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finelinefae · 1 year ago

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flower [tattooH x Innocenty/n]

synopsis: harry's the boy next door, he's also a tattoo artist aannd y/n's sexual awakening because she's an innocent virgin with a flower shop.

word count: 8.6k

content warnings: smut (fingering, daddy kink, praise kink, virgin Y/N)

read part 2 here

my first imagine !! i hope u enjoy it !! i enjoy it here very much !

. . .

Y/N had been having a terrible week.

She owned a flower shop called 'Sweet Juniper' which had been hers for almost an entire year. It had been her dream to share her love of flowers with everybody so when she finally saved enough money to set up a shop, she worked tirelessly to make it the best possible floral shop the town had ever seen.

People would put in special requests if they needed flower arrangements for special occasions or others would just come by to just lift their mood a little bit if they were having a tough day. Y/N loved her customers and spent so much time chatting throughout the day all whilst tending to her plants.

But this week was not fun.

The shop next door had been empty for a long time now - ever since Y/N had set up shop. She lived in the flat above the shop so it was ideal not to have to handle any neighbours. But the past few weeks, decorators and construction workers had been making a lot of noise - fixing up the empty shop - which meant someone was moving in.

Y/N hadn't met them yet so she wasn't sure what the shop next door would be. The town was relatively quiet so she expected a bakery or maybe a clothing boutique. Only yesterday, with the shop all set up and ready to go, she found it to be nothing of the sort.

It was dark and music pulsed through the walls of her flower shop. The heavy bass made it sound like someone was trying to fight their way through the floorboards she had painted a very, very light pink.

Her customers had complained especially the older bunch. They had trouble concentrating whenever they tried to talk to her or hear her advice on what the best flowers were during the current autumn season.

So after a not-so-fun week and frequent visits to the corner shop to top up her headache medication, Y/N made the decision to confront her new neighbour and tell them exactly how she felt. She wasn't going to let her flower shop fail because of an inconsiderate, noisy fool.

Y/N flipped the sigh from 'open' to 'closed' and took off her apron which had her name in swirly handwriting embroidered onto the breast pocket. She took three deep breaths and mentally went through her speech. She wouldn't be unkind but she would be fair.

"You can do this Y/N," She said to herself before she exhaled and opened the door to walk five steps over to her next-door neighbour.

She hadn't seen the shop properly since the decorating was completed so was immediately struck by how dark it was in comparison to her own shop. It was painted black with illustrations and pictures of people's tattoos set up in the shop window.

The pavement was lit up in the darkness by the red neon lights coming from inside the shop. Everything about it was so different to her baby pink and white flower shop.

The sudden thought of turning back and going upstairs to her apartment almost tempted her enough to turn away but she knew the problem would not be resolved if she were to sit by and do nothing.

Her Mary Jane heels tapped against the pavement as she came to stand in front of the door. It seemed as though the shop was still open, so she pushed the door and stepped inside.

The smell of tobacco and musk and ink hit her senses as she closed the door behind her. The heavy bass of the music was now pounding through her ears. The nerves were rising within her and turning back seemed much more tempting now.

She spun on her heel and reached for the door handle, only to be stopped by someone clearing their throat.

"Are you here for a tattoo?" His voice was deep, husky and... pretty.

She turned around and was met with a tall figure standing in the doorway to the back of the shop. His arms were by his side and he was wearing a black, fitted shirt with black trousers and low cut doc martens with red laces. His face was illuminated by the red, neon sign on the wall with the words 'Styles INK' written in a grungey font.

"T-tattoo?" She gulped, the script she had rehearsed over and over again was nowhere to be found like the words had silently fallen from her brain, through her nose and slipped from her mouth before she had time to speak them out loud.

He walked to the front desk, footsteps heavy against the wooden floor. "We don't take walk-ins this late at night if that's what you're after."

The tone of his voice made her tremble in her heels. She curled her fingers into a fist and tried to stop her heart from beating so fast. "I-I'm not here for a tattoo. I-I'm actually from next door."

His head lifted up, she could finally see the colour of his eyes were a pale green and his hair was curly and brunette. "Ahhh," He dropped the pen he was fiddling with on the desk, "The flower girl."

She huffed, "Yes, that would be me."

"M allergic to flowers." He said.

"W-what? Why would you set up shop next to a flower shop then?" She asked.

"Only place that offered a space with an apartment." A breath slipped past her lips.

He was not only her shop neighbour but her neighbour neighbour too.

Well, this just made things a bit more awkward.

He came in front of the desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms. Y/N saw every inch of the skin on his arm littered with tattoos and even caught a glimpse of his ring-clad fingers. "Listen, if you're not here for a tattoo then why are you here? I need to close up so I'd appreciate it if you were quick with whatever it is you came here for."

Y/N swallowed her nerves, "Your music is too loud a-and it's driving my customers away."

"What was that?" He wanted her to repeat herself.

"Y-Your music, it's much too loud and my customers are c-complaining." She wished she didn't stutter but at least she got what she needed to say out.

"My music?" His eyebrows scrunch up.

"Yes." She nods.

"What about your music?" He retorts, "s all I can hear when I'm upstairs."

She immediately blushes and wonders how long he has been staying in the apartment upstairs. Y/N was so used to not having neighbours that she hadn't thought to turn her music down or take a break from her lonesome karaoke nights.

"That's different."

"If I have to hear you sing to that broken-hearted, bubble-gum pop princess every night then you can't complain about me playing my music like I have." He argues.

"B-but I don't play it in the day like you do! It's so loud! It is - hey quit laughing!" She huffs when he snickers at her.

"M sorry, you're just so little." He laughs. "Maybe that's why I haven't seen you since I've moved in."

Y/N crossed her arms, "I'd just appreciate it if you turned your music down a little, just so my customers can shop for their flowers in peace."

He says nothing. Instead, his eyes scan her face and then fall on the rest of her. She was wearing light blue jeans and a pink, cosy sweater. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail with a white, silk ribbon and her heels were still on her now aching feet.

He smirks, "Alright, I'll turn my music down but you have to do the same. I don't want to hear you sing about Romeo and Juliet or running out of the woods at 11 o'clock at night when I'm trying to relax."

She turns pink but luckily the red light hides the true colour of her cheeks, "Fine." She huffs and turns on her heel, too embarassed to say anything else.

"It was nice to meet you, flower." He says and she swears she can hear him smiling.

Her entire face heats at the nickname.

***

The next day, Y/N walked downstairs to her flower shop and prepared for a new day. She spent the rest of her night after visiting the stranger next door, quietly listening to music in hopes he would reciprocate today.

She hadn't seen him since last night and part of her was grateful for that. He was tall and intimidating and covered in tattoos but his voice was just so...nice that she couldn't seem to get the thought of him out of her head since she walked out of his tattoo shop. It was embarrassing to admit and Y/N was awfully bad at hiding her emotions so she hoped that would be the last time she'd speak to him face to face.

When she flipped the sign on the door to 'open', she held her breath as she waited for the sound of heavy, rock music coming through the walls only to find complete silence. She smiled and mindfully tapped herself on the back for being brave enough to go over and stand her ground.

Her customers were happy with the change too. They stayed and chatted with Y/N for a while, bringing home their baskets of flowers. The day had been much more successful than the past week had and she was thankful things would finally get back on track.

After cleaning the shop at the end of the day, she walked upstairs to her apartment and immediately decided to get into her new cute pyjamas she had ordered from Hollister - long trouser bottoms and a cute tank top both covered in the same pink, ditsy floral print.

She made herself some dinner and snuggled up on her tiny couch with her pet cat, Marshel, nestling to the side of her. Y/N hummed in delight when she made the decision to re-watch her favourite Harry Potter movie- it was the best film for the autumn weather.

Ten minutes into the movie sounds of people speaking and loud music sounded through the walls of her apartment. "Oh please no," She looked up at the ceiling, praying that someone out there would put her out of her misery.

It could only be her new neighbour, the tattoo artist, the one with the nice voice.

She pressed her ear against the door of her apartment and from the racket of people speaking and how loud the music was, she knew he was having a party.

"It's going to be a long night Marsh." She sighs, picking up her kitty and carrying him to bed.

At 2 am, Y/N was still awake. The party was still going and the music had yet to quieten down.

Y/N had been tossing and turning all night. Tears in her eyes as she tried to sleep but couldn't because of the loud noises coming from next door. At this rate, she'd only get four hours of sleep before she had to be up again for the busiest day of the week at the shop.

She couldn't handle it anymore. She flipped her duvet off and swung her legs over the bed. Her eyes fighting to stay open as she stumbled for the door.

At this rate, she was so tired she didn't care how she looked. She just wanted the quiet.

She flung her front door open and already found herself outside the tattoo artist's door. She knocked but the music was so loud, the only thing she could do was invite herself in.

The door opened and suddenly she was in a whole new world. There was cigarette smoke and a strong stench of alcohol. It was dark but red LED lights lit the room. People were laying on the floor or sitting around chairs or dancing in the empty spaces. There must have been about thirty people but with how tiny the apartment was it felt like much more.

Y/N took a deep breath and began her mission to find the source of where the music was coming from. Everyone was much taller than her which made it harder for her to push past people, especially in their drunken state.

"Excuse me please," she mumbled.

"Flower," his voice made her freeze in place.

She stilled and spun round on her sock-covered feet, making a mental note to throw them in the trash when she got home.

The person standing in front of her looked the same, wearing the same all black outfit he wore yesterday. She could see the illustrations of his tattoos a little better this close and she could also see the anger that covered the features of his face.

"Y-you." She said through parted lips, unable to hide her fear or shock.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He grabbed her arm and pulled her to a corner of the room. He placed his hand on the wall behind her and covered her with his body like he wanted to hide her away.

"The m-music it's too loud and I-I can't sleep." She said, nearing on tears.

"You and your loud music." He muttered, "It's Saturday night. Shops aren't open on a Sunday."

"Mine is." She said.

"What?"

"I open my shop on a Sunday. I do work shops for little kids whose parents have to work on weekends and for elderly people who get a little lonely." It was her favourite day of the week but now she was dreading it because of the lack of sleep.

His expression seemed to soften but he rolled his eyes, "Of course you do."

"I just need to sleep for four more hours and then you can carry on doing whatever you're doing." He smirked.

"You've never been to a party before flower girl?" She shook her head and yawned.

Harry's smile fell and he sighed. He looked around at the party and then at the sleepy girl in front of him. "Fucks sake." He muttered and wrapped an arm around her.

Y/N's eyes widened when his hand rested on her shoulder. He tucked her into his side and quickly manoeuvred past everybody.

"Is that your new girl Styles?"

"Nice one, H."

"Have fun Styles."

"Ignore them." Harry told her as he reached their front door.

"Is that your name? Styles?" Y/N realised she had yet to ask what his name actually was.

"S Harry. You call me Harry." He says and she smiles at how normal and soft his name was compared to his dark and grizzly stature.

She hadn't realised what he was doing until he opened the door to her apartment. She gasped, suddenly wide awake and highly alert considering he was now in her very messy, untidy apartment.

"W-what are you doing?" She ran to her sofa and picked her blankets up from the floor before grabbing her bowl of popcorn from the coffee table that was littered with books and magazines she was halfway through reading.

Harry's eyes darted around her small apartment. The corner of his lips flinched into an almost smile when he saw the pastel colours littered around the place. It was so her - cute and cosy.

"You wanted to sleep." He said, "M helping you sleep."

Her mouth opened and closed in shock, "Helping me sleep?"

"Mhm, I've got these," He pulled out some earbuds from his pocket, "They're noise cancelling. Can't hear a sound when you've got them in your ears."

She looked at them in intrigue, "Where's your room?" He wondered, already walking in the direction of her bedroom like he'd been in her apartment many times before.

"My room's a little untidy," She tried to get past him so she could block him from coming into her room but he was much too tall.

"Don't care flower, just helping you out." He walked into the messy bedroom and paid no mind to the state of the floor. She'd never had a man in her room before so wasn't sure exactly what to do. Her apartment seemed so much smaller from his presence alone. "Get into bed, love." He pulled out his phone.

"O-okay," She said and tucked herself under her blanket.

It was strange to let a person she barely knew into the confines of her room but she was too tired to care and something inside of her trusted him.

He crouched beside her, resting an arm on her mattress. "Here put these in," He handed her the headphones, "Can you hear me?" He asked but received no reply, instead, Y/N giggled.

"I can't hear you Harry!" She laughed and something weird happened in his chest.

He smiled, "Tha's good." He murmured and put on a song he knew she would like.

Her heart stopped beating in her chest when the gentle piano music began to play. An instrumental of 'Cardigan' by her favourite singer whispered into her ears as he played it on a low volume.

"Sleep now flower." He encouraged.

"M name's Y/N." She whispered, her eyes fluttering shut, "You can call me Y/N."

"Y/N," He whispered back and the name seemed to unlock something deep inside of him. He said it once more for good measure before leaving her there with the music still playing.

***

Y/N woke up the next morning with a phone that was not hers resting right by her head. She had managed to fall asleep for four hours thanks to the man who she now knew as Harry. She felt as though last night was a fever dream and Harry had been a guardian angel, granting her sleep at last.

She could have slept in for another four hours but the shop would not run itself and she had many workshops on today that a lot of people had signed up for. She grabbed Harry's phone and made a mental note to give it back to him before she went to open the shop.

She made herself a good breakfast and fed Marshel as well, before getting dressed into a grey mini dress with a cute white collar and an encrusted black bow. She tied her hair back into a half up, half down and fastened it with a black bow to match her dress. She wore the same black Mary Jane heels and a bag with her packed lunch inside.

When she left her apartment, she listened out for any loud music coming from Harry's apartment only to be met with silence. She knocked three times- his phone in her hands- but no one answered.

She'd come back later, she thought. Maybe he was also catching up on some much-needed sleep.

Her first workshop of the day was with a group of children.

Their parents worked weekends and some of them were from the orphanage that they had signed up to help them develop new hobbies. Y/N knew them all by name and loved teaching them how to grow their own tomato plants and arrange flowers with cute bows.

An hour before lunch, she had a class with a group of mothers whose children had just left home. Most of them came because they needed a little company on the weekends when not a lot was going on at home or they wanted to pick up a new hobby.

In the midst of her basket weaving session, Y/N heard a phone ring. She glanced at the phone still on the front desk and saw the screen lighting up. "Excuse me ladies," she slid off the chair and walked over to Harry's phone.

Mike Supplier was the name on the screen. She wondered whether or not it was important and if she should answer it just in case. The phone stopped ringing for a brief moment until the name lit up the screen again.

"Seems important, Y/N." One of the ladies said.

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows and walked to the back room, pressing the green button to accept the call. "Fucking finally!" A gruff voice speaks on the other end, "I've got your stash when do you want it?"

"Excuse me?" Y/N blushed, not use to such aggressive language.

The person paused, "Are you Styles' new lady? Listen can you put him on the phone? I need to speak to him urgently."

Y/N was in shock, "I'm not his lady! I'm his neighbour."

"Well, whatever you are could you just pass the phone to him?"

"Give me a second," She huffed, entering the shop again and turning towards the ladies who were in deep conversation, "Ladies, I just need a moment to go next door." They nodded.

Y/N could hear Mike Supplier cursing over the phone even as she had it by her side. She noticed Harry's shop was still unopened so went upstairs instead.

She knocked on the door of his apartment repeatedly until she finally heard footsteps coming towards the door. His door swung open, "Can I help you flower?" Her eyes widened.

He stood in the doorway with nothing but grey sweatpants and socks. His bare torso was littered with tattoos and his brunette hair was clipped with a tiny claw clip.

"Your p-phone," She held it out to him. His eyebrows furrowed like he had a lot of questions as to why she had his phone but he took it from her anyway and held it to his ear.

"Yeah, yeah shut up." He spoke. Y/N could still hear Mike Supplier talking on the other end. "Come by this afternoon. I'll wait outside the shop and don't wear that dodgy fucking hat this time."

The conversation ended and Y/N stood awkwardly in front of him. "Well I should go,"

"Wait," Harry stopped her "Did you steal my phone from me flower girl?"

"N-no! You left it in my apartment." She argued.

"Oh yeah," he grins like he was thinking back to being in her room last night, "Your lips go all pouty and you snore when you sleep you know that? 'S cute."

"Hey," she huffed, "I do not snore!"

"Whatever you say baby." Her cheeks warmed at the new nickname he had accidentally added to the seemingly growing collection.

"W-well who was that anyway. He was a little rude." She mumbled.

"You spoke to him?" He arched a brow, "was he rude to you?"

"He swore at me,"

"Dick." Harry muttered, "He's my supplier."

"Oh like for the shop?" She asked. Harry could have sworn he was having palpitations from how innocent she looked.

"No baby," he smirked, "a different kind of supplier."

"Oh," she said, still not fully understanding what he was getting at, "Well I better get down to the shop. My class is waiting for me."

"Sure I'll come with you." He grabbed a sweater and his jacket from the coat hanger.

"Wait, what? No."

"I'm bored and I want to hang out with you." He shrugs, "I don't see how that's a problem."

"You want to hang out with me?" She couldn't make sense of it.

"Mhm," He shut the door of his apartment behind him, "Lead the way, flower girl."

Y/N argued with him as they walked back downstairs. She tried to push him out of the shop before he could even step foot inside but she was too small for his 6ft frame and he gently grabbed her waist and picked her up as if she weighed nothing, stepping into the shop.

All eyes turned in their direction. Y/N blushed and stuttered as she said, "L-ladies, this is my neighbour."

"Hi, I'm Harry." He said from behind.

The ladies looked confused and then concerned and then suddenly they were grinning ear to ear, slipping out of their seats to welcome their new guest.

"Oh Harry, you look as old as my boy! It's so lovely to meet you." Mildred, one of the elder ladies said.

"Nice to meet you too." He spoke in a warm, almost flirtatious way.

Y/N stood there in shock, her mouth opening and closing like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Kathy and Lucy had already sat him in between them both and got him the things he needed to weave a basket.

"Are you interested in flowers Harry?" Julia asked.

He looked across the table over at Y/N whose cheeks seemed to be a shade of red they'd never even been before. "Only one."

"Oh well Y/N's an excellent teacher. We're making hanging baskets to plant daffodils in them for the spring."

"Hmm I guess I've come to the best place to learn then." His eyes remained fixed on Y/N who defeatedly picked up her basket to show Harry exactly how to make one himself.

"How are you so good at this?" Y/N whispered in awe as Harry finished his basket.

"These hands are good with fiddly things." He says.

"Oh that's wonderful Harry!" Kathy exclaimed, "You could take over Y/N's job. Might help her out and she can finally have a much deserved rest."

"S that right? You tired flower?" Harry murmured when he saw Y/N's eyes opening and closing as she leant against the desk.

"Not tried at all," she lied but Harry seemed to see right through her.

"Hmm," he frowned which immediately had Y/N standing straight and trying to disguise her exhaustion a little better.

"You hungry?" A tall shadow loomed in front of Y/N as she sat at the desk, processing payments for her classes and labelling the baskets for the ladies to take home.

She looked up and saw Harry, his voice now a familiarity after the last almost twenty four hours since she had met him. "A-a little." She decided not to lie this time since apparently, she was much easier to read than she thought.

"I've got food upstairs, wanna come up?" He asks.

"A-Are you sure?"

"C'mon little flower, I wouldn't be asking you if I didn't mean it." With a nod, Y/N locked up the shop for lunch and followed Harry up to his apartment. When she stepped inside, it was completely different to how it had been last night.

It was clean and tidy. A few boxes were lying on the carpeted floor of his open living room here and there, but for the most part, it was pretty neat. Y/N's eyes were immediately taken by the prints hanging up on the wall.

"These are incredible." She gasped, feeling particularly fond of a line drawing of a woman.

"It's my mother," He stood next to her, looking up at the drawing with her.

"You drew it?" She asked, wide-eyed.

"Mhm," He hummed.

"Wow, no wonder you're a tattoo artist," She glanced at the intricate tattoos littered on his arms.

"Ever thought of getting one yourself?" He asked.

"N-Not really, I'm no good with needles." She said, rather sheepishly.

He smirked, "Let's get some food in that tummy."

Twenty minutes later, Y/N and Harry sat on the small two-person couch eating sandwiches and a fruit salad they had prepared together in Harry's even smaller kitchen. Y/N giggled as Harry threw a grape into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth.

"T-tell me about your tattoos," Y/N insisted after taking a bite out of a strawberry. Harry's eyes looked down at her lips and back to her big, doe eyes. "What does this one mean?" She questioned, pointing to the words written in Hebrew.

"M' sisters name," He starts, "And that says 'Can I stay?'"

"Hmm, you have a lot of hearts." She said, fingers lightly touching the human heart on his arm.

"I have a lot of love." He grins, cheekily, like he knew the line was cheesy but wanted to use it anyway. He was glad he did from the smile it had formed on Y/N's face.

Y/N hadn't realised how close they had gotten until she felt his breath on her neck. Her voice wavers slightly as she tries not to think too much about it, "And what about this one," She points to the rose, her fingers tracing the petals.

"I did that one myself," He murmured, lips close to her ear.

"You did?" She said but it came out more as a whisper. She seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, her brain turning to mush and all her thoughts suddenly turning into Harry.

"Mhm," She glanced up and his deep, green eyes were already boring into her. Her eyes darted down to his lips and then back up again. "You're pretty," He mumbled, loud enough so she could hear.

She shook her head, "I-I don't think so," She was suddenly flustered and confused and wondering why her brain was not acting the way it usually did.

"I know so," His hand reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ears, and she shudders when his fingertips brush against her cheek. Slowly his head inches forward and the nearer he gets it feels as though more oxygen leaves the room. "Relax," He whispers, touching her hand, "You're okay flower girl."

"H-Harry, I-I've never kissed anyone before." She admits, embarrassment flooding her.

"What?" He furrows his eyebrows.

"O-oh, it's just that... I've never been k-kissed before."

"By anyone?" She nods. "Impossible." He whispers.

"We can stop if you want to," He says, his voice gentle and comforting.

"No," She wraps her small fingers around his wrist before he pulls away, "I-I want to,"

"Want to what?" He smirks, "You've gotta tell me baby."

"I want to k-kiss you," She blushes, it's all she seems to do around him.

"Cute," He murmurs before his lips press to hers.

Y/N's not sure what to do at first, her eyes are open and shock courses through her, but Harry's lips move against hers and he breathes, "Relax flower," He insists and she does.

Her eyes flutter shut and she mimics his movements. What he gives, she gives right back and a small whimper leaves her when he kisses her even harder. She starts to lose her breath with how long they kiss for but she's far too deep, floating too much, to pull away. She grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in closer, a groan eliciting from somewhere deep inside him. "Baby," The name escapes his lips and a shiver runs through her.

With panting breaths, she pulls away and so does he. Her face is flushed and his lips are pink, "You okay?" Is the first thing he asks, receiving a nod. "I think 'm a little bit obsessed with you." He confesses.

"M-Me?" She couldn't believe what he was saying.

"Don't think I've ever wanted anything more," He looks away like being vulnerable is a foreign thing for him.

"Why?" She can't help but ask.

He shrugs, "Sometimes it just is."

She thinks on his words before replying, "Can we kiss again?"

Harry chuckles, "Kiss me all you want flower."

. . .

Y/N had a permanent smile on her face the next day as she went back to work. People asked her what was making her so happy and she was constantly finding things to lie about instead of speaking the name of the tattooed boy next door.

An hour before lunch, the postman came to deliver her new ribbons for the bouquets and accidentally dropped off a package meant for Harry. Y/N couldn't help but smile at his name written on a brown box.

"Give me a second ladies, I'm just going to pop next door." Y/N grinned, ignoring the knowing looks of the ladies she was teaching.

As Y/N walked next door, her confidence seemed to shrink with every step. She realised she had yet to go to Harry's tattoo shop when he was actually working and she knew she would stick out like a sore thumb once she took a step inside. She was wearing a lilac dress and white heels, of course, she was going to stand out.

The bell rang as she stepped inside and a few customers looked up, some of them doing a double take at the small girl. Music played through the speakers but it was a lot less quiet compared to the first day Harry's shop had opened.

Footsteps walked on the wooden floorboards and Harry walked out from the back room. His eyes caught sight of Y/N and his frown immediately turned into a smile. He held his arms out for her and she quickly walked into his embrace. "Hi flower," He murmured into her hair.

"I came to drop off your package," She held out the box to him when he let her out of his arms.

"Oh," He took the package from her, "That's all?"

She bit back a smile, "Mmm, I may have something very important to tell you," She gave him a not-so-subtle wink.

He grinned, almost wickedly, "Well, do follow me this way to tell me this very important thing," He led her way from the waiting area and somewhere closed off and hidden from everywhere else.

When they were alone, he grabbed her hips and hoisted her up onto a countertop, knocking things over. "Harry," She giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Shhh no more talking baby," He said before kissing her lips that he spent all night dreaming about. Their mouths were wet and hot against each other as they made out in a closet hidden away from Harry's customers.

His hands slid down her back and around her waist, pinching her hips, "Did you wear this dress f' me baby?" He murmured, the tone of his voice sending shivers up Y/N's spine.

"Wanted to be pretty for you." She told him. She had spent all morning trying to find a nice outfit to wear, not only for work but for when she saw Harry too.

"Fuck," He groaned against her lips, "Where have you been all my life?"

Y/N felt like a teenage girl getting all flustered and hot over a boy. She'd never experienced being with someone in this way before and now she had a taste for it and couldn't get enough of him. She had left Harry's apartment yesterday in a daze and she felt like she was still floating from the high of her first kiss.

He stood in between her legs and she subconsciously rolled her hips against him. She gasped in both shock and at the feeling of him against her, "You're okay baby," He soothed her, sensing her confusion.

"Feels good huh?" He pulled her hips into him again and she felt a moan bubble in her throat. "Have you ever touched yourself Y/N?" He wondered.

She froze, "N-no," She confessed, embarrassed.

"Nothing to be ashamed of baby," He comforts her, his words soothing the insecure part of her. He kissed her lips softly, "Can I visit you this evening?"

She nods without even thinking about it, "Please,"

He smirks, "Please baby? Please? What are you asking for?"

She didn't know, her mind was foggy and all she could see was him, "Everything."

His eyes darkened but his smirk never left, "'M polite little flower."

"Harry," She whined, burying her face in his neck.

Harry laughed and cupped the back of her with his hand, kissing her forehead, "I'll come visit tonight and you better be wearing those cute pyjamas," He knew she was smiling because he could feel her lips against his neck.

That evening after Y/N had closed the shop, she ran upstairs to her apartment and kicked off her heels. She ran around her living room, hiding things she didn't want Harry to see and flinging dirty laundry into the washing basket.

She walked into her very pink bedroom and pulled out her pyjamas, happy to finally be wearing something comfortable. She spritzed some of her favourite perfume and rubbed vanilla lotion into her skin.

Y/N sat on her sofa with Marshel seated by her feet on the carpeted floor. She switched on the TV and watched a few episodes of friends whilst continuing to finish her knitting project - she was making a blanket since one of the ladies from her group was pregnant and would be giving birth very soon.

She fought to keep her eyes open as she waited for Harry to knock on her door. His shop was meant to have closed twenty minutes ago so she assumed he'd be here by now.

Slowly, an hour had gone by and Y/N was getting worried. Her mind spun with insecurities and a sudden fear that something might have happened to Harry. She placed her knitting project on her coffee table and patted Marshel on the head. She walked to the door and slid her sock covered feet into her brown UGG boots.

The shop was not its usual LED red colour when she came to stand in front of the window, instead it was neon blue. Y/N frowned when she heard music playing from inside and checked to see whether the door was open.

Her hand pushed the door handle, the door swinging open and the muffled music suddenly became coherent. She could hear voices coming from the back room where Harry tattooed his customers.

Walking towards the sound, Y/N eventually caught the sound of Harry's voice amongst the group of people chatting. Her shoulders relaxed at the thought of him being here, at least she knew she'd be okay if he was there with her.

Turning the corner, her eyes landed on Harry with two other tattooed men, smoking something that - in Y/N's opinion - smelt a little strange.

Harry must have sensed her presence as he turned his head and caught sight of her hiding behind the corner wall. He smiled, "Hey flower,"

"Hi," She murmured, feeling embarassed.

"C'mere," He held out his arm for her and she scurried towards him, attaching herself to him by snuggling her body into his side. He put an arm around her, kissing her forehead. "I thought I was meeting you upstairs?"

Y/N frowned, "You took too long,"

He smirked, "M impatient girl," He nodded towards the two men he was talking to, "Y/N, these are 'm friends, Mike and Dan."

"Mike supplier," Y/N whispered, finally putting a face to the name of the man she had spoken to on Harry's phone.

He was tall and bald with a beard and looked to be in his forties. Like Harry, he also had tattoos but not nearly as much. Beside him was Dan who looked closer in age to Harry, maybe a little older. He was blonde but wore a cap on his head and a silver chain around his neck.

After Harry had finished smoking with his friends, he said his goodbyes and led Y/N upstairs back to her apartment. "What were you smoking? It smelt funny," Y/N asked,"

Harry fell back onto the couch and pulled her down with him. She lay on top of him, the smell of the smoke still lingering on his clothes. "'S just a bit of weed." He confessed.

Y/N gasped, "Weed? Is that legal?"

Harry looked at her amused, "Not here but it doesn't do much harm to me, been smoking it for ages." He twirled a piece of hair around his finger, "Does that bother you?"

She thought about it but the idea didn't really seem to phase her. As long as he was being safe and was using it in a healthy sort of way, she didn't mind. "N-no, not at all." Harry's smile widened into a grin. He didn't hesitate to kiss her, feeling her soft lips which had recently become his new obsession. They were so soft and red and kissable and made just for him.

Y/N didn't want him to stop kissing her whenever he did. She loved the feeling of her eyes fluttering shut and all of her senses just filling up with him. Harry pulled away, still cupping her cheek in his hand. Y/N's chest heaved up and down against him as she tried to catch her breath, "Breathe, flower." His heart ached when she looked up at him with swollen red lips, trying to catch her breath. "Lose your breath a little bit huh?"

"A little," She huffed.

"You're too cute."

Y/N kissed him again once she had caught enough air again. Harry sat up, pulling on the roots of her hair as her legs wrapped around him so she was straddling him. She whimpered, tugging on the fabric of his t-shirt.

"What do you want baby?" Harry mumbles against her parted lips.

"Take it off," She whispers, pulling on his shirt.

Harry does as he's told, pulling his shirt up over his head and revealing his muscular, tattoed torso. Y/N's eyes widened. She'd never seen something so beautiful, he looked as though he was one of those marble statues in a museum. "Eyes on me baby," Harry smiled, pushing her chin up with his finger so her eyes were looking directly into his. "What now?"

"I-I-I don't know," She blushed, losing her confidence now that they were no longer kissing.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want." He looked at her with a soft gaze.

"I-I don't want to disappoint you." She admits, her insecurities coming to the surface.

"Couldn't disappoint me baby, ever." She smiles, feeling secure in his words and his hold. Y/N leans forward and rubs her cheek against his chest. Harry's hands go beneath the tank top of her pyjamas, brushing her bare back. "If it helps I've never done this before."

She's shocked but she tries to hide it, "W-what do you mean?"

"Been intimate with someone."

She smiled.

She really, really liked him.

. . .

For weeks after, Y/N was obsessed with two things.

Her flower shop and her tattooed boyfriend next door.

When she wasn't working, she was with Harry, either cooking in his apartment or cuddling together on the couch in her living room. Harry had also developed a new taste for basket weaving, joining in on Y/N's Sunday classes with the elderly ladies in the morning.

In the short time they had known each other, Y/N had come to learn that Harry wasn't a morning person but he never missed a Sunday class even when he was exhausted from the busy day before at the tattoo shop. He would stumble downstairs with dishevelled hair and sleepy eyes in sweatpants and a hoodie, sitting in his seat between Mildred and Julia as they fussed over him.

Y/N had also grown a love for kissing Harry at every opportunity. She'd take many five-minute breaks, walking over to the tattoo shop and kissing Harry in the cupboard or visiting him in the alleyway behind the building where they'd make out against the brick wall. Even Harry had an addiction to his girlfriend's very kissable lips, sneaking out of his shop in between appointments to smother her in kisses in the storage cupboard.

"Hey Marshy little fur ball," Y/N bit back a grin when she heard the door of her apartment open and the familiar gruff voice speak to her little cat.

She swung her legs over her bed and paused the movie she was watching, running to the front door and leaping into his arms, "Hi flower," Harry murmured, inhaling the scent of her coconut shampoo.

Y/N nuzzled her face against his jumper and squeezed him tightly, "Hi Harry," She sighed, blissfully.

"Wanted to come see ya, hope tha's okay." He kissed her quickly.

"Course, I was watching a film in my room." She tugged on his hand and lead him to her bedroom.

Harry had spent nights in Y/N's room before. Sometimes he would ask her if it was okay if he took a nap in her bed whenever he finished work early because it was much comfier than his. She'd find him curled up under her blankets, hugging one of her stuffed animals to his chest with the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

Harry removes his sweatshirt, leaving him in only sweatpants, before he crawls into bed and pats the spot beside him. Y/N turns on the movie but knows that neither of them has any plans of watching it.

With the amount of kissing they had been doing, Y/N hoped she had gotten a lot better. She realised Harry would often make small, quiet noises whenever she did something he liked, like tugging on his hair or sticking her tongue in his mouth.

It wasn't long before they were making out again on her bed. Her leg hooked around his hip and her hands in his hair as he gripped her waist, every now and then he would squeeze her ass remembering the first time he did it and how much she loved it from the soft moans that left her.

Y/N thought that kissing Harry was the best thing in the entire world but what she didn't know was that Harry had plenty more up his sleeve.

His hand slid from her waist and down to her bare thigh - she was only wearing pyjama shorts since her apartment was pretty warm. He squeezed her softly, "Can I feel you baby?" He asked.

Y/N froze, not sure how to react. "I-I-"

Harry cupped her cheek, "I know," He already knew what she was thinking before she even said anything, "We can carry on doing what we're doing if you prefer. It's no rush."

"N-no," She grabbed his wrist in both her hands. Y/N was a virgin but she wasn't afraid... Just inexperienced and that made her a little wary. But with Harry, she knew she wanted to allow that part of herself to him. Maybe not the whole thing but a little something.

"Y-you can feel me... I-if you like." She said, awkwardly.

Harry chuckles, "What about if you like, hmm?" His fingertip traced circles on her thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

"I-I would l-like that p-please." She whispered.

Harry grinned, "Only because you're so polite sweet girl."

Harry's arm slides between her legs and hooks his fingers around her pyjamas bottoms to pull them down her legs. Y/N inwardly praised herself for shaving the night before yet she was pretty sure Harry wouldn't mind either way. Harry tuts when he sees her underwear, "Did m' little flower get all wet from kissing on daddy?"

She felt the air leave the room and her body heat at the nickname. It was so dirty and yet she felt herself aching from his words. "Y-yes," She breathes.

"Yes what baby?" He kisses up her thigh.

"Yes daddy," She murmurs.

Harry eyes darken as he looks down between her thighs, "My good, polite girl." He pinches the flesh on her thigh and she feels her chest heave. Y/N gasps for air when his fingers trace the fabric of her underwear and her heart races even more when he moves her underwear to the side to see a part of herself no one had ever seen before.

"Fuck me," He whispers under his breath. "Prettiest pussy I've ever seen."

"R-really?" Y/N blushes, her cheeks hot.

"Don't think I've ever seen something so pretty."

"T-thank you, daddy." She whispers the last part but it doesn't stop the bulge from growing in Harry's sweatpants.

"Have you always been this needy when we kiss baby?" Harry murmured in her ear as his fingers part her pussy. He tries to stop himself from groaning at the slick wetness that coats his fingers.

Y/N gasps at the new feeling but is immediately overcome by pleasure as Harry begins to move his finger back up to her clit, "Harry," She whimpers.

Harry's quick to pull his hand away, "Nuh uh baby, that's not my name."

Y/N's head was all dizzy but she managed to reply, "Daddy, please," She whines.

"Barely even touched you and you're already whining," He tuts before rubbing his thumb over her clit and making small, slow circles. Y/N whimpers at the new sensation of intense pleasure. "Does that feel good flower?" He asks, nipping her ear as he murmurs against it.

"S-so good- so good daddy, so, so good." She babbles as he continues to tease her clit with his thumb.

"Who'd have thought I had such a naughty girl hmm?" She arches into his touch as he moves his finger in a certain way. She wonders how she managed to go on for so long without feeling something so blissfully delightful.

"Put your hand here baby," Harry instructs, reaching for her hand that wasn't currently scrunching the duvet, and placing it flat over the top of his, "Let me show you how to touch yourself. Watch daddy," Y/N's eyes look down to see his gold ring-clad fingers drenched in her wetness, his tattooed hand moving in circles as her rubs her clit. "This is how I want you to touch yourself when you think of me baby and when you're good, I'll make your perfect, little hole feel good too." Y/N gasps and clenches when he brushes a finger against her hole.

"I-I'm good-Please, I'm good," She mewls and her hand grips his wrist instead. She uses it as leverage to twist and turn into him, the pleasure overwhelmingly good she can't help but hide her face in his neck.

"You are good," He kisses her forehead, "My good girl." She nods at his praise, eyes shut.

Harry forces her legs a part and continues to pleasure her in a way she didn't know about until today. She writhes and moans beneath his touch as he whispers dirty things into her ear. "I want you to cum baby, think you can do that?"

"Mhm," She sighs, already feeling the bubble of pressure in her tummy. "F-feels - feel's s-so-"

"Feel good m'love?" He coos, "Cum f' me. Cum f' daddy, wanna see you soak my hand."

At his words, Y/N whimpers as she becomes increasingly sensitive the more he circles her clit. Harry feels as though he's about to explode as he watches her cheeks flush pink and she grinds her pussy against his hand as she rides out her orgasm. "That's it my little flower, so good." He praises her, feeling her shudder as she finishes coming down from her high.

She's panting heavily as Harry slides her panties back into place. "You okay?" Harry checks, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Y/N nods and instantly feels embarrassed, hiding herself in the crook of his neck. Harry chuckles, "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

"You're lying," Y/N says, her voice muffled against him.

"Never gonna lie to you flower, never." He promises.

Y/N removes herself from her hiding place and looks up at him. Harry's heart bursts in his chest when she sees her sleepy, blissful gaze. He wonders where this girl has been all his life and how he managed to go this long without her. He was pretty sure he was falling in love with her but that was a conversation for another day.

"W-what about you?" Y/N looks down and sees the very noticeable bulge in his trousers.

Harry shakes his head, "Not today," He smiles, "We have plenty of time to experiment some more but think you've had enough experimenting for one night."

"Me too," Y/N curls into his side, not bothering to put her pyjama bottoms back on. "Having sex is exhausting."

"We didn't even have sex, silly girl." Harry laughs.

"Felt like it," She mumbles against him.

"I'm that good huh?" He grins, cheekily, "Just you wait baby,"

"The best," She slurs, yawning, "M so tired."

"Yeah? You sleepy baby?" He kisses her forehead. "Get some sleep m'love," He wraps an arm around her and tucks her into his chest.

"I like you very much Harry," She whispers, sleepily.

"I like you very much too." Harry replies, holding her close.

psa don't let strangers into your room... actually don't let anyone into your room

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagines #harry styles x reader #harry styles au #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic rec #harry styles x you #harry styles fic #harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #one direction #writing #harry styles writing

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chubby-bun-bun · 4 months ago

Text

untitled (part 5)

You rope the busy businessman into enjoying the holiday spirit.

nav: one, two, three, four, five (current), six or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, an au where you're an average citizen, slow burn, fluff, your shot's smoother than stephen curry's

“You set me up,” you accuse, pointing a finger at the culprit before you.

Your midnight-feathered companion merely squawks in your face.

Frowning, you scoop the garnet-eyed traitor into your arms. Try as you might, you can’t resist stroking its feathers, the soft, silky texture effectively subduing your vexation. The bird settles comfortably in your hold, pecking at some lint on your shirt.

Are you still plagued by your embarrassing encounter with the red-eyed Apollo of a man in the park last week?

Absolutely.

Are you being unfair by taking it out on an innocent animal?

You drop your face into your hands with a dejected sigh.

It’s the eve of the Frostlight holiday, and you’ve decided to visit one of the places you hold a lifetime voucher for—a quaint little coffee shop tucked away in a shopping district alley. Aside from wanting to shake off the holiday blues, worsened by the eerie quiet of your undecorated house (save for the tiny Frostlight tree your brother gave you as a gag gift on your fifteenth birthday), you’ve been eager to check out the place after its recent renovations.

You’d been enjoying the shop’s new seasonal latte, sitting at one of the outdoor tables, when the familiar sound of cawing reached your ears. Before you could look for the source, a blur of black feathers descended gracefully onto your tabletop, a tiny red gem bead clutched in its beak.

Normally, your friend’s surprise appearance would brighten your mood. But as the events of last week played out again in your mind, you couldn't help but launch into a one-sided tirade about how your little tag game with the bird had unfolded that night.

“He said his name was Sylus—he was so handsome,” you groan, idly tracing the condensation on your cup. “And such a gentleman, too! And I tripped over him.”

The crow pecks at the stack of tissues on your table.

“But he was bleeding,” you continue, your gaze drifting to your straw, now bent and chewed. “He looked really hurt. I tried to help him, but then he just stood up—like nothing happened!”

It abandons the tissues, opting instead to preen its feathers.

“Do you think it could’ve been his Evol?” you wonder. “If it was, that’s so cool. And really convenient, don’t you think?”

You glance down at your companion, only to find it engrossed in cleaning its glossy plumage, its blatant disregard for your monologue clear.

You huff.

Deciding to leave the bird to its own business, you let your gaze wander to the other shops.

Because it’s the eve of a well-awaited holiday, the shopping district is alive with activity. The booths are adorned with warm white lights, accented by the sparkle of colorful fairy lights. Even from a distance, the aroma of cookies, hot chocolate, and assorted pastries wafts through the air. At the heart of the district where the streets converge stands a towering Frostlight tree, its meticulously arranged decorations glimmering under the festive lights. Decorative wrapped presents are nestled beneath its branches, and a brilliant star crowns the top, casting a warm, radiant glow over the lively scene.

The crowd is a bustling mix: parents paying at booths, teenagers laughing boisterously in groups, children darting around with unchecked energy, pets drawing clusters of admirers… and a familiar, silver-haired man standing by a stall, his towering presence capturing the awe-struck attention of passersby.

You blink.

Before you even realize it, you're on your feet, weaving through the crowd—nearly tripping over a couple of kids—until you finally reach the stall.

Breathless from your short dash, you rise onto your tippy toes and tap him on the shoulder.

He turns around, brows furrowed as he glances left and right, before finally looking down.

“Sylus, hi!” you blurt out, a toothy grin plastered on your face.

You're pleased to catch the surprise flicker in his eyes.

"Sweetie," he greets, the faintest tug of a smile playing at his lips. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I was in the area trying this new latte...” you trail off, glancing down, only to realize your hands are empty.

You must’ve left it at the table, along with your little crow.

You look back up at him sheepishly. (You send a half-hearted mental apology to the abandoned drink and bird.)

“New latte, huh?” he says, lips curling up into a smirk.

You realize his eyes are a beautiful, bright scarlet under the light.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” you ask, eyes curiously trailing over his dark button-up dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up neatly, revealing toned forearms, the fabric adorned with slashes of deep red embroidery.

Sylus pauses. “Just… handling some business,” he replies, vaguely gesturing to the stall behind him. Around it, several well-built men in black attire and face masks move about—some standing idle, others murmuring in low voices, and a few weaving in and out of the stall's shadowy depths.

Your gaze shifts past them, landing on the vibrant display of oranges, clementines, pomegranates, figs, and other fruits neatly arranged in wooden crates.

“Oh! You own a fruit business?” you exclaim, your face lighting up with excitement.

You miss the slight grimace crossing his face.

“How lovely!” you say, already fishing for your wallet. “Allow me to support such a wholesome endeavor. I’d like two bags of pomegranates, please.”

A brief silence lingers between him and the nearby men. Then, he chuckles, flicking a finger over his shoulder. Two of them—smaller and seemingly younger than the rest, each sporting identical curls—exchange a quick glance before grabbing paper bags and clumsily filling them with pomegranates.

“Here you go,” one of them says with a bow, handing you his bag.

“The freshest of the season!” the other adds cheerily, offering his own.

You accept the bags graciously, about to hand over your payment, when Sylus raises a hand. “On the house,” he tells you, eyes gleaming with amusement.

You hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he replies, gaze roving over your form with a slight smile. “A holiday gift, if you will.”

You take in how striking he looks beneath the soft glow of the lights, his presence almost ethereal against the lively backdrop.

It’s then you realize you only have one life to live. Life is too short for regrets, and you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. That fortune favors the bold, and that you either go big or you go home.

And so, with a deep inhale to steel your nerves, you seize the moment.

“Sylus, would you like to go get ice cream with me?”

The men behind him perk up. Deeper within the stall, a bound man sits trembling, a gun fitted with a silencer pressed against his temple. He’s being hushed, and the air grows thick with suspense as everyone waits with bated breath for the silver-haired man’s response.

After what seems like eternity, Sylus chuckles, flicking your forehead gently.

“I’d be more than happy to.”

—

You’ve barely spent an hour together, but already, you’ve learned so much about him.

He’s surprisingly chivalrous. You hadn’t expected it, but when you pulled out your wallet to pay for both your ice cream cups, he leaned over, gently swatted your hand away, and handed his card to the cashier.

You looked up at him in protest. “But I was the one who offered to get you ice cream…!”

He merely ruffled your hair, amused, as if you were an unruly feline meowing its head off for not getting the fish on the dinner table.

“I’m not letting you pay. End of discussion.”

Determined to make up for your honor, you dragged him to a weathered claw machine not far from the ice cream stand.

“Fine. But I’m getting you that one,” you declared, pointing at a black-and-red dragon plushie nestled among the other prizes. “You’re not allowed to refuse, okay?”

After a brief scuffle over who got to insert the coin (you lost), you managed to snag the plush on your first try. Triumphantly, you handed it to him, watching as he turned it over in his hands, his fingers gently fiddling with its tiny wings. Your gloating expression faded, though, at the sight of his faint smile, the image strangely sending a dull ache through your chest.

And despite his intimidating appearance, he’s remarkably generous.

When the two of you stepped outside the bustling shopping district for a breather, ice cream cups in hand, a gaggle of children in Frostlight-themed costumes approached. Tambourines and melodicas in hand, they eagerly asked if they could perform for you. Their chaperone stood nearby, wincing apologetically at their loud enthusiasm.

“Do your best,” Sylus told them, leaning against the building wall behind him, eyes gleaming in amusement.

The children hastily formed a crooked pyramid, the instrumentalists awkwardly positioned at the back, before launching into the most gloriously off-key performance you’d ever heard. You struggled to suppress your laughter, covering your mouth with your hand, but Sylus regarded them seriously, his head nodding slightly, as if genuinely finding rhythm in their chaotic melody.

When they finished with a burst of giggles, Sylus clapped slowly, laughter dancing in his gaze, before handing over a generous wad of cash. You’ve never heard so many high-pitched “You’re the best, mister!”s all at once.

You’ve been having so much fun—exploring the bustling stalls, petting the pups you come across, checking in on his hardworking fruit stall employees (and happily handing them some of the banana chips you bought), and watching the small fireworks display in the shopping district's adjacent plaza—that you don’t realize how late it’s gotten. Before you know it, you’ve arrived at your house, the neighborhood now quiet and serene, the hum of the city replaced by an almost peaceful stillness.

At your doorstep, you turn to see Sylus leaning casually against his sleek black SUV, his gaze fixed on you. A thought strikes you, and your eyes widen.

“Wait!” you blurt, fumbling for your key. “We never got around to returning each other’s stuff. Let me grab your coat!”

Before you can act, tendrils of black-and-red mist creep along the ground, curling around your feet. Bewildered, you stare at it as it coils upward, encircling you. “What…?”

Despite the way it looks, it feels soft and warm against your skin. Gently, it curls around your wrist, pausing your search for your key, and lifts your chin, guiding your gaze back to him.

“Return it next time,” Sylus tells you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“But won’t you need it?” you ask, distracted by the way the mist dances around you, one tendril brushing your side playfully. You let out a surprised laugh. “Is this your Evol…?”

The mist retreats slowly, as if reluctant to leave. It curls around his feet one last time before dissipating entirely.

“I don’t have your sweater yet,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’d be rude to accept the coat before then.”

“But—”

“Think of it as my excuse to see you again.”

Your words catch in your throat as heat rises to your cheeks.

To appease you, though, he offers to exchange numbers so you can work out the details of your sweater and coat handover. If he notices the way your hands tremble when his fingers brush yours while swapping phones, he doesn’t mention it—though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth doesn’t go unnoticed. With a reluctant wave and a final goodnight, you step inside and close the door behind you.

You lean against it for a moment.

Then, you bolt to your room, dive onto the bed, and scream into your pillow.

When you finally roll onto your back, breathless and grinning like an idiot, the ceiling above you seems brighter, the world lighter. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—like you’re floating, bursting with happiness.

You like him. You really, really like him.

As thoughts of brightly colored ice cream scoops and cuddly dragon plushies swirl in your mind, the weight of the day’s events finally begins to settle over you. You briefly resist, realizing you haven’t even changed out of your clothes or undergone your nightly routine yet, but in the end, you surrender to the comforting pull of slumber.

Just as you drift off, your phone screen glows faintly from your bag.

Good night kitten.

note: tysm for taking time to share your thoughts about the series 🥺 reading through them truly makes me so happy! it's so surreal to know that there are people out there actually looking forward to updates lol!! happy holidays, everyone! 💞

nav: one, two, three, four, five (current), six or: read on ao3

tag list: @thepotatoislost, @xxfaithlynxx, @browneyedgirl22, @vorfreudevortex, @midiplier, @wisteriaflowersss, @euclase0, @leighsartworks216, @keyiswatching, @goldenbirdiee, @delaythings, @datura109, @iloveboysinred, @everythingistaken00, @moonlight-inthe-sea, @blueberrysquire, @mourning-into-dancing, @bookfreakk, @everywherenothere, @vvhira, @laidenbreecatchall, @kyushii, @lucifer-says-hii, @sylus-crow, @carmelves, @nishayuro

check out my other works!

#ori.writes #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x mc #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #love and deepspace #sylus fluff

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goldfades · 2 months ago

Text

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)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 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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yapileon · 5 months ago

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@TacklerCulers: The Chaotic Teen Serie pt. 1

fcb femení x chaoticteen!reader (first fic, be gentle with me pls i'm embarassed, also, i have no idea why i wrote that.)

17yo La Masia defender gets promoted to the first team. Will you be able to keep your fcb femení fan account hidden while slowly making your place in the team with your idols?

While you had the tendency to be known as a cheeky chaotic teen, you currently felt anxious and shaky. You had spent three years working you ass off to be recognized in the La Masia training academy, it had paid off, since you were on the way to your first training with the senior team.

You're walking to the stadium when you feel your phone buzzing in your back pocket. You picked it up, smiling at the Mapi León wallpaper you had chosen weeks ago. You knew the pings had something to do with the meme you posted on your fan account, @TacklerCulers this morning.

tacklerculers

liked by 2,486 others

tacklersculers: Ona and The Flash have never been witnessed at the same place at the same time, just saying.

—

Like you thought, the meme was doing well, attracting multiples thousands likes from other woso fans. You couldn't help but giggle at the fact that today, you'd get to meet all of the barça squad. No, it was more than that, today, you'd get to become their teammates.

You were so excited when you had made it on the training pitch, you were the first aside from some of the training staff that you had greeted. You picked up a ball and started juggling, trying to get yourself in the flow. Except this is when you had spotted them walking to you.

Alexia, the captain of the best team in the world, and Mapi Leon, the arm-tape icon —and arguably your favorite player of all time—smiling brightly at you. You were so focused on them that you kicked the ball straight to your shin. Smooth.

"Doing good, rookie?" The defender had asked you with an amused look. Though her smile faded away when Alexia elbowed her in the ribs, frowning.

The sound you had made to answer was something between a hurried yes and a cat screeching. So you nodded profusely, not trusting your voice to not betray you again.

"Don't listen to her cariño," the blond had said softly, her hand on your shoulder, and at that moment you swore you could die, your life was complete.

"Big day today, sí?" the capitain added, dragging you toward the group of players who had started arriving.

You hoped you'd be able to find you voice again soon, otherwise today would only be a long and embarrassing day.

You waved to some of the players, high fiving Patri who seemed very happy to see a fellow La Masia made kid. You couldn't help but be star struck, looking around you you saw Irene Paredes. Wall of the team. And Ingrid Engen? Technically midfield goddess but honorary defender in your books. Really what would have the team done last season without her? You couldn't help but chuckle a bit seeing Ona, remember your meme from this morning, though you tried (and failed) to hide your laugh as a cough.

But then training started, and you were definitely better at football than introducing yourself, so you gave your all. You had warmed up with Ingrid, not like Mapi didn't try to get to you before but the Norwegian had dragged you with her, leaving the Spaniard pouting. You were definitely glad for Ingrid right now, you were sure if you had had to play with your idol right away, you would have somehow tripped on your own feet.

After the warm up, the real work started. You had been doing well, holding your own as much as you could against them, trying to time your tackles well, finding your grooves in your passes. You were playing a five-a-side when the incident happened. At some point, you had tried to nutmeg Alexia on a spur of the moment thing, and had blushed furiously when you had inevitably failed —leaving only Gemma to defend the goal. Which in itself was embarrassing enough, but you had recovered quickly, decided on fixing things, you had ran for your life, and somehow managed to kick the ball away from the goal line when Alexia took her shot.

Problem?

It has landed straight on Ingrid's back, hitting her at full strength.

Ingrid stumbled forward, gasping, and Mapi who was right next to her burst out laughing. You ran to them, mortified, half screaming a busted apology.

"Already trying to get rid of me?" The dark haired woman said, chuckling while rubbing her back.

You screamed, trying to defend yourself while slightly panicking. "What?! No. Ingrid I'm so sorry, it's the ball, I didn't-" you stopped yoursel.

It's the ball? Seriously?

Ingrid raised an eyebrow at you while her girlfriend was practically rolling on the grass from laughing too much.

"I think the ball did exactly what you wanted, little devil." the Norwegian had said smirking, leaving you audibly gasping.

"I- What?" You stumbled on your words "I'm an angel I would never willingly hurt another defender!" you added, gesturing.

Mapi, who was still holding onto her belly from how much she was laughing interrupted, "An Angel? You just tried to murder Ingrid with a football.”

You whined your disagreement, unaware that most of the team had stopped their training to watch you three arguing on the sideline, most with a smile on their lips. You heard Pina laughing in the background, saying something along the lines of you perfectly fitting in already. Alexia had made her way to you. Her voice surprised you when she spoke teasingly, "Would that mean that you'd willingly hurt someone who's not a defender?" You could see on the blonde faces that it was meant as a joke. You watched, half amused half desperate, as the three women burst out laughing at the face you made.

Thankfully for you, the Norwegian did not seem to hold a grudge for the way you had attacked her with the football, leaving the training session to continue.

It was the end of the day and you were making your way to the locker room when Mapi had ran to you. She ruffled your hair, putting her arm around your shoulder when she was satisfied, "You did good today kid, looks like you might have a nice future ahead of you."

Your mouth fell open, before you started scrambling to say thank you. You just couldn't believe Mapi of all people was the one to compliment you. All the team had welcomed you with open arms, pulling you in conversation, praising you when you did well, giving you tips when you were struggling. You always knew they were good people, but witnessing it first hand was leaving you a bit emotional.

You guessed your starstruck eyes were obvious when Frido, who was passing you to sit at her locker said, "Well, no need to ask who your favourite player is, uh?" You felt your body shrink in your seat and went straight back to blushing as the team giggled. After the first moment of embarrassment, you laughed with them.

You had behave fairly well, until you were presented with the perfect opportunity by Irene, feeling like the team had a good vibe, you decided to show a bit of mischief.

"So," Irene asked curiously, "what made you decide to be a defender?"

You froze for a second, your filter failing you, before smirking. "Because defenders are the hottest."

You saw Mapi nearly choke on her water while the whole team burst out laughing. And suddenly you felt very proud of yourself. You laughed with them while kicking away your cleats.

The tattooed Spaniard had recovered from her cough, tears in her eyes, "You're a cheeky thing, aren't you?"

You smiled, wiggling your eyebrows, "I mean… am I wrong?"

"No lies detected," Ingrid chimed in with a wink, making everyone laugh harder.

You leaned back into your locker, not believing how well you were going along with the team. That's when you saw Aitana giggling and grabbing Ona by the sleeve. "Look! Someone edited you on a The Flash meme!"

Uh oh.

pt. 2

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persephone-writes · 5 months ago

Text

A Diviner's Guide to James Potter: Series Masterlist

(ongoing) - read on ao3

Description: Being friends with Lily Evans was difficult when you were head over heels for her ex-boyfriend, James. Your problems are only made worse when you begin receiving strange omens that point to a less than desirable future.

Genre: Friends to lovers, slow burn (I mean it!), fluff & angst.

Rating: Teen (swearing, alcohol/weed/cigarettes, no smut). More detailed warnings for the whole fic can be found on Chapter One.

Series Word Count (so far): 164.6k

+:｡.｡.｡:+*+:｡.｡.｡:+*+:｡.♡.｡:+*+:｡.｡.｡:+*+:｡.｡.｡+

Chapter One: The Omen

You tell your friends about your odd findings while working on your most recent Divination assignment, all while trying to push away your growing feelings for James

Chapter Two: The Heart Wants What it Wants

Answers to your predicament are few and far between when Sirius gets a letter from his parents and the Gryffindor quidditch team receives some excellent news.

Chapter Three: Wicked and Wayward

Gryffindor plays Hufflepuff in the fourth match of the season, complete with an eventful after party.

Chapter Four: Paranoid

Hogsmeade is fun, but not when Sirius dangles a dangerous secret right in front of your nose.

Chapter Five: The Blizzard

A late winter storm buries Hogwarts in piles of snow, causing James to grow increasingly restless. It also blows in a much needed answer.

Chapter Six: Portraits Talk

Sirius attempts to quell your anger, though the pressure of acting aloof threatens to topple you.

Chapter Seven: Communing with Nature

You receive another omen which points to nothing good, though James is always there to help ease your mind.

Chapter Eight: The Duel

Mulciber becomes a looming threat to you and your friends, only increasing your existing anxieties.

Chapter Nine: Red and Gold

Old insecurities are brought to the surface, but James attempts to reassure you with the promise of a fun weekend.

Chapter Ten: Scurrilous Scoundrel

A night of firewhiskey, dancing, and racing hearts is unfortunately cut short when you stumble across eerie meeting.

Chapter Eleven: The Hour Struck Nine

Tensions between you and James run high when you, Peter, and Marlene return to the RoR.

Chapter Twelve: Discontent

After nearly seven years, you finally make it into Dumbledore’s office, though this does little to ease your growing nerves, especially when it comes to James.

Chapter Thirteen: A Lovely Shade of Turquoise

James forces you to talk about what happened, opening up a can of worms you wish you could charm back in.

Chapter Fourteen: The Stars Can Speak

After your fight with James, you're left entirely unsure how to act. However, your friends, and the stars, have some (un)helpful suggestions.

Chapter Fifteen: Repairo

Two diverging paths are presented to you: avoidance or intuition. Which one will you choose?

Chapter Sixteen: The Chaste Moon

The full moon comes just before Easter, fostering a time of rebirth and renewal…among other things.

Chapter Seventeen: An Invitation

You and the others search for answers regarding the return of your nefarious classmates.

Chapter Eighteen: Innamorati

Presents, dueling practice, and parties, oh my!

Chapter Nineteen: Yours, James

You and James are forced to deal with the highly eventful nature of Saturday night.

Chapter Twenty: And Then There Was You

You learn more about James's former pining, realizing there is less to fear than you initially thought.

Chapter Twenty-One: Severus' Story

It seems as though the past always has a way of catching up with you (and everyone else around you), even if Quattlebaum has hopes for your future.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Tears

Still reeling with your discoveries, you're left to deal with the aftermath.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Hourglass

You try your best to help Sirius with his brother, even if it means trusting your abilities in Divination more than ever before.

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Cliff Worth Plummeting

You have an interesting run-in with Peeves, forcing you to confront the inevitable.

Chapter Twenty-Five: I Know

You have a run in with an odious adversary, reminding you that your problems may not end at graduation.

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Black Lake

It seems as though months of secrets, omens, and animosity is coming to fruition, swirling in a storm above Hogwarts.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Wonderful Accident

A tough conversation awaits, as does some unexpected perks of winning a duel against a dastardly opponent.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Coming Soon!

•-—✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼—-•

Antique book cover credits:

The Deer-Parks and Paddocks of England by Joseph Whitaker, Captain Courtesy by Edward Childs Carpenter & Goldfish Varieties and Tropical Aquarium Fishes; a Complete Guide to Aquaria and Related Subjects by William T. Innes

#figured I’d make a separate masterlist #Should have done this at the beginning but not making masterlists seems like a common theme with me #james potter x reader #james potter/reader #james potter x you #james potter x fem!reader #james potter #marauders era #james potter fanfiction #james potter fluff #james potter series #marauders fandom

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neil-gaiman · 2 years ago

Note

Given that there were no scenes with Crowley on fire in season 2, did David Tennant even show up to set?

That was David being "struck by lightning" in episode 1. The five fennec foxes did most of the rest of the actoring.

#go2 spoilers #fennec fox

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basset-babe · 11 months ago

Text

five times: the first.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: none but gossip

word count: 3.5k+

a/n: in the ever tasteful art of writing fan fiction, here's me breaking my writer's block and making my debut on bridgerton fanfiction, i give you the first of five times with ben. i absolutely adore the abc men but ben just has a special place in my heart (tbh anthony and colin do too, i just felt like daydreaming abt ben today) i do hope y'all enjoy! ciao!

five times series: the first. the one point five. the second. the third. the three point five. the fourth. at last.

dividers from @heavenlayt thank you!

first time.

"My lady? It is time to wake." Elsie, my lady's maid, knocked on my door, as she entered. "If your ladyship pleases, the hour had struck 6 of the morning." As my eyes adjusted to the soft light hues streaming through the curtains. I sat myself up and replied, "Elsie, good morning. I am now awake, awake enough hopefully."

Elsie ushered in with a pitcher of water and cloths. "Is it really today already?" I huffed as I stood walking to my dressing room. I cleaned myself and slipped on to a new chemise. "My lady, Her Grace has instructed that we make haste. Yes, your presentation to the Queen and the court is today. In a few hours to be exact."

I faced my looking glass as a few other maids came in to assist with my stays and petticoats. This is the day that all my grandmother's lessons and patience comes to fruition. All the hours practice dancing, and of course, the languages I've studied and now do speak fluently, if I do say so myself.

"Tell me honestly, Elsie," I looked back at her as she ties the ribbons of my corset. "Would I ever succeed in... all this?" I flailed my hands gesturing. I fear I might not even find a match for this already seemingly long season. She smiled and said, "You've prepared for this for the longest time. You have become such a fine young lady, miss. Any bachelor is to be blessed in abundance to bask in your presence, in my estimation. My hopes and prayers are always in your welfare, my lady."

As I take my last look in the looking glass, my gown fashioned from ivory silk, its smooth surface shimmering. My hand traced the pearl-beaded neckline and I fixed the puff of my sleeve. With my gloves at hand, I head out my room's door where I am greeted by my grandmother, her cane tapping the hardwood floors. "A tad bit early than I expected, my dear." Her tone joking as I followed suit. I smiled as we went down the manor's foyer. The stairs were adorned with our small family's portraits. "Well, I did try to attire myself with the utmost haste, Grandmama, fully aware of your esteemed patience." I remarked in jest but she laughed amusedly.

Halting in my steps, I found myself drawn to a familiar sight—the wedding portrait of my beloved parents. A soft smile graced my lips as I gazed upon their image, memories of happier times flooding my mind.

Sensing my absence, my grandmother turned back, her keen eyes alighting upon me. With a gentle hum, she adjusted her monocle and approached, offering a comforting pat on my back. "Grandmama," I began, my voice tinged with a wistful longing, "I do hope I make them proud." Her response was a tender reassurance, spoken with unwavering certainty: "I am sure they already are, dearest."

As I stood poised on the threshold, awaiting my turn for presentation, a sense of vulnerability washed over me, akin to that of a damsel in distress. My grandmother, ever the epitome of grace and poise, meticulously adjusted the feathers of my attire, ensuring every detail was impeccably in place. "Breathe," she counseled, her voice a gentle reassurance in the midst of my nerves. "You have done me proud, dearest," Grandmama affirmed, her words a comforting embrace, imbued with pride and unwavering support.

Then the Lord Chamberlain announced, "Miss Y/N Y/L/N presented by her grandmother, the Right Honorable, the Dowager Viscountess Y/L/N."

As the grand doors parted, a hush fell over the room, and I sensed the weight of every gaze upon me, particularly that on my grandmother too, her presence announced by the dignified tap of her cane as she followed behind. Stepping forward with measured grace, I approached the Queen's podium and executed a low curtsy, drawing in a deep breath as I maintained a respectful bow. Despite the murmurs echoing through the court, a moment of stillness enveloped the room as I felt the Queen rise from her seat. With a gentle touch, she lifted my chin, and I straightened, meeting her gaze with a warm smile.

"The paragon that you are, my dear," she uttered with a tender affection, bestowing a kiss upon my forehead in a gesture of approval. A grin spread across my face, the warmth of her words suffusing my being, even as my cheeks protested from the strain of the continuous smile. With a graceful pivot, my grandmother and I retreated with measured steps, executing another respectful curtsy before withdrawing from the Queen's presence.

The once subdued murmurs of the court now crescendoed in my ears, a cacophony of whispers and speculation swirling around us.

"Grandmama... Me? A paragon?" I murmured to her, quite exhilarated by the Queen's words. Yet, my grandmother remained stoically composed, her gaze fixed steadfastly ahead amidst the throng of aristocracy.

It was a rare sight to behold her amidst society's grandeur, for she typically kept to herself. However, she had made an exception, deeming it fitting for me to enter society this season. And indeed, her decision had borne fruit. Every effort she had invested in my preparation had culminated in this moment of recognition and acclaim.

I cast a fleeting glance towards the court and beheld the most gentle of green eyes. He acknowledged me with a subtle nod, prompting me to avert my gaze. I delicately toying with my fingertips as a flush of warmth suffused my cheeks under the weight of his gaze. I thought, "He must be a Bridgerton." As he wore their signature navy blue color and his hair a bit more disarray in his possible attempt to make it look more orderly.

In a moment of amusement, I softly chuckled as I returned my gaze to his warm countenance, which bore a friendly smile. Grandmother moved her cane in front of me as if to rectify my demeanor. Upon realizing my error, my gaze widened in contrition as I cast a sheepish glance her way.

Inwardly, I fortify myself for the impending social engagements with the esteemed members of the court, anticipating the sunset reception that is to ensue after this presentation. "May fortune favor the bold," I silently invoke, summoning courage for the encounters ahead.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the Buckingham Palace gardens, guests gathered amidst a scene of opulent splendor. Marble pillars and graceful arches adorned with cascading vines formed the backdrop, while ornate chandeliers and intricately carved ceiling pieces adorned the alabaster walls of the open-air reception area. Underfoot, the smooth marble flooring provided a regal foundation for the soirée, imbuing the atmosphere with an air of timeless grandeur and sophistication.

As refreshments circled the soirée on silver trays, deftly carried by attentive servants, the ton assembled to mingle amidst the lush surroundings of the Buckingham Palace gardens. Bustling mamas engaged in animated chatter, their voices rising above the murmurs of conversation, as astute gentlemen sought out advantageous alliances for their poised debutantes. Amidst the swirl of social intrigue and polite banter, the air crackled with anticipation, each guest poised to seize upon the opportunities of the evening's gathering.

Accompanied by my grandmother, I descended the garden stairs into the sunken garden reception. The ton, resplendent in their finery, turned their heads in unison, their curious gazes alighting upon us like the flicker of candlelight on polished silver. Whispers rippled through the crowd as we traversed the room, each pair of eyes lingering, momentarily entranced by the spectacle of our arrival. Even those engaged in conversation momentarily paused to acknowledge our arrival. "The season's paragon.." They said.

"Your Grace, might we trouble you for some refreshments?" I nodded to the servant approaching with a tray of glasses.

As we delicately sipped our glasses of lemonade, Lady Ledger made her approach, flanked by her cousin Lady Violet Bridgerton, and her daughter, Miss Eloise, who had been presented alongside me earlier in the day. Joining them was her friend, Miss Penelope Featherington, completing their entourage.

"Ah, Viscountess Y/L/N, Lady Y/L/N, are you enjoying the reception?" Lady Ledger inquired with a knowing smile. Lady Bridgerton nodded graciously in acknowledgment, offering a courteous response to both my grandmother and me. "Indeed," Grandmother chimed in, "never underestimate the Queen's knack for transforming the mundane into a marvel of grandeur."

"Shall we take a turn around the room, Lady Y/L/N?" Miss Eloise extended the invitation, linking elbows with Miss Penelope. "Shall we?" I said settling between them, leaving our matriarchs amongst their chatter.

We've taken a few steps far from the soirée back near the refreshment table when Eloise spoke, "Well, Lady Y/L/N, do enlighten us on your thoughts about the presentation and the reception. Speak freely, for I've grown weary of the tiresome cacophony of giggles and idle daydreams from the other ladies this evening. Thankfully, Miss Penelope here has been a better companion throughout."

"I find myself drawn to exploring avenues beyond the confines of the marital sphere at present, even though my mother absolutely opposes to the idea of me having a gap year, then." Penelope sighs and continues, "Despite the absence of prospects thus far, I find myself surprisingly content in my quiet indulgences."

"Honestly, delaying a year in the marriage mart may seem unconventional, but one mustn't rush fate. Patience often leads to the most unexpected and delightful unions." I answered, "Even I opted for a delay of a year, despite not making my debut until this season as per Her Grace's wishes. I must say, I couldn't be more grateful for the opportunity to indulge myself in my beloved books during that time."

"Do tell, Miss Y/L/N, what literary tomes do you find yourself indulging in?" Eloise asks.

"I dabble in perusing natural history compendiums, particularly finding botanical works to be a favorite pursuit of mine," I paused momentarily, then continued, "Oh, I fear I may inadvertently bore you both with my penchant for the sciences. However, I do find solace in the allure of romances and literature crafted with a delicate balance of wit, social commentary, and the thrill of romantic escapades, albeit confined to the written word."

Further discourse veered towards the discussion of almost radical hobbies and interests amongst the three of us. I found myself increasingly at ease amidst the reception, in the company of these two. "But I do wish these receptions offered more than mere gossip, dance, and music," Penelope remarked.

"Indeed, it can become rather tedious to dance until one's feet ache," I replied, "although, I must confess, I have yet to be invited to partake. I merely entertain the notion of engaging a tutor and mastering the intricacies of these social dances through diligent practice."

"I concur. It might indeed provide a welcome diversion, perhaps enticing one of you to accept an offer to dance, solely for the sake of regaling me with the experience. There is only so much I can endure of our daily routines and chatter," Penelope added with a hint of playful exasperation. "Nothing absolutely changes, honestly."

However, ere long, the moment was upon us as Lady Bridgerton approached alongside a gentleman with tousled brown locks, unmistakably of noble bearing. Penelope and I moved aside as he was introduced. "I would like to introduce you to Lord Morrison."

"Miss Eloise. A pleasure." He bowed.

Lady Bridgerton nodded towards Eloise in agreement as he spoke, "Might I have the honor?"

Penelope and I smiled amidst the gentleman as we glanced over to Eloise who's had a confused smile at the offered hand. "Of what?" She asked, her hands clasped.

We stifled a laugh as her mother said, "A dance, Eloise," Lady Bridgerton, then, led Eloise's hand towards the outstretched one of Lord Morrison's. "Yes, I think you shall, Lord Morrison." She looked at Eloise, "Do recall, a try?"

She cast upon us a gaze brimming with utter annoyance, seemingly beseeching deliverance from a dance destined for doom. "You wished to be entertained," she intimated.

As I discerned my grandmother's cane drawing nearer to Penelope and me, she gracefully inquired, "Are you enjoying your company, dear?" Her tone carried both warmth and concern. "I couldn't help but notice the absence of suitors vying for your attention. Would you care to be introduced?" she offered, her hand holding a glass of wine, likely courtesy of Lady Danbury.

"The night is indeed still young, Your Grace," I respond with a smile. "As you often advise, there's no need to hasten amidst fun."

"Atta girl," my grandmother replies with a twinkle in her eye. "You've made my words your own. Quite the wit, just like your dear old grandmother."

"Not that old, Your Grace." I laughed.

As my grandmother started her lively chatter with Penelope, my gaze wandered, drawn to a familiar mess of brown hair amidst laughter, situated beside Lady Bridgerton. Automatically, I presumed him to be her son, but entirely unsure which one.

Our eyes met, again, even if we are across the room. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored coat and carried an air of warmth that set him apart from the crowd. Intrigued by his steady gaze, I felt a flutter of anticipation in my chest as I continued to chat with Penelope and my grandmother.

"Will you excuse me, Viscountess and Miss Y/N. My mother, she summons me. " Penelope exited as her mother waved her hastily over for an introduction to a baron, it seems.

"May I take a tour of the room again, Grandmama?" I asked.

"Come take the tour with me," Grandmama said. As she walked and her cane struck the marbled pavement, gentlemen adjusted their cravats and smiled my way. "They are all staring again, Your Grace."

"Pay no mind, my dear. Allow them to come to you."

We were soon approached by a nobleman. "Lady Y/L/N. Miss Y/L/N. I am Lord Ibarra," he announced, his tone posh and refined.

"Ah yes, Lord Ibarra," Grandmama replied. "I believe you have been introduced to my granddaughter, Y/N."

"Yes, we met at your estate's Thanksgiving picnic," he confirmed.

"And I believe you had just won a few awards in Madrid," I added with a touch of nostalgia.

"Unfortunately, his advocacies stand in his way of scoundrelship, dearest. Oh well, humbug," she remarked, waving a dismissive hand.

"Well, in that case, I do hope his lordship has found himself new musings," I said with a polite smile.

"Only then would he be able to indulge in new hobbies if he'd been keeping up to date with his dues and no backlogs, wouldn't you, Lord Ibarra?" Grandmama added with a pointed look. Lord Ibarra nodded curtly and took steps back before excusing himself form the encounter.

"He is unfit. Quite poor with money and all the decisions that accompany it. A man of any honor ensures his debts are entirely settled. Let us proceed." Grandmama commented,

We continued our tour of the room. A gentleman dancing nodded with a smile. "He is rather charming."

"He is merely attempting to salvage what little remains of his fortune. Be assured that Mr. Fairfax is well informed of your considerable dowry." Grandmama, yet again, snidely remarked.

"I trust you are acquainted with him as well," I observed, gesturing to a gentleman with a colorful cravat. "Heaven forbid a notorious rake and alleged father of a bastard should captivate you, my dear."

Another gentleman who walked pass and smiled. "Only a seventh son. We shall find you a more suitable match." Grandmama stated.

Then Lady Bridgerton approached with her son in tow. "Ah, what a delightful sight. Violet, dear."

"Viscountess, this is my son, Benedict," Violet introduced with pride.

"Lady Y/L/N. Miss Y/L/N. An honour," Benedict said with a respectful bow. "I have been hoping for the chance to meet you."

My heart skipped a beat at his words, my cheeks flushing, yet again, with a becoming blush. "Mr. Bridgerton," I replied, my voice soft but filled with warmth, "the pleasure is mine."

"Your mother and I have shared many a tea. We are close, are we not?" Grandmama said with a warm smile.

"Indeed, but circumstances have changed now that your granddaughter has entered society, now a lady," Violet remarked, her eyes twinkling.

"About time, a year later than as her father would have wished," Grandmama responded with a sigh.

"Oh, I am deeply sorry for the recent loss of your son and daughter-in-law. I remember them both fondly from our social seasons," Violet said with genuine sympathy.

"Life must move forward after mourning, as it always does. Enough of the sorrow. We must ensure you two become well acquainted," Grandmama said, steering the conversation back to the present.

I smiled as Benedict handed me a glass of lemonade from the servant's tray. "I have not seen you much around the ton recently, Miss Y/N," he commented with a gentle curiosity.

"Ah yes, I have been occupied with managing the estate alongside Her Grace since my parents' passing. Additionally, I have been deeply engrossed in my hobbies and interests," I explained.

"What might those be?" Benedict inquired, his interest piqued.

Grandmama interjected, "Her botanicals. She is utterly devoted to her plants, especially during blooming season. It is quite a passion of hers."

"Miss Y/L/N," Benedict began, his voice carrying a warmth that sparked my curiosity, "I must admit, I never knew that botanicals held such fascination for you."

I felt a flush rise to my cheeks at his observation, but his genuine interest put me at ease. "Indeed, Mr. Bridgerton," I replied as my voice tinged with excitement, "Botanicals have always been my greatest passion. There's a certain beauty in the way plants grow and flourish, don't you agree?"

I found myself opening up to him, sharing my knowledge of plants and their intricate ecosystems. With each word I spoke, I sensed his genuine interest, and I couldn't help but feel a flutter of connection between us.

"Mr. Bridgerton," I said, my heart swelling with pride, "Your appreciation for botanicals is truly heartening. I would be delighted to share more of my botanical knowledge with you in the future, if you're interested."

His eager nod and warm smile filled me with joy. "I would like that very much, Miss Y/L/N," he replied, his voice sincere. "It would be an honor to explore the wonders of the natural world with you."

"Oh, Benedict, you must tell them of your recent painting," Violet encouraged.

"Mother," He laughs. "Yes, one has reached display at the art gallery on the avenue. It's not much, really," Benedict said with a humble smile.

Grandmama replied, "That is an outstanding accomplishment, Benedict. It seems both of you have a tendency to downplay your achievements! I, for one, am a great supporter of both the sciences and the arts."

"There is always room for refinement in my pursuits. One never truly reaches perfection, wouldn't you agree, Miss Y/N?" I merely nodded in response to his question, my demure demeanor intact as I delicately sipped from my glass.

Benedict began to stand more upright as Lady Danbury approached our group. "Lady Danbury, good evening," he greeted with a respectful nod.

"At ease, Mr. Bridgerton. Miss Y/L/N, you look rather lovely this evening. Is there a reason I've yet to see you on the dance floor?" Lady Danbury inquired, her sharp eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Grandmama replied, "All in good time, Agatha."

Lady Danbury leaned in and replied fleeting, "You poor thing, being kept off the dance floor."

"If only it were not time for us to retire," Grandmother said turning turning to me with intent. "I am anything but weary, Your Grace," I assured Grandmama, my enthusiasm evident.

"Dearest, there is nary a gentleman here who wouldn't take your hand. You must consider this. The most perfect thing for you to do now is not to dance but to leave them all wanting more. If anyone knows how this works, it is I, your grandmother," Grandmama advised, her eyes gleaming with wisdom.

"Perhaps you are right. Let us go," My expression softened with a small smile. My heart sank slightly at the thought of our evening coming to an end so soon, but I knew better than to disobey my grandmother's wishes.

With a nod of gratitude, my grandmother turned to Benedict. "Mr. Bridgerton, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope we shall have the opportunity to see you again soon."

I watched as Mr. Bridgerton returned my grandmother's gracious smile with one of his own. "The pleasure was mine, Viscountess," he said, but his voice tinged with regret. "I look forward to the chance to call upon Miss Y/L/N--"

But before he could say another word, my grandmother had already ushered me away, leaving Mr. Bridgerton standing amidst the bustling garden. As we made our way through the crowd, I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the missed opportunity to spend more time with him. The thought of not having the chance to dance with him weighed heavily on my mind.

As we stepped out into the cool night air, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was not the end of our story. Despite the missed chance, I held onto the hope that our paths would cross again, and that perhaps, in the not too distant future, I would once again find myself in Mr. Bridgerton's company.

#benedict bridgerton x you #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #x reader #fem reader #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton/reader #fic #bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton oneshot #fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x y/n

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q8qwertyuiop8p · 6 months ago

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Dark Details of Arcane Season 1

Five of some of the darker, more morbid details you might not notice watching for the first time.

1. Silco's Shadow

In s1e6, when Marcus opens the door to his daughter's bedroom, Silco leans forward to place cards on the house he and Ren are building. For a brief moment, however, his shadow appears to be strangling Marcus' daughter.

This eery juxtaposition of course foreshadows the threat Silco will soon make to Marcus and the hidden danger he poses to Ren. It is also ironic considering what happened to Silco.

2. Jinx's Voices Trying to Convince Her

In s1e9, during the dinner party scene, you can hear a voice whisper something to Jinx after Caitlyn points pow-pow towards her. It is difficult to make out, but listening closely you can hear:

"It's time to leave them."

This prompts Jinx to whip her pistol out towards Caitlyn, who is already aiming towards Jinx, nearly getting killed in the process.

Supposedly you can hear this phrase during some other scenes involving her psychosis, however this is the only scene in which it appears in Netflix's subtitles.

Earlier in the scene Vi tells Jinx that:

"We can just go... we'll leave and never come back!"

This triggers Jinx's psychosis. She asks where they would go, looks over to Mylo, and says,

"No... no, no, she's not saying that..."

3. Message to Silco

If you look closely at the table in the dinner party, you can see that Jinx, furious and hurt after overhearing Silco's apparent plans to "betray" her, wrote "DIE" on the table in front of him.

After accidently killing him, Jinx looks down emotionlessly at the table, exactly where she wrote that word.

4. Painting Parallel

The scene of Silco cradling Jinx on the bridge is likely meant to be a visual reference to the 1880s painting Ivan the Terrible and his Son by Russian artist Ilya Repin. The story behind the painting parallels a different scene.

The painting depicts Ivan cradling his dying son after he struck him on the head in a fit of rage. Ivan is horrified and grief-stricken at what he has done, placing his hand over his son's wound in a hopeless attempt to take it back.

This foreshadows Jinx killing Silco when she is no longer in the right state of mind, as well as her immediate shock and regret. She even begins to place her hands over his wound before realizing there is nothing she can do.

5. Aftermath of the Bridge Explosion

In episode 8 when Jayce visits the bridge, we get a brief shot of the aftermath of Jinx's explosion, and looking more closely one can see just how gruesome it is.

Blood splattered everywhere, intestines spilling out, blown off limbs, and even brain matter can be made out in this graphic scene. The rest of the shot, however, is very beautiful.

Arcane was originally going to be even bloodier. In the storyboards Jinx punches the arcade so hard her knuckles bleed all over it.

In the original layout animation, blood sprays on the camera when she bashes a firelight with Pow-Pow, and she even smiles with glee. Mylo's death would also be much bloodier.

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fivelilas · 8 months ago

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What Aidan said on Patreon about fivelila and the program:

●fivelila

X: Aidan, What was the most difficult scene for you to film in season 4?👀

Aidan:

I think the kiss...it was hard to make it real. I really had to let go of myself and be Five. It's really not easy to give a kiss and make it real. There's a lot of the relationship with Lila that we filmed but they cut it. It took weeks to film it and they used a few minutes in a montage. That wasn't right. It also made it very hard for viewers to believe when we spent weeks filming scenes to set up that scenario Ritu and I were there for weeks before someone else came to Canada to film our secret scenes first

There are also articles online that are not true. For example, David never had any problem with the romance between Lila and Five. Neither did Ritu. That's completely made up to attract clicks.

● umbrella academy

X: What was the most difficult thing for you recording the last season

Aidan:

Knowing it was the end

We also didn't know how it would end. Steve always hides the last script until the very end.

Steve basically wrote what he wanted and we were paid to do it.

No cast member has a vote on anything.

I would change it back to the original 10 episodes that Steve wrote.

When Netflix told him to cut it down to 6 episodes and remove all the expensive scenes, I'm sure that hurt the season a lot. It's like reading a well written story that has everything you ever wanted to explain about the show.

I mean, I understand that the show was no longer profitable, so it was a business decision.

We were lucky to be able to get a fourth season; it was actually a gift from Netflix to the fans because they didn't make any money on it

Actually, you should thank them for season 4. Any other network would have just cancelled the show. I heard they tried for years to fix the deal with UCP to make it profitable to move forward and UCP didn't do it.

OK, so UCP owns the show and struck a deal with Netflix to distribute it on their network. But with each season, the show cost Netflix more and more money from UCP. By season 4, it was no longer profitable

Anyway, I'm glad they made UA. It almost never got made. For years it was going to be a movie

#the umbrella academy #five hargreeves #lila hargreeves #lila pitts #fivelila #five/lila #five x lila #lila x five #harcest #aidan gallagher #ritu arya #david castañeda #umbrella academy

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ahsokaismyqueen · 8 months ago

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Idiotic Decisions Pairing - Steve Harrington x HendersonSister!Reader Summary - Working on a project with douchebag Steve Harrington was not something you were looking forward to doing. However, you're surprised to find that maybe he's just a little less of a jerk than you thought. Word Count - 2.2k Warnings - Language and season 1 Steve, but that's it! Steve Harrington x HendersonSister!Reader Masterlist

Of all the things that you thought you might have to do in high school, partnering with Steve Harrington on a project was the one you probably wanted to do the least. Even less so did you want him to know where you lived and be in your house, but one, you had to be there when your brother got home, and two, you wanted the home field advantage.

“I still don’t see why you don’t just blow him off. You can come over and help me work on my new campaign. I had this great idea -”

You rolled your eyes. “Eddie, I’m not blowing off this project. It’s like twenty-five percent of my grade, and if I leave it all to Harrington I’m sure to fail.”

Eddie snorted over the phone. “Don’t you have like a 98 in that class?”

A sigh left your lips. “Yes, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. I need all the help I can get for scholarships. We’re gonna run like hell outta here remember? I can’t do that without some help.” After a moment, a thought struck you though. “Wait, don’t you have your own project to do? For Ms. O’Donnell?”

“What’s that? Oh, sorry, my Uncle’s calling me to do some stuff around the trailer. I’m going to have to let you go.” He rattled off.

But you knew he was lying. “I know damn well Wayne’s at work, Eddie.”

“Bye!” Then there was nothing on the other end but a dial tone.

Glancing at the clock in the kitchen, you let out a groan, knowing that Steve would be here any minute, and started cleaning off the table so you two would have some space to work. By 5, the time Steve had agreed to be there, everything was clean and your notes were laying out on the table for the two of you to use since you were sure he didn’t have any.

Then it was 5:30, and he still wasn’t there.

6:00

7:00

7:30 and there was still no sign of Steve Harrington.

By that point, you had grabbed a beer from where you had hidden them in the back of the fridge, and had taken up a spot on the couch with your new book, The Gunslinger. You almost didn’t answer when the knock sounded at your door, but you were curious as to what his excuse might be.

Steve Harrington stood on your doorstep with what you were sure was supposed to be a charming grin. “Hey, Henderson.” When you stared at him without saying a word, the grin started to fade, and he fidgeted around. “You gonna let me in or?”

You brought your beer to your lips and took a sip, continuing to stare him down for a moment, and then you took a step back, shutting the door in his face. Turns out you didn’t care what his excuse was. You sat back down on the couch and opened your book once again.

Steve started trying to talk to you through the door. “Come on, Henderson, basketball practice ran late, and then I had to call Nancy-”

You let out a snort and flipped the page.

“Just let me in. I promise I’ll do whatever you say, all the grunt work, hell, I’ll even write, ‘I will not be late.’ Like a hundred times if that’ll make you feel better.” He pleaded.

Hmmm . . . That would be amusing.

“Henderson, seriously, what’s it going to take? I can’t fail this class-”

“What are you doing here?”

You leapt out of your seat and ran to the door, opening it with a big grin. “How did it go?” You asked Dustin.

Your little brother mirrored your grin. “It was awesome! We didn’t get finished though.”

You nodded, expecting that. “Campaigns take forever sometimes, but it’s worth it in the end.”

“Will was trying to attack the demogorgon, and when he rolled the dice, it flew off the table, then it took forever to find it.”

“Was it a thirteen?” You asked.

Dustin shook his head. “It was a seven, but Mike didn’t see it, so it didn’t count.”

Letting out a laugh, you lifted Dustin’s hat to ruffle his hair. “Sneaky. I like it.”

“Are you two speaking English?”

You had forgotten Steve was there until he spoke. You shot him a scowl, but didn’t respond to him. “Come on, as awesome as that sounds, you’ve got to get to bed.” You told your little brother, wrapping your arm around his shoulder and bringing him inside. You tried to shut the door behind you, but Steve snuck in before you could.

“What is he doing here anyway?” Dustin asked again, glancing back at Steve as you tugged him to his room.

“Being inconsiderate and disrespectful of my time. Which is what I should have expected.” You replied without looking at Steve who was following behind the two of you. “Brush your teeth, lights out in ten.” You told him.

Dustin groaned. “Fine.”

“Are you having to babysit your brother tonight or something?” Steve asked.

You didn’t want to respond, but you got the feeling that he was going to keep pestering you until you did. “No. My mom’s just asleep already.”

Steve glanced down at his wrist, and then at you. “At 8:00?”

Something about his tone made you snap. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but her medication makes it hard for her to stay awake.”

Steve seemed to recognize the defensiveness in your tone, holding up his hands in front of himself. “Sorry, I’m not used to a quiet house by 8:00. My dad’s usually three beers in, yelling at my mom about how shitty and stupid I am at that point.”

You paused for a moment, then narrowed your eyes at him. “I’m not going to feel sorry for you when you show up three hours late to work on a project that’s like a fourth of our grade.” You shoved past him, bumping into his shoulder as you did.

He still followed you. “I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me - shit, Henderson- ” you froze as Steve’s stupidly large hand wrapped around your wrist. “I’m really sorry, okay? You’re right, I wasn’t respecting you like I should’ve been. It was shitty of me to show up so late.”

It surprised you. His apology sounded sincere. You turned around to face him, and Steve let go of you. “Well . . . I’m glad you’re self aware enough to know that was shitty.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Other girls may let you treat them like that, but I’m not Harrington. I’m not going to do all the work because you . . . Flutter your eyelashes at me or something.”

Steve grinned, raising an eyebrow at you. “Flutter my eyelashes?”

You felt heat rush to your face, but tried to brush it off. “I’m serious.”

“Right. Right. Sorry.” He said. “No fluttering of eyelashes, got it.”

Taking a deep breath, you decided to lay down the rules. “I know we don’t get along, but for the sake of this project we need to work together. Which means I won’t call out all the ways you’re a douchebag, and you’ve got to give me at least a little respect.”

Steve stared at you, and you couldn’t help but move restlessly underneath his gaze. There was something about his eyes that was just . . . Intense. “That sounds fair.” He said, leaning against the doorframe. “Do you still want to work tonight, or do you want me to leave?”

Honestly, you were kind of surprised he was asking. It was almost . . . Considerate. “I - uh, I guess we can go ahead and work tonight. It’s not like I’d be going to bed any time soon anyway.”

His smile was back now as he spoke. “All right boss, lead the way.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a small smile on your face as you led him to the kitchen.

————————

“Can I be honest with you Harrington?”

Papers were scattered around the table in every direction, no longer a neat stack like how you guys had started, but you found yourself not minding. Steve was bent over a sheet of construction paper, drawing lines with a ruler, biting his bottom lip in concentration as he tried to get the line perfect. At your words though, he looked up at you, raising his eyebrows. “You mean that’s not what you’ve been doing the entire time?”

You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t expect you to actually try. I’ve seen how you are in class.” For years you had watched Steve show up late, eat snacks, and flirt with girls instead of paying attention. You hadn’t expected it to be any different this time.

He bent back over the paper again, starting a new line. “Yeah, well, maybe I just wanted to prove to you I’m not the idiot you think I am.”

It wasn’t often that you regretted words that you said, but that might have been one of the times. You thought back to what he said earlier about his dad. How many people did Steve Harrington have in his life that thought he was stupid? It made you uncomfortable that you were now on that list. “Maybe, ‘makes idiotic choices’ is what I should have said instead. You know, like, being friends with Tommy and Carol.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a moment, and you thought you might’ve hit a nerve. “Aren’t you the one who’s friends with the drug dealer? How long before you think Munson’s locked up?”

Yep. You had hit a nerve, and now he had to. “Yeah, well at least Eddie’s not fucking miserable like those two.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest. “He cares about people. He took me in when I had no one because everyone thought I was weird for reading fantasy books and not talking to anyone. That sound like something Tommy and Carol would do?”

Steve slammed down the pencil and ruler. “People don’t think you’re weird because you read. People think you’re a bitch who goes around sleeping with people all the time because someone caught you coming out of a room at a party right before Jason Carver.”

“Jason Carver cornered me in that room while I was waiting on Eddie, tried to get me to make out with him, got pissed when I wouldn’t, then went outside and spread the rumor that I was a whore.” You hissed. You didn’t know why the words left your lips. The only person who knew about that night was Eddie, and now for some reason Steve Harrington. Oh well. It wasn’t as if you could take them back. “And everyone believed him without a second thought, didn’t they?” You said, leaning back in your chair. “Including you.”

Steve sat in stunned silence, his eyes never leaving your face. You thought you might have broken him when he finally spoke. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrugged. “He didn’t actually do anything. He scared me for a second by grabbing my arm then I kicked him in the balls so hard he passed out. I guess wounding his ego and dick at the same time must have been too much.”

“You should’ve kicked him harder.”

“Probably.”

Silence filled the room again, neither one of you quite knowing what to say after your confession. You didn’t regret saying it. It was almost a relief to know that someone else knew you weren’t what everyone thought, even if it was Steve Harrington. He was still looking at you, his eyes tracing over your face as if seeing you in a new light. Then he glanced down at the paper in front of you and smirked. “That’s the shittiest flower I’ve ever seen.”

“What?” You glanced down at your own paper, a frown appearing on your face. Okay, so maybe your circles were a little lopsided, and your stems kinda thick, but it wasn’t that bad. “No it isn’t!”

“Oh, it is. I’m just glad to find something you can’t do.”

You let out a laugh that turned into a snort. Your eyes widened, and you covered your mouth as heat rushed to your face.

Steve’s smile grew in delight. “What the hell was that? Do you have pigs in here somewhere?”

“You’re never to repeat that you heard that, do you hear me Harrington?” You threatened.

“Will it make up for me making the idiotic decision to believe those rumors about you?” He asked.

Your heart did a funny thing then. Almost gave a jump, and for some stupid reason you felt your eyes get a little watery. “It’s a start.”

————————

The next morning at school, you met Eddie by your locker. “So how was it?” He asked as soon as you saw him.

How could you possibly answer him? “It was . . . Not as bad as it could have been I guess?” You said, starting to unlock your locker. “How about you? I hope Wayne didn’t keep you up so late you didn’t get finished with O’Donnell’s project.” You said, calling him out on his bullshit.

Eddie grinned sheepishly at you. “Yeah well - What the hell is all that?”

As soon as you opened your locker, at least ten sheets of folded up paper had fallen out. You bent to pick one up and read what it said. It turned out they all said the same thing.

I will not be late.

You looked up and spotted him a little ways down the hallway, waiting by Nancy Wheeler’s locker. When he saw you watching him, he gave you a salute.

You smiled.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine

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l0stglitch · 3 months ago

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Platonic Yandere Hargreeves x Reader

Notes- This is more of an introduction to an au I’ve created rather than an actual fic. It’s pretty Klaus + Ben centred at the moment but I will write about the others in future fics.

Warnings- Substance abuse | Bad parenting | Depression | Suicide

Pre season 1

• They weren’t always obsessed with you. As children, you and your siblings had relatively normal relationships. Well, if you ignored the uncomfortable flirting between One and Three, or the estrangement of Seven.

• It wasn’t until Five’s disappearance that the family dynamics started shifting.

• The unity from before had been fractured, and the fragile illusion of a family gone.

• From there, things only worsened.

• You had always been closest to Klaus. It was only natural- you both found joy in bending the rules, and your powers proved to be quite useful when the two of you were up to no good.

• You could see the future. Unfortunately, not on demand. You could see your opponent’s next moves in a fight, or your father coming upstairs and catching you and Klaus in his study minutes before he appeared, but large-scale events far into the future were much more complicated.

• You’d see the distant future in dreams. Cryptic visions that made little sense until the morbid events finally happened. You had woken up screaming many times, forced to watch your siblings suffer gruesome injuries in missions yet to happen.

• Sometimes your father would make you meditate. Sit for hours at a time trying to trigger another vision. Occasionally it worked. Most of the time though, you saw nothing.

• The others had never blamed you for not stopping Five. You hadn’t seen the jump until he stood up and announced his decision. By then it was too late to stop him. Your brother had always been stubborn- you knew you didn’t stand a chance at changing his mind.

• You and Klaus grew closer after that- your childish rule breaking became more reckless. Nights were spent sneaking out and stealing. Getting high and drinking dangerous amounts of alcohol became a shameful hobby of yours.

• Everyone knew, but they were all too caught up in their own grief to worry about what the two of you were doing.

• Things seemed to be slowly improving, until tragedy struck again in 2006.

• This time though, things were different. Ben’s death was raw and painful, not just for him, but for everyone involved. Five may have chosen to disappear, but Six certainly didn’t choose to die.

• You had dreamt of that strange girl for months before the mission, but never told your siblings about her. Perhaps if you had seen Ben being killed moments after you would have said something, but that vision only came after he opened the container. Yet again, you were too late.

• The funeral was cold. Usually you would’ve loved the snow, but seeing it today filled you with an icy bitterness. It was as if the sky itself was mocking you, tainting your favourite weather with the devastating reality of your brother’s death.

• Reginald had placed the blame on all of you, but you knew your siblings didn’t see it that way. Luther, Diego and Allison developed a frosty attitude towards you, and Viktor… well he’d never really spoken to you much anyways.

• Only Klaus stayed with you through it all. Well, and Ben apparently. You couldn’t see your deceased brother, but Klaus supposedly could. Unfortunately, as the two of you fell deeper into your drug use, it became harder to tell whether he was talking to Ben or just hallucinating.

• Either way, he never told any of the others he could speak to Ben’s ghost, so neither did you.

• The two of you became inseparable. You decided that you didn’t need the others anymore. Luther, Diego and Allison still took their roles as superheroes with grave seriousness, clinging onto that one constant in their ruined lives.

• You had come to the conclusion that you were no use to the team, despite Klaus’s best efforts to convince you otherwise. The visions never stopped, much to your dismay, and you didn’t know what you could do to alter the future. After all, what was the point in knowing what will happen if there was nothing you could do to stop it?

• Every night you dreamt the same thing. A funeral. Not snowy, like Ben’s, but instead with a dreary overcast sky and a blanket of wet, coppery leaves scattered across the ground.

• Five teenagers standing around a grave, their identities masked by the sleek curves of their black umbrellas.

• If only you could see the number carved into the gravestone.

• You woke up in a cold sweat without fail every morning. Klaus didn’t mind you coming into his room at 2am looking for comfort. He’d shift over in his bed to make space for you, bearing a patient smile despite the sleep that still nestled fresh in the corner of his eyes.

• You never told him what you saw, so he never asked.

• As weeks turned into months, your mental health only began deteriorating more and more.

• You hit your breaking point one afternoon during a heated encounter with Luther. He’d made a snide comment about your powers, vaguely alluding to you being the reason Ben had died.

• Your day had already been hard enough, so having to deal with shit from Luther sent you over the edge.

• It wasn’t like you to start a fight. You and Klaus tended to stay pretty neutral whenever an argument sprung up between the others. Perhaps that was why it came as such a shock to everyone when you punched your brother in the face with enough force to send shockwaves of pain through your knuckles.

• Luther only needed seconds to recover before retaliating.

• You managed to dodge his first few punches, using your powers to predict his moves. Unfortunately, you weren’t fast enough to avoid them all, and after being met with a fist to your stomach, it suddenly because all too easy for your brother to strike you.

• You could do nothing but feebly cry out for help as he released his anger out on you. In a sickening way it felt right- like this was supposed to happen.

• Luther deserved to release his buried grief, and you deserved to receive it. At least, that’s what you told yourself after as you lay silently on your bed, staring up at ceiling through the fuzzy darkness of the night.

• The others noticed how quiet you became. You hardly ate at mealtimes, and spent all your free time alone in your room, ignoring Klaus’s pleas for you to open up to him.

• Pogo and Grace could only watch as you retreated further and further into yourself, until you stopped joining missions altogether.

• Of course, Reginald was less than pleased by this. He sternly told you how much of a failure you were, but other than that, there was little else he could do.

• Yes, they could’ve forcefully dragged you along with them, but even then, there was no way of making you fight. If anything, you’d just be putting yourself and your siblings at risk.

• So they decided to watch passively as you withered away from the inside out, becoming a hollow shell of a person.

• Ironically, it wasn’t until you died that things eventually began to improve.

• Klaus found you in the bathroom at exactly 02:56 on a Tuesday morning. The half empty bottle of pills that rested in the palm of your cold hand told him all he needed to know.

• You had killed yourself- or at least tried to. He could still feel the soft beating of your heart under the frail skin of your neck.

• Klaus held you with an almost childish desperation, his screams for help piercing through the grave silence of the night.

• It was only seconds later that the rest of your siblings came scrambling into the bathroom.

• Diego was the first to act- shoving his way over to Klaus and pulling your delicate frame out of his brother’s trembling grip. The others watched in horrified silence as he began to perform CPR.

• Time seemed to slow down as they waited for Reginald to come. Alison had ran to wake him after seeing your condition, so now all they could do was wait. The only sounds that could be heard were Diego’s laboured breathing and Klaus’s chocked sobs.

• After what felt like hours, your father finally came to the bathroom. He said nothing to the others, silently scooping you up and carrying you down the dark hallway.

• That was the last time they saw you.

• Two days later your father announced your death to the rest of your siblings, and a funeral was held.

• It was a rainy day towards the end of November- just as you had predicted. All five of your remaining siblings stood around your grave; protected from the rain by their glossy, black umbrellas.

• Life continued on at the umbrella academy. Your suicide marked the last of the tragedies, although no one ever truly recovered from the harrowing losses.

• It was only a matter of time until the academy officially disbanded. Despite your and Ben’s best efforts, Klaus’s dependence on drugs only worsened as he aged. It was hard watching your best friend struggle through life, ignoring your pleas for him to try and get some help.

• Becoming a ghost seemed to have some strange side effects. The first was the biting cold that came from within. No matter how warm the environment was around you, you could never warm yourself up. The second was even more perplexing. You didn’t age. You would’ve chalked it up to being a result of your death being when you were 16, but Ben wasn’t stuck as a teenager. He also wasn’t constantly shivering from the cold.

• Klaus jokingly suggested that it was because you were ‘young at heart’. You couldn’t disagree more. After Five’s disappearance, it felt as though all of your childish innocence had been stripped away from you. Not to say you weren’t content with your existence as a ghost, but sometimes you missed being able to interact with the world around you.

• Ben made it all bearable. He was your only source of human contact, so you found yourself becoming clingier than before. Physical touch had never really been your thing, but now it was all you thought about. Ben didn’t mind the constant affection you showed, as he was just as touch-starved as you were.

• The years went on, and the three of you trudged through Klaus’s messy life together.

• No matter how many times you begged him to reach out to the rest of the family, your brother never listened. It was as if being dead made you less credible in his eyes. Klaus didn’t want your advice, he just wanted your presence.

• You saw the others once, when Allison married Patrick. It was bittersweet seeing them as adults for the first time and wondering how different things could have been if you just hadn’t taken those fucking pills.

• The wedding was over far too soon. You had hoped that seeing each other again would bring the family closer, but it quickly became clear that none of them had any interest in entering back into each others lives.

• So you had to watch as Allison returned to her glamorous life as a celebrity whilst Klaus dragged you and Ben back to his grimy, drug filled motel room.

• You resented him for never trying to sort out his life, but there wasn’t anything you could say to him. Any mention of his wasted potential and Klaus was quick to remind you of how you had killed yourself. He didn’t mean to upset you, but it still stung. It stung far worse than the punches Luther had thrown at you after Ben died.

• It wasn’t until the shocking news of Reginald’s death that you could see them all again.

• Klaus was less than impressed by the thought of having to return to the mansion. It took a lot of convincing from you and Ben before he finally agreed to attend the funeral- even if only to shut you both up.

• After a particularly long taxi ride, the three of you finally reached your destination.

• Save for Viktor, you were the last to arrive. Klaus claimed it was his intention to be ‘fashionably late’, but you knew he wasn’t going to be fooling anyone.

• You found yourself in Reginald’s study, watching Klaus as he rummaged through your father’s possessions. Ben tried convincing him to just leave it, but his protests fell on deaf ears.

• “You just gotta loosen up a bit Benny-boo,” He’d replied breezily, “Me and Y/n used to pull all kinds of stunts like this when we were kids! You were always a good lookout, with your mind tricks and all that.” He’d added, motioning to where you were leant up against the wall, watching quietly.

• Ben just rolled his eyes playfully before shooting you a small smile, “Those were the good old days huh?”

• Klaus snorted, “What are you talking about? We’re still in the good old days. Us three- we’re like the three musketeers!”

• You just shrugged indifferently, “Yeah- if two of the musketeers were dead.”

• “God, what’s got you in such a sour mood? You’d think we were at a funeral or something- oh wait, we are!” He cracked up laughing, as if that was the funniest joke in the world. Perhaps it was to him- he was high as fuck.

• When Allison finally got round to checking Reginald’s study, you made no effort to warn Klaus as she crept up on him. As far as you were concerned, you owed your brother absolutely nothing. He was still refusing to tell the others of your and Ben’s presence, so it was safe to say you were more than a little pissed off at him.

• Watching him nearly jump out of his skin brought a small smile to your face, but it soon disappeared when the topic of conversation shifted to rehab. As per usual, your brother shamelessly lied about everything that had been going on and made no mention of you and Ben.

• The meeting with Allison was short lived, as Luther soon entered and ordered Klaus to leave. Of course, with Klaus being Klaus, he managed to steal a fancy looking box on the way out.

• “Do you even know what’s in that thing?” You huffed, traipsing behind him. Your brother brought the object up to his lips and gave it a theatrical kiss, “Nope!” He replied, popping the ‘P’ in an almost childish manner.

• You frowned, “So why bother stealing it? Surely you’ll get a decent amount of money from dad’s inheritance.”

• “Oh come on! Don’t start feeling sorry for that old man. He was a rotten piece of shit- we deserve this for all the pain he put us through.” Klaus almost sounded annoyed, as if he was offended by your consideration of Reginald.

• It surprised you a little how much your comment seemed to have ruffled him. “I hate him as much as you do. All I’m saying is that this stupid box might not even be worth the time- ‘specially if you’re just gonna blow all the cash on drugs again.”

• Klaus sighed dramatically, feigning upset, “Oh my dear number eight, I am offended that you would suggest that I would do something like that. Especially after what I told Allison!”

• You smiled in amusement, “Y’know, you could try and start afresh after this. Start renting out a cheap apartment. Live off dad’s money for a while whilst you look for a job- a real job. You don’t need to steal all his crap.”

•Klaus merely shrugged, “I could, but where’s the fun in that? And besides, I know if you were alive going through all the same shit as me you’d be the same.”

• You sighed, he had a good point. The two of you were birds of a feather. There was no doubt that if you hadn’t died, you would’ve ended up the same, if not worse than your brother.

• Ben cleared his throat, “We haven’t seen Diego or Viktor in years, why don’t we go talk to them instead of standing here arguing about Klaus’s kleptomania.”

• Klaus smiled, “Kleptomania, huh? That’s a big word.” You rolled your eyes, “Just ’cause you’re feeling antisocial, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be able to see our siblings.”

• Your brother turned around to face you and spread out his arms, as if offering you something, “By all means, go ahead and find them. Who am I to stop you?”

• You glared at him in silence until he finally cracked, “Alright, fine!” He groaned in exasperation, “Which one of our dear siblings did you want to speak to first?”

• The three of you ended up going to find Diego. You’d gained a soft spot for him after finding out he had been the first to try and resuscitate you the night you had died.

• The conversation between your two brothers was painful to watch. Klaus mostly ignored you and Ben, preferring to ramble about random shit that Diego clearly didn’t care about. You wanted to strangle him.

• Eventually (much to everyone’s relief) Allison came in to inform Diego and Klaus of the meeting going on in the living area. You couldn’t help but notice the way her brows seemed slightly furrowed, as if something was worrying her.

• Apart from Klaus, everyone was seated around the oak coffee table. You and Ben left him to pour himself a drink at the bar whilst Luther began the meeting. You found it slightly difficult to concentrate with the sound of glass clinking behind you, but thankfully Klaus quickly joined you, flippantly asking about refreshments. He shot you a grin as he spoke, clearly trying to lighten your mood.

• Luther looked puzzled, “What? No, there won’t be refreshments. And put that out, you know dad didn’t allow smoking in here.”

• Klaus ignored him and sat down on the couch next to Viktor. “Well the big guy’s still pretty uptight huh,” He commented, glancing over at the empty space you were occupying.

• Luther huffed, “Listen up. There’s still some important things we need to discuss, all right?”

• You frowned, not having a single clue as to what this meeting was about. Luckily Diego was wondering the same thing. “Like what?”

• Luther turned to him, “Like the way he died.”

• “I don’t understand. I thought they said it was a heart attack.” Viktor returned. You had almost forgotten he was there beside Klaus, remaining silent up until that point.

• “Yeah- according to the coroner.”

• “Well wouldn’t they know?”

• “Theoretically…” You audibly groaned at that, earning confused glances from Ben and Klaus.

• “He’s making this way more complicated than it needs to be.” You grumbled, “Klaus, please for the love of god tell Luther to stop turning everything into such a big deal.” Your brother shook his head as a clear ‘no’ before taking a pull from his cigarette.

• “Last time I spoke to dad he sounded strange.”

• Thankfully, you weren’t the only one who thought Luther was grasping at straws. Diego was quick to interject.

• “Luther, he was a paranoid, bitter old man who was starting to lose what was left of his marbles.”

• Luther immediately shook his head, “No, he must have known something was going to happen. He’s been hiding something from us.”

• “That’s not exactly breaking news,” Diego interrupted with a not-so-subtle eye roll.

• You could tell Luther was getting irritated by this point. It put you on edge. Conflict always made you nervous, especially when Luther was involved. “Me and Allison found blueprints for a human sized freezer underneath the basement. We tried taking the elevator down but that level needs a key to access.”

• Klaus suddenly perked up, “I don’t know if this is related, but I did find a key in dad’s desk earlier.” He shrugged, “Didn’t look all that important though so I didn’t say anything.”

• You frowned, he hadn’t told you or Ben.

• From the other side of the table, Allison took a step closer. “Klaus, we need that key. There might be something inside that freezer.”

• Your brother nodded, fishing around in his pockets, “Yeah, yeah of course. Just give me a second..” He yanked his hand out, brandishing a remarkably ordinary looking key. “Ah ha! There it is. You think this is the right one?” Luther took the key from him and studied it for a moment, “Well there’s only one way to find out.”

• Within mere seconds, all of your siblings had deserted their positions in the living room and were making their way to the elevator.

• It was a little cramped inside, even with you and Ben not taking up any space. You found that your spirit was half phasing through some of your siblings, as they left no gaps big enough for you occupy.

• Luther was the one to put the key into the hole, slowly twisting it as the others watched in anticipation. The light on the keypad flashed green, before the whole box shuddered and began slowly descending.

• It took a while for you to reach the level, and with no one speaking, the seconds seemed to drag on even longer. When the elevator doors finally slid open, no one moved.

• The space before you seemed to be a corridor, stretching ahead before ending with a heavy looking iron door. Diego was first to step out, leading the others to the end of the space. He rested a hand on the handle and turned around for confirmation.

• “Are you sure we wanna know what’s in there?” He murmured, suddenly feeling apprehensive about entering.

• “It’s too late to turn back now. We need to know what’s in that room, Diego,” Allison replied firmly, taking a step closer. He nodded with a sigh and pushed open the door. You hesitated, allowing your siblings to enter before you.

• In the centre of the room there was a large, grey cylinder next to a table holding a computer. Diego peered down at it, “I’m guessing this controls it.”

• Viktor ran a hand along the side, “Guys, there’s a button here. I think it might unlock the machine.”

• Ben’s hand came down to rest on your shoulder, making you flinch at the unexpected contact. “You ok? You haven’t said much,” He asked, voice laced with concern. You just shrugged and replied, “There’s nothing for me to say that hasn’t already been said by someone else.”

• “You think we’ll find a body in there?” He asked quietly. You laughed dryly, “What, you think Reginald killed someone and hid their body in a fancy freezer?” Ben didn’t share your amusement, “It’s clearly some kind of cryogenic freezer. What else would he have been using it for?”

• “I guess we’re about to find out.” You replied, watching as Luther helped Viktor open the heavy metal door.

• Icy cold steam came gushing out, momentarily concealing the shape that lay within. You took a cautious step closer, trying to get a clearer view of it. There was definitely some kind of body in there- and a small one at that.

• You turned to Ben, “Holy shit. If that’s some dead kid I might puke.” Your brother rolled his eyes in turn, and opened his mouth to reply, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

• “Y/n?” Your head whipped around at the sound of your name. It had been years since you had heard anyone other than Ben or Klaus mention you, so hearing Viktor’s voice caught you off guard.

• He wasn’t looking at you though. You followed the direction of Viktor’s gaze down to the freezer and inhaled sharply at the sight. It was you. The same child who had died in 2006, lying there perfectly preserved. Your skin was unusually pale- almost dull, but not entirely corpse-like.

• Diego cautiously put his hand on your shoulder, and you noticed a faint warmth in the same spot on your spirit. “Is she alive?”

• Klaus took a protective step closer to your body and shook his head. “No guys, she’s dead. She-” He hesitated, locking eyes with you before turning back to Diego, “I know she’s dead, alright. If she were alive, she wouldn’t still look sixteen. Diego ignored him and ran his hand across your shoulder and over to your pulse point. A violent shiver racked through you, earning a questioning glance from Ben. “Are you ok?” He murmured, rubbing your back.

• “I- I can feel him touching my physical body.” You watched as Diego stopped moving and held two fingers in place. The whole room fell silent as everyone waited in anticipation to hear what he had to say.

• “She’s alive.”

• Klaus locked eyes with you, “That’s not possible. I’ve spoken to her ghost, that can’t be-”

• Allison cut him off, “What do you mean you’ve spoken to her?” Her voice was sharp and accusatory.

• “I can speak to ghosts Allison!” Klaus replied in exasperation, “That includes our sister.” From beside him, Luther frowned. “Wait. You’ve been in contact with Y/n this whole time and haven’t bothered to say anything?”

• Diego sighed in frustration, “Will you guys stop arguing for five fucking minutes. We need to try and wake her up.” You stiffened slightly, suddenly hit by a surge of apprehension. Were you even ready to wake up? It had been years since you’d actually spoken to your siblings. Memories of their past cruelty after Ben’s death came flooding back to you.

• “Hey, you’ll be ok. Klaus will look after you.” You looked up and saw Ben offering you a reassuring smile. Before you could open your mouth to reply, a wave of disorientation hit, and in an instant the world around you was black.

• For a moment everything was quiet, save for a high pitched ringing in your ears. Your body felt heavier than before, and cold too. Though this sensation was different to the faint chill you had grown accustomed to. This was more of a biting frost that gnawed at your extremities.

• With great effort, you forced your eyes open. It took a moment for you to adjust to the fluorescent lighting over your head, but soon the faces of your siblings became clearer around you.

• You suddenly became aware of a hand touching your cheek. Following the arm it belonged to, you realised it was Klaus. His dark eyes stared down intensely into yours, as if he hadn’t seen you in years.

• “How are you not dead?”

• Your lips parted, but no sound escaped. Memories of old books Reginald had made you read came to the forefront of your mind, but your throat was too sore to produce any intelligible words. He had made you study astral projection a long time ago, but you hadn’t given the topic much thought since. Perhaps your father knew more about your powers than he was letting on.

• Allison’s face drifted into your view, distracting you from your thoughts. She shot Klaus a stern look before looking back down at you, “We can worry about that later. For now let’s get you warmed up.”

• Your sister pulled you out from the freezer and held your shivering form close. Klaus noticed your chattering teeth and draped his jacket over your shoulders.

• Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Luther shift, “So… should we still go ahead with the funeral?” Your siblings exchanged hesitant glances, unsure of how to proceed, when you were suddenly hit with a vision. It was only a brief flash of something. A storm, a glowing blue light, and then finally, a face you never thought you’d see again.

• The moment had been so brief that none of your siblings realised anything had happened. It was Klaus who recognised that familiar haunted expression on your face, pulling you away from Allison and holding onto your shoulders with a concerned frown. “What did you see?”

• You just shook your head slowly, “It’s not possible.”

• Klaus gently squeezed your shoulders, “You know I’ll always believe you, Y/n. I’ll have your back no matter what.” His brown eyes stared deeply into yours, with a level of intensity that you rarely saw in him anymore. “Just tell me what you saw.”

• They wouldn’t believe you- hell, you hardly believed it yourself. Yet there was no denying what you had seen. What was going to happen. You took a deep breath and turned to face the rest of your siblings, whose sole attention was on you.

• “We need to go outside. Five is coming back.”

This took wayyy longer to write than I thought it would. This is an introduction to an au idea I’ve had in my head for a long time, hence why it’s pretty disjointed.

Also I know none of the characters exhibit much ‘yandere behaviour’ in this. I will build up to it in future works (which will include Five!!) 🙏

#the umbrella academy #tua #the umbrella academy x reader #yandere #platonic #platonic yandere #Yandere Hargreeves x reader #yandere umbrella academy x reader

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