all along it wasn’t lasting. It really was as clear as day if you go back and read what he said.

Also, if you thought Buck was going to get into a meaningful long-term relationship, then you didn’t watch the video from the You Tuber “Call Me Chato” that TM posted on his Facebook. The video was all about characters and how they should always stay fundamentally the same with minimal development - I’m paraphrasing. However, Buck is the golden retriever, heart so big it gets broken, character who will remain on a hamster wheel and unlucky in love because that’s who he is. If he changes too much it shifts the dynamic, which only happens if the show was ending.

If you thought the writers would do justice to a bisexual story, then you haven’t been watching the show closely. There’s been minimal Buck/Tommy relationship development on screen. Taylor got more. Viewers were lucky to get crumbs in the limited screen time Buck and Tommy got. Then, a breakup out of left field? One minute Buck is saying Tommy is it for him and he wants him to move in, and then it’s over? If he truly felt deeply for Tommy, why not fight to keep him? Why give up so easily and let him walk away? What’s the point? Also, to end it on a terrible stereotype is yet another clue. Horrible writing and another sign that TM and OS had zero investment in the relationship. The whole break up was rushed and made no sense. Essentially, it was just used to draw people in and to get Buck single and sleeping around again because that’s who he is. I for one won’t care for any of Buck’s future relationships. I mean, why would I when they never last.

Also, writers that give you a 66-year-old police sergeant and a 10 y/o boy landing a heavily damaged plane on an active freeway in LA with no prior training, and sorry playing video game flight simulators is not training, is some Sharknado level writing, which is not a compliment. Oh, and that whole story was truly the shows “jumping the shark” moment. If you don’t know what the term “jumping the shark” means, look it up and try to tell me I’m wrong.

Not having Tommy involved in the three part premier episodes, other than a few minutes at a birthday party, was so obvious as to the show’s intent. I mean, the fake captain from Hotshots got more screen time.

They claim they wanted someone for Buck that was connected to him and the 118 and then you don’t use the character at all. You wanted Buck off the hamster wheel? What a crock! Such a wasted opportunity.

Since it’s been confirmed episode 6 was filmed before 5, Tim’s just playing god with peoples’ feelings and crushing their hearts at this point. I mean, how do you have such a great episode (5) and a wonderful speech by Josh (6) just to break them up? Plus, having Tommy break up after six months? That man was all in, which was obvious in episode 5.

Guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that’s how TM would handle things after that horrible Tarlos breakup. At least on Lone Star we knew Rafa (Carlos) was a main cast member so there was hope. Lou was a guest star so it seems kinda final based on his interviews. Again, what was the point? They could have had Buck's bi revelation be with a random character. So, building up the Buck/Tommy relationship just to take it away was to inflict the most pain. Good job.

Do I think the show will make Buddie canon? Who knows…one thing I do know is I wouldn’t trust them if they did. Also, even if Tommy somehow returns, I don’t trust TM with anything related to this story. Sure, hope he’s happy with ruining the show for so many people. Again, like another show runner I mentioned in item 4 above. Honestly, I can’t believe the Buddie fans have stayed for so long. That’s commitment, I guess.

Do I think Lou should go back to 9-1-1? Hell no! He was screwed over by both TM and OS. Prove it to me otherwise. However, it’s up to him and of course, he loves acting so I wouldn’t blame him.

Finally, even though I’ve watched the show since the beginning, it no longer brings me joy. There are too many other TV shows to stick with one I no longer enjoy. So yes, I’m announcing my departure, and I don’t give an F what OS, you, or anyone else thinks about it. Not that any of this matters any way…

#911 discourse #911 show #911 spoilers #bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #911 general audience

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elvearryn · 6 months ago

Text

König + Horangi Headcanons

Regrettably, the brainrot has taken hold of me properly, so this was always going to be an inevitable post

(This is also a chance for me to compile and work out my characterization of these two, as a sort of warm-up exercise for writing them).

All SFW! Trigger warning for mention of scars, alcohol, gambling, violence (military), you know Call of Duty typical stuff

All the headcanons for each are separate for each character, a few mentions of Horangi in König’s list but that’s it

That being said, here are my headcanons for König and Horangi 🙏

Horangi bites the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking really hard or having an internal emotional tug of war about something, he actually developed this habit because he used to instinctively press his tongue against the inside area of his cheek that had been scarred (if you’ve seen the popular design where he has a scar from about the corner of his lip up to his cheekbone, and yeah. I like that concept a lot)

Horangi used to drink and smoke heavily, as part of his gambling days. He dropped that habit when he joined the military, and to this day absolutely resents heavy alcohol of any kind, but doesn’t actively avoid milder alcohol as much as he does the stronger stuff, he just doesn’t see the appeal in it anymore

Speaking of which, Horangi sucks at gambling, in fact he’s so terrible at it it’s a wonder he stayed in the business so long. He actually wound up so far in debt because he kept telling himself “it’s not statistically possible that I can never win.” So he kept trying to prove he was capable of winning (he wasn’t.) Eventually, he did quit, escaping debt by fleeing normal civilian life in the process

Horangi hasn’t touched gambling since, he’s wary of even simple card games (glances judgmentally at uno). Even if he still gets that itch sometimes, he curbs it by playing games that don’t involve luck at all

By that I mean Horangi loves strategy games. A downright freak about them even, this way he’s not risking any money on card games that might be rigged… (Horangi chess menace, anyone..? Not promising that he won’t try to cheat in checkers) and he swears like a sailor whenever he loses

Any rush Horangi used to get from gambling is gone anyway, nothing can compare to the adrenaline spike from being on missions. In comparison, gambling feels like a watered down high and a desaturated painting, it wasn’t anything like the vivid colors of the battle field experience… and even that could get boring sometimes…

(That is not encouragement to throw yourself into combat 💧)

Horangi loves silver jewelry, especially rings. But never wears anything gold or with gems on it, he prefers the sheen of silver, and thicker jewelry too, heavy banded rings and he actually considers his dog tags as something of a fashion statement… there was a point in his life where he had his ears pierced, and only ever wore silver or black for those, however the piercings have since closed up as they would have been a hindrance in his military work

When Horangi was a kid, he wanted to be able to skateboard, the kind of kid who thought kick flips and riding rails down the stairs was the coolest thing, unfortunately he was never really all that good on wheels, and didn’t have the time to master the hobby

(He sure as hell can snowboard though. Don’t ask me; it came to me in a vision)

Horangi was actually planning to get full tattoo sleeves on his arms, but discovered that he was somewhat unnerved by the constant jabbing of the ink needle when he got his wrists and forearms done the first time around, since then he’s been a little wary about getting more. It’s not that his pain tolerance is low, or that he’s scared of the process, he’s just kind of annoyed by the way it’s done and the time it takes since it leaves him with nothing to really do while he waits with the incessant jabbing of the needle… yeah, he’s not a fan

Horangi has scars on his back (tiger scars!!!) from his youth, they’re not pretty or nice to look at, all ridged flesh and awkward lines, he couldn’t sleep on his back for weeks while they healed; and even after that there was phantom pain.

Because of these scars, Horangi dislikes having his back to anyone even more than the usual soldier. Not because he got the scars in that way, but simply because he’s subconsciously aware of them being there and he doesn’t like the idea of having them out in the open (even though he knows they can’t be seen when he’s dressed)

Horangi likes to doodle, no he’s not a good artist, he just likes to scribble on things, drawing in the dirt with a stick when he was a kid kind of thing, always carries a pen with him and doodles when he’s bored

Horangi is a great swimmer, like athlete level good at it. Do not try to race him, he will win

Is an avid language enjoyer, Horangi actually likes exploring different languages and how they work phonetically as well as alphabetically. His English is remarkably good, even with his thick accent

On that note, Horangi’s penmanship is… less than perfect. Maybe a small case of doctor’s handwriting if you know what I mean. He tends to slant his words a bit, and it looks a little like chicken scratch, but it’s charming in its own right

Horangi likes rock and rap, I think when he was a teen he would have really liked No Brain, especially the song “내 가죽잠바 My Leather Jacket” as well as western heavy metal, though he likes rap and hip hop too, anything fast paced or with a heavy beat (guilty pleasure listening might be lighter r&b) if you saw Gangnam style in his playlist, no you didn’t

If Horangi played an instrument it would be electric guitar, but only as an excuse to shred until the callouses on his fingers split and he had to wait for new ones to develop

Horangi is selfless to a fault, he likes to think he wouldn’t go through hell and back for just about anyone when he knows deep down he would in a heartbeat, he’s always cared deeply about others, he just struggles a little to express it, very much more of a subdued affection kind of guy, shown through little actions instead of straightforward declarations which are a rarity, but do happen

Horangi likes the military because it gave him purpose and direction. And best of all- an outlet. What else was he supposed to do with his somewhat short fuse and need to release pent up energy? Bashing up enemy forces seemed a good enough way as any

Horangi takes his coffee black, americano. (Shamelessly stole this headcanon from his voice actor…)

Bonus :

(His words not mine, do with this information what you will)

Now… König is somewhat of a difficulty for me to work through, he’s a bit of a silly bastard I can say that much. Still working on disemboweling him to understand how he works so his list might be a bit shorter, but I’ll try my damndest

König is clumsy, not in a “whoops I fell down the stairs silly me…” way but in a “where the hell did I leave my keys..?” kind of way, which is funny because he always struck me as someone who pays attention to detail while also having situational blindness, like “holy shit there was a car right there” even when you could ask him what the arrangement of crates were in a cargo shipment and he could tell you exactly without needing to think hard about it

König is absolutely incapable of keeping himself still, one of the reasons he was denied the position of a sniper… whether it be literally twiddling his thumbs, or bouncing his leg, he is always moving one part of his body at any given time

Two words, bad liar… König is a terrible liar even, not even consciously he just isn’t good at not giving an honest answer, especially if it’s to people he’s comfortable being around. Shifting eyes, clenched jaw, kicked puppy sort of demeanor if he’s actively trying to withhold the truth, he’s bad at covering it up unless he’s annoyed, then he can evade giving a straight answer but otherwise he can be read like an open book

In terms of social interaction, König is not some sort of inept stuttering dork, rather I would simply describe him as a little out of his element in mundane social settings. He’s a menace on the field, and he’s comfortable with that, when he isn’t occupied with something physically or mentally demanding however… he’s a tad socially awkward. But he’s still brazen and a little cocky, albeit easily annoyed or flustered (not blushing wreck flustered, just at a loss for words and maybe a few confused blinks if anything)

König is also competitive and a bit of a grump honestly, he takes things personally and tends to overthink, maybe a bit of a bad habit that involves twisting things in his mind until they’re warped from what they initially were, but yeah he’s gonna take things as a challenge or a jab at his abilities (inferiority complex coming back with a vengeance in the form of feeling like he needs to prove himself constantly)

That’s not to say König isn’t a “gentle giant” he does have a soft spot and isn’t prone to picking fights himself, but he’s also… bipolar for lack of a better word, he would definitely treat something with the most tenderness his large hands can allow, but then turn around and obliterate an entire unit with a blind sort of unhinged arrogance that doesn’t take kindly to being rivaled

König is like a barely domesticated guard dog with self worth issues that present themselves through mild narcissism and social insecurity. Again, he’s a madman, just listen to his voicelines, Horangi may look insane on the outside but he’s actually relatively stable, König on the other hand is like a carefully constructed bridge made of entirely weak points that are holding themselves together by faint pressure and the whole thing is covered in tape that mask wounds instead of bandaids

If König played an instrument it would be drums, he needs to be able to bash on things, I think he would get frustrated with something like guitar or bass

König is a bit demanding with things he wants, and likes to think he can get what he wants with relatively little struggle, not that he’s a spoiled brat by any means, just that he sees something and goes “I want that.” And isn’t afraid to say that he wants it, and that’s basically saying “I intend to get it” but he also does have manners, and isn’t exactly extroverted, but he has an obvious sort of intensity about him that really shines on the field, he likes a good fight

(Que “Finally some worthy adversaries!” line)

König knows he’s strong and is confident in his abilities, but despite knowing this he still doesn’t take praise well. Or compliments, he’s all sure of his abilities until someone points out he did a good job and suddenly he has no idea what to say, similarly if he thinks he can handle something and voices that, and someone replies “yeah you’re right, you’ve got this” he’d be like “???” because he’s not used to the positive reciprocation, he’s used to only having himself and the physical proof that he can do things and do them well, so when someone points it out he’s at a loss

König is more likely to let German slip into his speaking than Horangi is to let Korean slip into his, König’s English also isn’t as good as Horangi’s

König is a little possessive and can get defensive too. Stems from his childhood, being picked on a bit he learned to keep his stuff close to him and be careful who he shares with if at all, and is not trusting even if on the outside he appears relatively open despite his social awkwardness

However, König likes having instructions and knowing what exactly needs to be done, he’s organized and likes not always having to make a lot of complex decisions— the structure of the military gives him a way to keep himself occupied in this manner. And he likes feeling like he has a use, even if it’s not exactly what he wanted

(He’s still bitter about not being a sniper).

König’s handwriting is surprisingly nice, it’s neat and simple, but he doesn’t write paper and pencil often, in fact he usually records numbers and data if anything, and types everything else. He likes using digital tablets

König takes his coffee sweet, and doesn’t care about the temperature, he’ll drink coffee that started out warm and sat out long enough to get cold.

Rammstein fan? König is guilty. Also loves Slipknot and Korn. Orange Sector fan to the end too. His guilty pleasure is instrumental music. (Sometimes he and Horangi share their music with one another)

König wears his hair long (not super long, just a little unkempt and about jaw length), and he has stubble. He keeps his hair tied in a low bun for missions, on leave and for downtime he’ll tie the bun higher

König is shockingly loyal, like makes a conscious effort to be loyal to people, and is surprisingly thoughtful about little things that others wouldn’t really pay much mind too. It’s sort of a subconscious thing actually, he remembers a lot of insignificant stuff for no real reason, it just sticks

In König’s mind, he has a few jokes he came up with that he thinks are hilarious but has never had a chance to say them and is also a little doubtful other people would be as amused as him, so he keeps them to himself.

(Horangi might luck out one day)

Cough… and that’s all!! I’ll update this if I ever think of any more. But yeah, that’s all I got. Hope you enjoyed

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carbon-corrie · 3 months ago

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Please share more about Crisis and his small blue child. They are now also on my mind (because they are extremely cute)

Oooooh Lord, you've just opened a Pandora's box!! I'll happily yap about these two all day, any day. This is going to be a long post, so the rest is under the cut!

- Crisis' CT number (CT-1208) is a loose reference to what's considered normal blood pressure - 120/80

- The best way I can describe his personality is a hellish mix of Bobby Singer from Supernatural and Dr. Gearloose from the 2017 Ducktales

- Due to Crisis' decision to have all-black armor for higher visibility on the field, he's made himself a much larger target to the enemy. He's suffered some pretty bad injuries that eventually cause slight mobility issues as he gets older. He still refuses to change his armor.

- He got his name because he used to be extremely high strung. His brothers made fun of him for always being in crisis, and the name stuck. He definitely mellowed out after being placed under Djinn's command (not like he had a choice - Djinn is the type to command battles in a Hawaiian shirt while blasting Jimmy Buffett)

- While Djinn is the Marshal Commander of the 607th, any seasoned soldier knows to go to Mom Friend Crisis™ with any serious problems. (This includes Djinn)

- Nyali was a part of a group of younglings that the 607th was escorting shortly before O66. She was immediately drawn to Crisis, and that ended up saving her life when the order was given. She was four at the time.

- Crisis decided almost immediately that Nyali was his kid. As soon as he realized that the Jedi had been exterminated, he knew that he'd never leave her side.

- Crisis hates anything to do with water (which is unfortunate as he has a Nautolan daughter now)

- Nyali wasn't very snarky until she went on the run with Crisis. That changed pretty quickly.

- Crisis never quite shakes his military habits and lives with a lot of anxiety, even after he and Nyali have gotten to a safe place.

- Nyali has an extremely strong connection to the Force. She sees everything through the lens of the Force and is able to ascertain what kind of person someone is by how the Force flows through them. She cried for days after O66 because she was able to feel the free will of the clones being ripped away, and the lives of thousands being snuffed out of existence. This was very confusing to Crisis, who knew next to nothing about the Force or children.

- Nyali, being so sensitive to the Force and the lives within it, is extremely prone to night terrors and visions of other beings suffering. It takes a long time for her to be able to articulate this as a child, but Crisis figured out pretty quickly that she sleeps better if he holds her. By the time she's seven or eight, she's mostly grown out of this and can manage better on her own.

- Once when Nyali was swimming, she was underwater for a very long time. Despite his hatred of water, Crisis immediately jumped in to "save" her, forgetting that she's capable of breathing under water. Nyali teases him about this relentlessly.

- Though Crisis can't feel the Force, he's one of the strongest believers in the cosmic energy. He knows that the Force is responsible for guiding his daughter to him.

I hope you enjoy this hodgepodge of information!!! I tried to format it as coherently as possible, but it's also a bit of a 12am word vomit. As always, thanks for the ask, and I'm more than happy to yap about these two any time! 🥰

#star wars #the clone wars #sw tcw #star wars clones #clone ocs #clone oc #sw ocs #sw oc #star wars oc #oc nyali #nyali and crisis #sergeant crisis #oc crisis #oc lore #607th legion #commander djinn #djinn #jedi!maul

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alwayscorvus · 6 months ago

Note

i have no idea whether or not you take request but ill just shoot my shot ( if u dont take reqs, its a-okay, you can just ignore this)

but if you do, would it be fine for me to request a fic with reader x werewolf!yuanwu ( too late for Halloween? perhaps, but its never a wrong time to enjoy some good supernatural stuff) and something about transformation and discovering about yuanwu's condition ( you dont have to rigidly follow this one, you have full creative freedom over this one)

im currently going insane w the lack of yuanwu content and my brain decides to make me more feral by giving an idea for werewolf!yuanwu <`3

Bittberry Tea

malereader x werewolf!Yuanwu, fluff;

one thing for sure, we both have a great sense of timing when it comes to "Halloween" vibes. I take requests but just hardly ever have time to write them (I mean... I have time for writing just not for translating it later...). So maybe u already forgot about your Yuanwu's phase... Still thanks a lot for it!

even if its not the best, it's probably the longest post i have ever written... and I will try to never make the same mistake again, so enjoy!

Sometimes changes in life weren't as bad as they might seem. Sometimes they opened up a doors for new opportunities.

Or at least that's what your father always said.

That's why when you had to move back to Jinzhou in order to take charge of family business, you weren't really bothered. After all, you had always been prepared for such a turn of events. You went on a trip around the world, met true masters in their fields and gained a knowledge in subjects of tea brewing and herb gathering, just because of that. Also, your father was getting older and his condition didn't really allow him to continue his work.

Time to use your hard-earned skills and expand Liuxian Teahouse's business by opening up customers to a new exotic flavors, has finally come.

But of course, road to success couldn't be too easy. And your enthusiasm was bound to run into a wall called "reality". That definitely chilled your father's dreams. Maybe your traditional teahouse wasn't going to rack and ruin, but for the past decade it clearly didn't live up to its potential in gaining more popularity. And you were the one who was supposed to change that. However, your customers didn't really seem to follow this vision. They were terrified of trying anything new. But surprisingly, you weren't completely taken aback by their attitude and still tried to convince them to new flavors and techniques.

Especially one particular person. Which was stubborn like no one else. And which, despite many attempts, never gave up in sticking to their old habits.

When you returned to Jinzhou, staff introduced him to you as a regular customer of your tea shop. Technically he was there first and that gave him a big advantage over you. But in the end, precisely because of that reason, you couldn't let him win.

How could a person who saw you almost every day miss out so much by closing themselves on only one solution?

-Yuanwu - you announced in an anticipating voice at the sight of a newly arriving customer. Almost feeling happy with the idea of your victim finally getting caught into a trap.

Man looked at you with slightly frightened eyes. He really hoped that he wouldn't find you behind a counter today.

Or let's be honest… it was a lie.

Subconsciously, he really wanted to see you. After all, he started coming here more often precisely because of you. Not like before; once or twice a week, but for the past six months almost daily. Just to see your warm smile and exchange a few sentences about how he was doing. He didn't feel the need to talk about himself. If he did, he always had a plenty of people in his gym that he could burden with his thoughts. Yet, he didn't. The only reason why he was getting out of his comfort zone was your charming voice… As soothing as a warm coat on an icy night, as hot as freshly brewed tea and as refreshing as a breeze of spring. Combination that Yuanwu loved and that he could listen to over and over again. Even if it was limited to just few simple answers, winks and snorts of laughter. Oh, how much Yuanwu would give to be able to hear more. Especially about you. Curiosity got the best of him.

But not today. Not during this period. Especially when this was getting closer.

-You weren't here yesterday -you pointed out correctly, trying to let his guard down- A tough fight?

You referred to this tournament that Yuanwu's gym had recently held while rolling up your sleeves to slowly get down to brewing his tea.

Man only mumbled at this with a nod. He really was exhausted. This season was seriously giving him a hard time, and this responsibilities that he had added to himself weren't really helping. But at first, he thought they would be the perfect solution to occupy his thoughts and give him a great excuse to not visit you until everything would be resolved. And while he actually managed to act wisely yesterday, today his instincts didn't let him. And brought him right at your door. Yuanwu hated that, it made him act completely like not him. He became hyperactive and relied on raw force as if in his teenage years. But he couldn't help it, even his calm approach wasn't able to overcome this urge. Before he could even think about it, he was already sitting on a stool at your bar.

Yuanwu scratched himself intensely behind his right ear. Place where his fedora unpleasantly squished his head began to itch heavily again. This time a habit that he also hated. Though maybe not so much, because it always made you smile. And although it involved a great amount of embarrassment (which Yuanwu had no intention of showing on his stoic face) nothing excited him more than your laugh. He really couldn't understand where this feelings were coming from, but ever since he saw you for the first time, some strange force had been pulling him persistently towards you. Exactly like you to him.

You secretly glanced at him with tenderness. Despite his age, proud aura, bulky body or even beard itself, you couldn't deny that sometimes Yuanwu reminded you of a big puppy. Even if he evoked fear and awe in others, there were some certain adorable slip-ups that he made. Reactions of excitement when you agreed with him or sad pouts when he found out that he wouldn't see you for the weekend. All those little gestures unnoticeable at first glance that didn't let you dismiss this thought.

Yuanwu took his fedora off and placed it carefully on the wooden countertop, not far from his hands, which he intertwined together just a seconds later.

He looked in your direction and swallowed his saliva heavily. Seeing your arms exposed to your elbows and your veins tensed from precarious job, Watching your exposed arms and veins, tensed up from precise job, made something unpleasantly swirl around in his stomach. Your focused gaze and carefully thought-out movements while crushing the leaves didn't help either. Your elegance in performing of such a simple tasks was breathtaking. Your movements were so smooth, as if you had done it thousands of times before. And Yuanwu didn't doubt that this could be the case. You were so dedicated to your work that man didn't allow himself to question your passion for your profession or years you had dedicated to perfecting yourself. Yuanwu greatly admired your devotion.

But wait a minute. Something wasn't right. Man looked suspiciously at the stickers of a boxes that you had just used.

-I will have a Bittberry Tea- he warned right away, and you sighed in resignation.

-Fine - you gently lifted one corner of your lips, more amused than offended at the idea of being caught red-handed.

You definitely weren't trying to secretly sneak the other tea.

Or maybe you did.

But at least you didn't have any bad intentions!

And Yuanwu knew this very well. And after all this attempts in convincing him to try something new, he would have agreed to go along a long time ago. After all, he was already too old for such pestering and this types of games were too tiresome and tedious for him. But if the case involved you... Man just had to admit that he was fond of your attention. And thanks to this tea he was gaining a lot of it. If he gave in, your little play would stop and he would lose the only excuse he had to pique your interest.

Or at least that's what he thought.

-By the way… I was just wondering… -you turned your back to Yuanwu as if looking for a new cup, but in fact slightly embarrassed by your sudden boldness- This Saturday there is a full moon and... -your hand froze in a mid-air- I know a great place from where you can see the moon perfectly. Weather hasn't been good lately, but now it's supposed to be suitable for night walks - word by word you quickened your pace, trying to have this stressful moment behind you as soon as possible- when I was still a teenager I loved to stay there and admire the moon for hours. Maybe- Just maybe-… - you turned rapidly towards Yuanwu- you would like to go there with me?

Man looked at you with wide-open eyes. Almost as if he saw a ghost.

You smiled awkwardly. You just screwed up.

How could you even think about having a chance with someone like Yuanwu?! Let's be honest, after all, someone like him was bound to already have a partner. Even if he didn't brag about it. And if not. You were a simple tea seller, while he ran the most respected gym in all Huanglong. You were out of his league. He wouldn't even look at you.

While you felt a mental breakdown. Yuanwu gently slid down on his stool and with an sudden “excuse me!” ran out of a teahouse.

You watched with resignation as his figure disappeared behind a slightly glazed door.

This clearly wasn't the best moment.

It's a good thing that tea makers weren't required to be overly intelligent. Because, if your father had seen you just now, he would have definitely disinherited you from the rights of your family business.

Did you, in your foolishness, choose to talk to Yuanwu and try to repair your not even developed relationship, after he didn't show up at your place for the past three days? Yes. And was it a good idea? Absolutely not.

But something deep inside you told you that you couldn't let it go just like that. Over the past few months, you had grown used to seeing this gray-haired man who decided to reveal his vulnerability to you. And you couldn't imagine ending things like that. Without any answer. That wasn't even in Yuanwu's style.

Anyway, you hoped that even though he didn't reciprocate your feelings he would at least agree to remain as your friend. After all, you didn't even declare anything.

Anyone could have gone on a night walk in the moonlight… Right?

You didn't find him at the gym. You didn't find him at home. You felt a sense of resignation, but only for a moment. Yuanwu's kind neighbor gave you an idea about his potential whereabouts. Although she didn't know him very well, as he rarely talked about himself, she was a great observer. And a bit prying by the way… She couldn't help but pay attention to his enight escapades. Especially since he always came back from them pretty bruised. As if he had drunk a lot and run into a wrong company. And everyone thought that he was such a well-mannered gentleman! Such lies couldn't spread on neighbor's watch. She wasted a couple of evenings, but it was worth it -or at least, that's how she bragged.

Looking carefully through the window, she finally came to a conclusion. Surprisingly, man wasn't sneaking to a bars but somewhere out of town. She had probably hoped for something else. Because this rumors didn't sound as spicy as they might have. But at least she learned some of the truth that was unknown to others. And if it weren't for her old, sick legs that slowly refused to obey her, she would certainly have known more of it.

Not really bothered by older woman's remarks, you focused on Yuanwu himself and headed to a pointed direction. It was getting dark outside so you wanted to find him as soon as possible.

There was only one path leading in the given way, not really awell-trodden one, but you recognized it immediately. It led to a small forest where you and your father used to collect leaves for brews. You remembered this place well thanks to a small wooden woodcutter's hut. Once... magical and cozy. Now... rather abandoned and falling.

You tilted your head to the side pleasantly surprised. There was a smoke coming from a chimney, which suggested someone's presence.

Yuanwu - you thought with hope and rushed to the door hastily knocking.

Nothing.

You repeated.

Still nothing.

Exactly as if he was hoping for you to think that no one was here and leave.

-Yuanwu, I know you are there. Please open up. Let's talk.

Silence.

You growled in disappointment and banged your fist onto a door.

-Yuanwu, please-

You whimpered.

-I won't leave until I find out why you ran out like a scalded cat. I know that we may never have gotten to know each other more deeply, but I've managed to really like you and I can't imagine us suddenly stopping talking. I can't imagine my days at work without you by my side- I-.... -you spoke pleadingly until you heard a quiet rustling.

Your eyes lit up. You took a step back.

Locks in doors clicked. Rotten planks shifted with weight.

Through a small crack you saw a wasted face of Yuanwu. Dark circles stung your heart.

-Just hurry.

He swung the door open, letting you inside.

With each of your movements, a cloud of dust rose in the air. You coughed, chasing away an unwelcome gray particles.

Finally, you were able to get a better look at him. He was hunched over and drenched in sweat. Exhausted as if he hadn't slept for a week. With his right hand, he held up a small oil lamp, and with his left, he pressed tighter to his chest a thick blanket that wrapped around him like a coat.

Yuanwu carefully put down on a small table the only source of light besides a fireplace and threw himself onto the old mattress located right next to him on icy floor.

You moved toward the windows, wishing to brighten the room with more light thanks to a rising moon.

-No!

You heard a desperate scream and instantly turned towards man.

-Just... please don't.

-O-okay?

You took slow, uncertain steps to curled up Yuanwu. You weren't sure what had just happened, but his condition definitely scared you. The only thing you thought about was helping him, but you didn't really know how.

Seeing that he wasn't reacting badly to your closeness, you crouched down and gently placed your hand on his shoulder. He shuddered. But didn't push you away. So you allowed yourself to gently massage his arm through a pile of old rags.

-Are you all right? Did someone hurt you? Just tell me what I can do to help you-

-Everything is all right. Nothing has happened. I'm just-… ill. And I need some space - he was speaking calmly in a weak voice- And about… That. Do not worry. You know that sometimes I haven't visited you for a while, but I always came back. Now I will also be back. Just not today… And maybe not tomorrow - he laughed bitterly- But the day after tomorrow I will definitely return, for you to once again try to push something in me that is not a Bittberry Tea. Everything will be the same as before. Of course, as long as you still want to keep in touch with me - he reflected.

-Of course I want to! - you protested- After all, that's why I'm here. But that doesn't explain anything-

-Good. -he smiled slightly- But now you should go. There is no time-

-What? I'm not going anywhere-

-No, really. I don't know why, but it's much worse this time-

-What's worse?

-That's-... not important! Please. Go

-No way, I'm not going anywhere until I know what this is all about

Yuanwu shuddered again. This time harder. As if some strange force threw his body. He curled into a ball and gripped his ears to cut off all the loud sounds.

-Yuanwu? -you whispered- Please, say what's-...

-Too late.

A shiver went through your spine. Something in those words and his tone made your blood run cold. But you still didn't move away. On the contrary, you covered him with your body and hugged tightly.

Yuanwu began to shuffle and pull away. But you were stronger, more desperate.

-Let go! I will hurt you - he groaned with difficulty, before his voice got replaced with loud growls and screams of pain.

Agony, as if someone was tearing him apart.

-Not a chance

You gripped him even tighter. Squeezed your eyes shut and waited.

You thought it was just an ordinary convulsionof person in fever. That it would pass soon.

Until it didn't. Until his limbs began to bend in different directions. Until blankets began to tear. Until you felt rough hairs under your fingers.

Something like… fur?

You felt a punch. With a loud thump you fell on the floor. He pushed you away.

More gasps, groans. Cries in indescribable pain.

Finally, a loud howl.

You pulled yourself up, trying to sit up. You rubbed your eyes and looked ahead.

You couldn't believe in what you were seeing.

In front of you, there was a hunched over Yuanwu. Or at least someone who looked like him. He was bigger. More muscular. Naked. But not quite. His torn clothes were replaced by silvery fur, similar to his natural hair color.

You weren't sure what you had just experienced.

Yuanwu looked at you with a frightened and troubled gaze. His eyes, though currently more of a predator than Yuanwu himself, showed a fearful look. Scared of being judged.

-What-… -you quickly corrected yourself- who-…. who are you?

Yuanwu whimpered, letting out the first tears.

You ran out of breath. Why- why was he crying?

-I know that I am a monster. But please, please, can you not leave me? -he threw out pleadingly in a moment of weakness.

Who had hurt him so much to bring such a large, reserved man to this state?

-Please?

His breaking voice tore your heart.

You didn't think twice. You pushed back in a sudden surge of energy and once again threw yourself with a hug on Yuanwu. Your Yuanwu.

You didn't wait for explanations. You didn't need assurances. You didn't even think that Yuanwu could hurt you.

The only thing you wanted to do at that moment, in all this chaos, was to keep him safe.

BONUS:

Liuxian Teahouse was famous for its openness to all four-legged friends. Yuanwu knew this very well, and that's why at first he chose exactly that teahouse.

Whenever he was there he didn't miss a chance to feed his beloved cats. And each time this happened, it greatly amused you. Whenever man approached bowls, cats hissed jumped straight and ran away in a hurry. Leaving Yuanwu with a disappointed look.

However, he never gave up. Poured food to the brim and removed himself into the shadows.

Whenever he left, animals returned. And he, sipping hot tea at the bar, dreamily admired the fluffy creatures who happily ate.

In the past, you were truly fascinated with the idea of cats disliking such a kind man.

Now you knew their secret.

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naushtheaspiringauthor · 15 days ago

Text

~Invisible String~

Bob Reynolds x Narissa Andersen (oc!)

Chapter-5

Chapter-4 / Chapter-3 / Chapter-2 / Chapter-1

Warnings- just a wee bit of angst at the end

Summary- After being surrounded inside the vault, the newly formed team has to figure out a way to get out and go back home alive.

A/N- Writing fanfiction is basically how I spend my weekends so here’s another chapter. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. And as always, any form of feedback is appreciated. Let me know if you’d like to be added to this fic’s taglist and or my Bob Reynolds fanfiction taglist in general (I’m making one now shhh)

oh and btw, the random scenes written in between in italics are flashbacks if there’s any confusion regarding it

Word count- 3,765

“We need to come up with a plan” Yelena paced around, one hand on her hip.

“Okay here’s what we’re gonna do,” Walker began.

”Oh you’re the boss now?” Ava tilted her head. “Cute”.

Nessa raised an eyebrow at him. “No way I’m taking orders from you”.

“Well yeah it’s your only chance of getting out” Walker turned to Nessa.

“I think I’ll probably just surrender,” Bob spoke up from a corner.

”Fine” Walker raised his shoulders briefly. "Every man for himself”.

“Why should you be in charge?” Yelena questioned. “You almost got us all killed back there”.

“Well let’s see,” Walker began. “I’ve been in the trenches of every war-torn country on this planet, rescued God knows how many hostages, and shook the hands of two U.S. Presidents” he listed.

“What else?” He raised a hand.

Nessa let out an annoyed grunt as he went on.

“Uh oh,” he pointed a finger. “high school state football champions. “Back to back to back”.

”Go bears!” He raised his fist in the air.

“Oh wow” Yelena said. “When I was five, I was on a little league soccer team called the ‘West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts, sponsored by Shane’s Tire Shop’”.

“We didn’t win a single game the entire time and this girl, Mindy, did a poo mid field”.

Nessa grimaced.

She motioned with her hand, "Anyone else have any pointless childhood stories to tell?”.

“I grew up in a lab prison” Ava stated.

“Meth addicted sign twirling chicken” Bob added.

Nessa turned to him, an eyebrow raised.

He raised a shoulder, “Summer job”.

“Had to stop my mother from od’ing multiple times” Nessa added, pursing her lips afterwards.

The rest of them stared at her.

“Right so” She snapped her attention back to the whole group. “Here’s the plan” she began.

“I set off an explosion, cut the power momentarily”.

“I don’t know,” Walker interjected. “Too many variables with an explosion”.

“They’d have to turn on their night vision,” Nessa continued, ignoring him.

“You handle the first wave with Yelena” she told him.

“but you wait for me after I’ve blinded the rest of the troops” she then turned to Yelena who nodded in agreement.

“Wait so everyone’s just gonna wait for you?” Walker asked Nessa.

“It’ll only work if you wait for me,” she explained . “Ava you’ll have to find us an escape vehicle” she turned to the woman.

“It’s a terrible plan,” Walker declared.

“Oh yeah?” She crossed her arms. “Well what do you guys think?” She turned to the rest of them.

“I- I think it’s a great plan” Bob nodded, offering her a small smile.

“It’s better than whatever Walker comes up with,” Yelena shrugged.

Walker scoffed.

“I’ll take my chances with it” Ava gave a nod.

Nessa then turned to Walker, “You were saying?” She raised an eyebrow.

He huffed, “Fine, we stick to your plan.” He agreed, begrudgingly.

“Well I’ll be off” Ava declared, vanishing before anyone could say anything.

”Wait, what about me?” Bob suddenly called out.

Nessa turned to him, feeling guilty for not including him, “You stay with me Bob” she told him.

”Let’s do this,” said Yelena, lips forming a thin line.

Nessa gave her a nod in response.

Nessa walked towards the darkened corner with slow, cautious steps. Bob followed her, his steps making a lot more noise than hers.

“There” she muttered as they reached the rows of electrical panels.

She strode forward, observing the panels briefly before pressing a row of buttons.

“Step back, Bob” she motioned with her hand.

He quietly obliged, shuffling backwards.

She waited until he was at a safe distance, then turned her focus back to the work at hand.

She raised her arms, drawing power from the electricity around her.

She heard Bob gasp as soon as the depths of her skin began to glow a bright yellow.

With one swift motion of her hands, she threw a blast at the panels and quickly stepped backwards.

The explosion came in a split second, the sound echoing all around them.

Their surroundings suddenly went dark. The glow in her palms faded.

“That did it” she nodded to herself.

“How- how do you do that?” he asked, breathless as he looked at her in awe.

“By channeling any form of energy that’s present around me and using it in its raw form” she explained.

She then went back to the panels, fumbling with the switches as Bob came back to her side.

“Maybe I should have a gun?” He suggested.

She raised an eyebrow as she kept her focus on her work, “D’you know how to use one?”.

“I know how to use a plastic one,” He offered.

“Then, no” she fumbled with one of the buttons, finally turning the power off.

“but we're gonna have to fight, right?” He asked.

“Yeeeep” she said, stretching out the word.

”I’ll do the fighting, don't worry” she shifted her gaze to him. “You just stay behind me”.

”This- the medical trial” He began.

“It was supposed to make me feel better, I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I feel like maybe I could help” his features relaxed slightly.

Nessa furrowed her brows, her lips forming a thin line, “You said you didn’t know anything about it?”.

“A little” he tilted his head. “I just remember they said I was going to die”.

Nessa stomach dropped, fear slithered over her back like a throned vine.

“This procedure might kill you, do you understand?” The man in the labcoat knelt down to meet her gaze.

But her eyes were glassy, unfocused, as she stared ahead. “Yes,” she said.

She snapped her gaze to the man, “I don’t care”.

Nessa snapped back to the present, focusing back on Bob.

“They said it was for people who wanted to do something better for themselves,” he explained.

A frown appeared on Nessa’s features.

She knew exactly what he meant.

”It’s just…” he trailed off, hesitation creeping over his features.

“You can tell me, Bob,” she offered a reassuring nod.

“Can I- trust you?” He asked.

“Well” she pursed her lips. “That’s up to you”.

He gazed at her for a moment, his gaze softened. “It’s just that” he continued. “I’ve always had these episodes ever since I was a kid”.

Nessa’s features relaxed

“There’s a high,” he continued to explain. “And then there’s a big low”.

“Then my memory just goes blank”.

“But this time I feel like something bad happened, or I did something bad” his voice wavered as the fear crept onto his features.

She shifted her focus back to her work as the timer on her watch began to beep.

”I mean, everyone here has done bad things” she pulled a series of levers up, so as to turn the power back on.

“I just.. I feel like this is a whole new kind of wake up for me” Bob’s voice was quiet now.

Nessa blinked a few times as their surroundings continued to remain darkened. “Wait no that was supposed to do it”.

Panic rushed into her as the power didn’t turn back on.

”But we have to turn it back on” Bob’s voice was brimming with panic.

“Yeah” she banged the levers and buttons multiple times, failing to turn the power back on.

“I mean, they were blinded,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, I know, Bob,” she paced around, fumbling with the switches.

”That was your plan,” he added.

”Not helping” she said, her mind was racing. “The explosion messed up the wires” she muttered under her breath.

But Bob seemed to have heard her, “What?” He asked, his eyes widened in fear.

“Fuck this” she muttered. “Come on” she turned to Bob as she motioned with her chin.

She stepped into the now darkened hallway, walking forward.

He quickly fell into step beside her.

”I hate to say this but- I think Walter was right” he admitted quietly.

Nessa frowned, “His name’s Walker”.

Faint sounds of gunshots and fighting started to come as they strode forward.

The sounds got louder and louder until Nessa suddenly laid a hand out in front of Bob, which made him crash into her hand.

The sounds suddenly halted.

She slowly took out her gun from its holster, keeping a firm grip on it as she slowly walked forward.

She turned on her flashlight and pointed in towards the ground. There were several unconscious soldiers lying on the floor, but no sign of Yelena or John.

”They’re gone” Bob breathed behind her.

Her lips formed a thin line, “We find our own way out of here then”.

Suddenly, a group of armed soldiers appeared in front of them, guns raised.

Nessa ushered backwards into the hallway, grabbing Bob by the arm in the process and pulling him away.

The sound reached her ears before the smoke did, a series of faint hissing.

She rushed towards the unconscious soldiers, pulling two face masks from them.

“Put it on” she commanded Bob as she handed him one. Then quickly put the other one on.

She took slow, cautious steps as she moved through the haze of the smoke, making sure Bob was behind her.

She grabbed one of the soldiers from behind, pinning his arms behind his back as she kicked him in the back of his leg, making him lose his footing.

She ripped his gun from his grasp, thrashing it down on his back, making him fall to the ground.

She aimed and shot several shots at another soldier.

She quickly discarded the weapon and sideways, scaling the wall as soon as she made contact with it.

She threw her weight down at one of them, making him crash to the ground.

She rolled forward, hooking her leg to another one. She grabbed him by the elbow as she got back on her feet, twisting his arm around and slamming him down to the ground.

One of them grabbed her by the neck from behind. She gritted her teeth as she planted her left leg, throwing a kick backwards to the man’s calf.

His grip around her neck loosened as he stumbled backwards. She grabbed his arm from both her hands and spun around, twisting his arm in the process.

She kept one hand on his arm and hooked the other one around his neck.

A sickening crack sounded as she jerked his head sideways. She pushed him sideways, making him crash to the ground.

”Oh shit!” Bob’s voice sounded from behind her.

She put up a gun from the floor and handed it to him, “There’s your gun”.

Another three soldiers rushed towards them. Nessa whipped her head sideways, finding a long hose.

”Stay behind me!” she ordered Bob.

She pulled the hose and wrapped it around her waist and bob’s, pulling him closer to her.

She stretched out her hands, sending a blast in the direction of the soldiers.

”How do I do this?” Bob asked frantically.

Just point at them and shoot!” She yelled back as another group charged towards them.

And so he tried, as one of the soldiers approached from his side.

“Aim higher!” She commanded as she threw simultaneous blasts at the ones shooting at her.

“Not at me!” She screamed as he pointed his gun in her direction in panic.

”Sorry” he shrieked.

She grabbed his hands, directing his aim towards the last two people rushing towards them, but they managed to block every shot.

”Stop stop stop!!” A voice rang out from amidst the gunshots, a woman’s voice.

”It’s us!” She ripped the mask away from her face to reveal a blonde woman.

Bob quickly stopped shooting.

Nessa released her grip on his hands and took off her mask.

“It’s us Nessa!” John’s voice came afterwards as he took off his mask.

Nesa unwrapped the hose from around her waist.

”Where the hell were you guys!?” She yelled. “I thought you left”.

”Where were you?” John and Yelena’s voices rang out at the same time.

”The explosion fried the wires” Nessa admitted with a sigh.

”I told you,” Walker said. ‘Too many variables”.

”And then you two didn’t wait” she jabbed a finger at them.

”We did wait!” Yelena added. “Are you two okay?” She added quietly.

Nessa turned back to Bob who was struggling to take his mask off.

“Yeah we’re okay," she nodded.

Suddenly, the earpiece in Walker’s ear began to sound.

Someone giving orders.

”We probably have about sixty seconds until they mow us” he stated.

”If Ghost Lady actually did what she was supposed to, maybe we’ll all get out of here alive”.

“How do we get out of here unnoticed then?’ Yelena asked.

”Yeahh about that..” Nessa trailed off as she looked back at Bob whose mask fell back on his face. “I have an idea”

The four of them were staggering outside into the open field. All dressed up in the black tactical suit of the people they’d just fought.

Walker and Nessa were on both sides of bob. His arms were around on their shoulders on both sides as they dragged him across the field.

Yelena was beside Nessa.

”I don’t want to be carried anymore,” Bob complained

“Shut up, Bob,” said Walker. “You’re injured, remember”.

Nessa shifted her gaze sideways and caught sight of Valentina, the woman who was the cause of it all.

Every muscle in Nessa’s body screamed at her to charge at the woman and strangle her with her bare hands, but she restrained herself.

Her jaw clenched as she walked ahead.

”We need a truck,” Yelena called out.

“Where’s Ava?” Nessa spoke, as they staggered forward.

The insane weight of the suit was not helping in the slightest.

“She’s gone” said Yelena as they looked around, having no sight of the masked woman.

”Of course she is,” Walker grunted.

They stood in the empty field with no way out of there.

Suddenly, a truck rolled behind them. “Get in!” Ava called out from behind.

Relief flooded in Nessa’s chest as she let go of Bob.

”Nessa stay in the back with him,” Yelena said, gesturing towards Bob.

Bob was the first to enter the back of the truck, Nessa followed after, sitting in front of him .

”You two gonna be okay back here?” she asked them.

”Yeah” Nessa nodded as she took off her mask.

Nesa turned towards Bob who nodded in agreement.

Walker and Yelena shut the door as they went to sit in the front with Ava.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come back” Nessa called out to Ava from the back.

”You know that’s the second time she’s come back,” Walker said.

“This was my only way out, okay?” Ava responded. “That’s it”.

Nessa let out a chuckle

The truck began rolling shrotly after.

“Are you alright?” Bob asked her, moving his head downwards so he could meet her eye level.

“Hmm?” She looked upwards to meet his gaze. “Yeah I’m okay” she nodded.

“You?”

“Yeah” he breathed out.

“Don’t worry” she reassured him. “We'll be out of this mess soon enough”.

He offered her a smile as he nodded.

She looked at his eyes, his blue irises that somehow still managed to shine in the darkness of the back of a truck.

She felt the pull of a string at the depth of her heart. There was exhaustion woven in his irises, as if he’d been fighting for too long, running away from the doom that had chased him all his life.

And Nessa understood that exact feeling.

She’d felt it all her life.

But in the quietness of his company, there was something other than that quiet understanding. There was hope, hope for attaining something neither of them had ever thought of.

He might have understood that too, because his gaze softened as he looked at her.

His eyes shone brighter now.

She smiled

So did he

Suddenly, the truck jerked to a stop, making Nessa’s body jerk.

“Identify yourselves soldiers” A voice called out from somewhere outside.

Panic rose in Nessa’s chest. Her jaw was set, but she refrained from speaking.

“Part of the medical team” Walker’s voice sounded.

Nessa had shifted all her focus towards the front of the truck.

”Guys in the back are hit,” he continued. “We're taking them to the hospital”.

“Medical bay’s set up on the north side” the soldier’s voice sounded.

A sudden thud sounded behind Nessa.

She whipped her head to see Bob drop the last piece of his gear.

Nessa’s stomach lurched as she realised what he was about to do.

“No no no Bob don’t!” her voice trembled, her breath got stuck up in her throat.

But he just smiled, gently.

Her stomach lurched, it was a smile she knew all too well.

His hand reached out to the side of her face, “I trust you, Nessa” he stroked her check with his thumb.

Nessa’s heart was pounding against her chest, as she met his gaze.

Her eyes were widened in fear.

His were soft, a sea that was finally at peace after facing a long lasting storm.

He had decided to stop running.

His hands were suddenly on her shoulders. He pushed her backwards with much force.

She stumbled, crashing to the floor of the truck on her elbows.

He flung the truck doors open with unprecedented force and rushed out in just his hospital clothes.

He’d grabbed a gun from somewhere. Loud gunshots rang out in the air as he ran forward.

Nessa didn’t think, her body acted on impulse. She pushed herself back on her feet and staggered out of the door. “No Bob!” She screamed.

“Come back!” She yelled out, her voice ripped through her throat, but it was of no use.

He was long ahead of her by now, surrounded from all sides, guns were pointed at him.

He stopped in front of the vault's gate, completely unfazed by the rows of guns pointed at him. He raised his arm and shot the gun in the air, “Hey!” He called out. “I’m here!!” He yelled at the soldiers in front of him.

Nessa was running now.

Not again, not again, please, not again, the voice in her head was screaming now, begging, pleading.

But a whole round of shots rang out, the bullets pierced through every inch of Bob’s torso.

”No!” A scream tore its way out of her throat, but her voice was muffled by the sounds of gunshots.

Bob’s body fell backwards to the ground.

Suddenly she felt another body crashing on hers. Arms wrapped around her frame, pulling her back.

“Nessa!” The voice yelled out. “We have to go!”.

”We can’t save him!” Yelena pleaded as she pulled her backwards.

Nessa attempted to break free from her grasp.

She could feel her focus fading away

No not now! The voice in her head screamed.

But her focus suddenly came back to her when she saw a shape moving.

Bob

He slowly stood back up, arms raised at his sides, completely unfazed as if he hadn’t just been shot at least 47 times.

His shirt was filled with holes, revealing parts of his skin.

Her breath stuck in her throat.

She heard Yelena breathe out.

Another row of guns fired at him. Suddenly, Bob shot up in the air.

Nessa whipped her head upwards, but he was no longer visible.

Yelena quickly ushered her back inside the truck.

“Go go go!” She yelled out as she shut the doors behind her.

The truck began rolling again.

Nessa’s mind couldn’t comprehend what was going on.

Or how Bob had managed to survive that.

She couldn’t forget the look in his eyes, that quiet somber gaze, the way he’d smiled at her.

He’d done this for her.

He’d thrown himself into the fire so as to prevent her from burning.

Even though she'd done nothing to deserve it.

A sudden force made the whole truck shake.

“He’s coming back down,” Ava frantically declared.

“What?” Nessa breathed out.

But before she could further comprehend the situation, the ground shook beneath them. The force made the truck roll over.

And before Nessa could realise it, she was falling.

Taglist- @unavoidabledirewolf @sunflower-0180

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x y/n #bob reynolds x you #robert reynolds x reader #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts fic #thunderbolts x you #thunderbolts x y/n

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localplaguenurse · 10 months ago

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Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 7

Beta if you're reading this, I'll see you in a bit!

Notes: talks of ableism and homophobia, it's not reader full blown trauma dumping but he's talking about his experiences as a closeted man with a controlling family. Check masterlist for previous parts.

@thedeimoshimself @eli-chris

Pantalone’s demeanour immediately changes the moment the two of you are finally alone. The air in the room is no longer thick with tension, but as he offers you the last little piece of cake, you’re aware of a looming dread hanging over you. You’re aware the choice to finally stand your ground and defy your parents’ wishes, even if it’s just staying for dinner, will have consequences. Even then, witnessing Pantalone scold your parents like children was immensely satisfying, and makes your moment of recognized agency all the more sweeter.

Speaking of sweetness, the cherry bublanina is delicious. You hum at the taste, and swallow down your mouthful. “That’s actually really good,” you say, “did your staff make it, or did you get it somewhere?”

“It’s homemade,” Pantalone answers, “but I believe the recipe came from an old cookbook one of my chefs owns. I’m sure it’s out of print by now, so perhaps I can ask them to write the recipe for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

Pantalone looks at you inquisitively. “Say, do you cook?”

“I can, I just don’t do it much,” you answer. “We have a couple chefs, and as you just saw, my mother is very… protective, so she’s never liked the idea of me handling knives or being around stoves.”

Pantalone cringes a bit. “I can imagine.”

“I get it to an extent,” you continue, “not being able to see anything that isn’t directly in front of me has way more disadvantages than advantages, but she acts like I’ll immediately forget something unless I’m looking right at it. I’m losing my vision, not my object permanence, I still know where the stove is because I’m not stupid.”

“Does this sort of… situation happen a lot?”

You furrow your brow. “The object permanence or barging in on my private outings?”

“Both, I suppose. I’m asking if she’s ever been this overbearing before.”

You click your tongue, and turn your head away from Pantalone. You find yourself staring at a painting depicting a field of flowers with mountains in the background. After a moment of trying to make out what the flowers are, you sort of snap out of it and remember he asked you a question.

“Um…” You furrow your brow and think of all the times your mother has been overbearing in your childhood. You count incidents in your teen years all the way until now, and come to a realization. “I think she’s getting worse.”

You see Pantalone open his mouth to respond, and then your words sink in and he remains quiet.

You go on. “Compared to when I was little, she’s incredibly overbearing. I don’t even think it’s like she’s just as protective as when I was little, but now that I’m older it feels suffocating. I think she’s genuinely becoming more clingy with me.”

“I… I see. I’m sorry to hear that?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” you say, “and honestly, I don’t really want to talk about my parents right now.”

Your host shrugs. “I suppose that’s fair enough. To be quite honest, I only asked out of courtesy. I put up with your father’s antics and burdens enough as is.”

You chuckle. “I’d tell you you’re lucky you don’t live with him, but it wouldn’t be that different from now, huh?”

“No, it would not.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Pantalone perks up. You hear it open, and hear it’s Fyodor. “Sir, the two guests are having an argument outside.”

You hide your head in your hands and groan.

“Are they getting physical?” Pantalone asks.

“No, but it’s disturbing the peace and they’re not leaving.”

You hear Pantalone sigh. “If they don’t settle down and leave in the next two minutes, or if it does turn physical, get security involved.”

You presume Fyodor nods before he closes the door. You take a deep breath, humiliation washing over you and sinking into your pores. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t know why I expected them to be normal. I should’ve just declined the invite.”

You hear the scraping of Pantalone’s chair, and the clicking of heeled boots approaching you. You feel him right next to him, and jolt when his hand settles on your shoulder. You lift and turn your head to look at it, and here, you can see manicured nails, shining gemstone rings, and to your shock, how blemished and scar riddled the skin of his hand is. Some of them are small and neat, little cuts and scratches, but some are deep and painful looking, you’re not even sure what would have caused most of them. You can only assume the silvery splits on his knuckles are from old fights. What the hell happened to him?

“Would you care to see the library?”

You tilt your head up and see Pantalone smiling expectantly at you. “Oh, sure,” you answer. Pantalone steps back and lets you stand up from your chair. You push your chair back in before you follow Pantalone out of the room. Trailing behind him like a duckling, you find your pace instinctively slows down and your eyes drift back to the oddly unsettling art pieces he has lining the walls of the hallway. You want to be able to take in the macabre sight of them, which would be easier if you could actually see things normally.

Pantalone’s made considerable distance before he realizes you’re lagging behind. He stops, turning over to see you’ve now fully stopped, staring up at a particularly gruesome scene with some concern and confusion. He chuckles, joining you in staring up at the painting.

“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Indeed,” you reply, “love the use of red. Some say it’s the colour of warmth and love. I imagine it really puts guests at ease.”

He lets out a little laugh. “You know, perhaps I should have expected an author to have a little knowledge in colour theory.”

“It comes with the territory.”

“We’re almost to the library,” Pantalone states, “though we can stop and chat about art. I’m in no rush.”

You hum. “I’m more curious why all of your art is so… morbid.”

“I enjoy morbid art pieces,” Pantalone answers, “there’s something about the raw and visceral imagery that strikes a chord with me. Do you not enjoy it?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you reply, “I’ll read books about tragedy and horror every now and then, and I enjoy gruesome depictions in art as much as the next person.”

“But?”

You shrug. “I don’t think I’d put them up in every hallway, but that’s also my personal preference. If you like it, more power to you.”

“I’ve had a few members of staff say they’ve been startled by certain pieces when wandering the halls late at night,” Pantalone comments, “so perhaps that supports your argument better.”

“I mean, I probably wouldn’t even see them if I was walking around at night.”

“Right, no peripheral vision.”

“Oh, not even that.” You turn yourself so you can properly talk to Pantalone. “One of the other symptoms of my condition is night blindness. My eyes can’t adjust to darkness anymore.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you.”

“What are you… oh, oh.” Pantalone chuckles. “Very funny. I’m sure you make that joke a lot.”

“People take me going blind too seriously,” you say, “they’re always worried they’re going to upset me if they even bring it up. That or they try to baby me like my mother does. If I make fun of it, it kind of puts people at ease.”

“Well, going blind is rather serious, no?”

“I mean, yes, but if I’ve already made peace with it, then everyone else should too.”

The conversation continues as you and Pantalone make your ways down the hall. He glances at you over his shoulder. “Apologies if I’m overstepping, but doesn’t it scare you at least a little bit?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled,” you answer, “but you have to understand that I’ve known about this since I was eight. I’ve been living like this my whole life. Worrying isn’t going to make my eyesight better again, so I just have to grit my teeth, plan accordingly, and just keep going.”

“Fair enough.”

You follow Pantalone around a corner. “Besides, I can still see. I can’t see well, but I can see things.”

“What do you see, anyways? What does it look like for you?”

“Curl your index fingers and thumbs until they make two small holes, and then look through them. That’s pretty much it.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It certainly is.”

“Oh, here we are,” Pantalone says. He takes a step to the right and immediately disappears from sight. You turn to follow him–

Thunk! “Ow, fuck, shit.”

You hear Pantalone snort before he turns his laugh into a cough. “Are you alright?”

You rub your forehead. “It’s not the first door frame I’ve walked into, and it won’t be the last.”

“That was quite loud. Here, let me see…”

When you feel slim, calloused yet smooth fingers take hold of each side of your face, you immediately forget about walking into the door frame. He gently tilts your head up, and now all you can see is his face, and at this proximity you only see his face. He does not seem overly concerned, and his brow is furrowed in concentration. You nervously gulp, face growing hot. You’ve never had anyone this close to you, touching your face so tenderly, let alone another man. Not a man with striking eyes, with scarred, soft hands. Not a man who smells of black tea and leather scented cologne with notes of something floral.

Your eyes flick down to his lips, for the briefest of glances, and then Pantalone pulls back with a cheery expression. “You have a slight mark,” he tells you, “but nothing that should bruise.”

You imagine you look incredibly and obviously flustered, and your brain is still reeling at the lingering feeling of his hands on your face. You somehow pull yourself together and clear your throat with the elegance of a brick crashing through a window. “O-Oh, good, that’s good.”

“With that out of the way,” he continues, “this is the library.”

Pantalone steps aside to let you properly step inside. Your head is on a slow swivel, taking in the magnitude of the room. It’s magnificent, truly. Walls with bookshelves packed full of books from the tall ceiling to the hardwood floor. In one corner of the room, you spy a liquor cabinet. There’s also a fireplace glowing red and gold with flames, and two armchairs with an accompanying end table, arranged symmetrically a comfortable distance away from the fireplace.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

You’re speechless, in utter awe of the room you’re standing in. You step further into the room, marvelling at the sheer amount of books. It makes the “private library” your parents have at home look absolutely pitiful.

You hear Pantalone walk off. “Could I get you anything to drink? It’s a tad early for it, but I think we earned it for surviving that whole encounter.”

“Um… Oh, n-no, I’m okay for now,” you reply, still awestruck. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Enchanted?”

“Yes, thank you.” You turn to the direction his voice came from, and after a couple seconds of looking, you find him looking through his collection. He perks up when you speak. “How many of these books have you read?”

“All of them.”

You laugh. “Really? All of them?”

“A vast majority, at least,” he clarifies, “do you not believe me?”

“Would you be hurt if I said not really?”

“Absolutely shattered,” he teases, “I don’t think I would ever recover from the lies and slander.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, fine, I believe you.”

“Splendid.” He shuts the cabinet and gestures to the shelves. “You’re free to browse or take a seat. Dinner won’t be ready for hours, so if there’s anything you want to know or do, feel free to ask.”

“I don’t even know where I’d start…”

“I admittedly don’t read much romance,” Pantalone says, pointing to a shelf somewhere behind you, “but I believe I own some of the classics, and a few others.”

“Are any of them books I’ve written?”

“Not yet.”

“I figured as…” You blink. “Wait, not yet?”

He laughs. “I wasn’t aware of your work when I first met your father,” he explains, “in fact, the night I walked into your office was the same night I learned you were an author. I’ve since then heard good things about your writing, yet I couldn’t decide which book of yours I should read first, so I’m waiting for, what was it called again, Plucking Heartstrings?”

You feel your eyes widen and your face flush. “You… You want to read my new book?”

Pantalone gives you an odd look. “Yes? Did you think I sent the manuscript off simply because I felt like it?”

“You gave me this whole speech about using it to gain my trust and make my mother lower her guard, or something along those lines.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It wasn’t my only motive, and that was before today’s debacle. The point is I’m intrigued by your book.”

You feel your face grow warmer. “You are?”

“You ask that like I’ve said something unbelievable,” Pantalone remarks. “Honestly, I think most people would be naturally curious if someone they knew was related to an author, or an artist, or a musician. What little I’ve read of your draft, the fact it was accepted by the Yae Publishing House, and all this chatter and fuss about how this book is different and how you’d rather write books like this implies this is no low brow, poorly written smut or cliché riddled fairytale.”

“Well, it’s just…” You sigh. “If people saw you read it, they might think you’re gay.”

Pantalone’s laugh is especially loud, given the two of you are standing in the middle of a library. “I hardly see why that matters. I’m the richest man in the world and a Fatui Harbinger. My sexuality would hardly affect how the people already perceive me. Besides, I doubt me reading a book about two men is any more queer than you writing it. Hell, they’d probably assume the same things about either of us if it was a man and woman.”

“I… guess you have a point.”

Pantalone motions to the armchair closest to you, inviting you to take a seat. You do, and he does as well. The chair is rather comfortable, and you settle in nicely.

“That actually brings me to something I’ve been meaning to ask, but was unsure how or when to bring it up.”

This can only be bad. “Alright.”

Pantalone crosses one leg over the other in his seat. “Aren’t you worried about your family, well, figuring it out when the book releases?” he asks. “I know you said your father won’t read your books, but I imagine the basic premise will make it back to him at some point, and I know your mother is going to read it.”

You feel a twinge in your stomach and an ache in your chest. Truth be told, that’s part of the reason it’s taken you so long to get the story out. You’ve spent nearly four years slowly poking and prodding at the idea before finally dedicating yourself to it because you feared what your family may think, both of the book and of you.

You think the look on your face conveys your worries, as Pantalone shakes his head. “You don’t have to answer, my apologies.”

“I-I had a whole plan,” you tell him, “for when this book released, because I know this will be seen as me coming out by everyone who knows me or reads my books.”

“Which was?”

“I wasn’t going to be in Snezhnaya when it was finally published.”

Pantalone quirks an eyebrow.

You continue. “I love my home here, but it’s just… with how my condition works, it’s a bit of a nightmare sometimes. The constant storms mean there’s not as much sunlight during the day and night seemingly falls faster. It messes with my night blindness. I’ve been saving up so I can move to Liyue, so I can actually go outside and enjoy some sunlight.” You shift in your seat. “I, um, also want to have a proper garden. I know I’m inevitably going to go fully blind, so I want to have something pretty to look at in my memories, and so I can at least enjoy the smell of flowers when I can’t see them anymore.”

At the mention of Liyue and flowers, Pantalone seems to immediately snap to attention. He appeared to be listening intently, but that really caught his attention. “Is that so?”

You nod. “That’s, um, mostly fantasy. It’s been hard saving up. I do have an inheritance from my late grandfather that was supposed to go to an Akademya education or buying my own home, but I also have to account for travel expenses actually moving to Liyue, getting items shipped over and then buying new furniture, buying my own food, and I’m paying for my doctors appointments and treatments to keep myself from going blind faster. As much as I love writing, I’m not at a point where I can actually live off of it.”

“You know, if you need assistance or advice, you can ask me.”

“I appreciate it,” you tell him, “but I shouldn’t trouble you.”

Pantalone lips suddenly curl into a smile. He leans forward in his seat, intertwining his fingers together. “You do realize who you’re talking to, don’t you?”

You look at him oddly, and then you remember Pantalone is literally a banker, and laugh. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“I am serious, though,” Pantalone states, “if you’re struggling to come up with a financial plan that fits your budget, that is a service we provide at the bank. If you want me to help you, though, you’re going to have to book an appointment ahead of time.”

You snicker. “Why not now?”

“Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to give you special treatment on my day off,” he teases.

You shrug. “Worth a shot.”

The conversation lulls. You hear the soft crackling of the fire, and find yourself looking around at the shelves again. Obviously at this distance you can’t see what they are, but you’re still very impressed by the collection.

After another moment of quiet, Pantalone speaks up again. “So, why did you start writing?”

You clear your throat and look back at him. “I loved to read as a child,” you say, “I only had a few friends growing up, not including my siblings, so I spent most of my free time just reading. As I grew older, it grew into an interest in writing.”

Pantalone nods along. “Now, may I ask why romance?”

“I just like romance,” you tell him, “it’s cheesy, I know, but I enjoy stories about falling in love and finding your soulmate. My family would tease me about how they’re more for girls, so I would hide them in the dust covers of other books.”

“Like your reference material?”

You groan. “Yes, like my reference material. It is actual reference material, by the way, b-but I doubt you would believe me regardless.”

“Will it make it into your book?” Pantalone asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“No, it won’t,” you answer, “I spent so long trying to figure out how the hell to even write it that it stopped being appealing, so instead it just fades to black. Let the audience decide what happens and it’ll probably be better than whatever I was trying to do.”

Pantalone smiles.

You sigh. “Anyways, part of the reason I wanted to write romance is that after a few years of reading about blushing maidens and their prince charmings, I realized two things.”

“Which were?”

“Well, one, that I like men.”

Pantalone laughs.

“And two… I couldn’t find any books that were actually tailored for men like me. Nothing that wasn’t egregiously explicit or horribly distasteful, anyways. I figured if I can’t find anything to read, then maybe I should be the one to write it.”

You watch Pantalone’s expression change slowly with every word you speak. He stops looking so amused by your joke, actually taking your thoughts in. His eyes soften, as does his smile, and in the glow of the fireplace, the way he looks at you is so… warm.

“That’s really a lovely mentality,” he says softly, not a hint of condescension in his voice. “I’m sure someone out there will greatly appreciate it, and I’m hopeful that it will be a success.”

Your stomach flutters, and you hear and feel your heartbeat. You can’t help the smile that twitches onto your lips, that stretches across your face. You tilt your head down slightly so his expression doesn’t distract you. “Thank you. It really does mean a lot to hear that.”

“I mean it.”

You feel your heart in your chest and your throat. Why does he sound so fond when he says it?

A knock on the open door causes you to jump, Fyodor’s voice makes itself known again. “Sir, could I borrow you for a moment? The chef has a question for you.”

Pantalone sighs and stands. He smiles down at you. “One moment, please.”

You nod and watch as Pantalone walks across the library to the door. You hear his heels clack against the floor, growing quieter and quieter until they disappear completely. Soon, you are left in the quiet of the library alone.

You quickly bury your face in your hands as realization hits you at full force.

This isn’t a little crush, and it never was. You want Pantalone.

#pantalone #pantalone x reader #pantalone x male reader #blind reader #my fic #falling head over heels

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