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pitlanepeach · 8 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Six

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, still quite angsty (sry), strong language.

Notes — Lots of plot, we're closing out the 2019 year in this one! Not much Lando in this one (Im still mad at him). This gets crazy. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2019

Two weeks after Spa, Amelia stood outside her dad’s office at the MTC with a manila file in her hands and the taste of copper in her mouth.

The door was open, but she still knocked.

Zak looked up, startled, like he wasn’t used to seeing her there anymore — and maybe he wasn’t. She’d stayed away from the MTC for the past few weeks.

“Hey,” he said, getting up too quickly. “You want to come in?”

She stepped inside, cringing when her new trainers squeaked against the floor. Her arms were stiff from holding the file too tight. “Brought you something,” she said, and handed it over. No eye contact. She stared at a plaque on his shelf instead — a dusty one from 2007, still etched with a podium that felt like another lifetime.

Zak took the file and sat back down behind his desk. “You put this together?”

She nodded once. “It’s just data. Analysis. Trends.”

He opened the folder and started flipping through, slower than she wanted, be he was a much slower reader than she was. Pages of her notes, charts, predictive modelling, comparative pace metrics, aero versus power unit deltas from the season so far. Even some basic projections based on engine supplier performance curves over the last six years.

He hesitated, eyes scanning the pages. “What is this, Amelia?”

“McLaren’s had a better season,” she said, not bothering to hide the way her nose scrunched. “You’ll probably finish fourth in the Constructors’. Best of the rest. Everyone is going to be very happy.”

He looked up at her, sensing the ‘but’ before she even said it.

“I am not,” she said. “I don’t think we should be happy with fourth. I think we should be aiming for much higher.”

Zak leaned back slightly in his chair, file still open in front of him. “Amelia…”

“I think we should drop Renault after next season,” she said, cutting him off.

He blinked. “Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s a big swing.”

“I’ve run the numbers,” she said, a little sharper now. “Reliability. Raw power. Upgrade cycles. Driver feedback. Even manufacturer investment in long-term hybrid development. Renault is… not consistent, and they’re not progressing fast enough. Mercedes is more efficient, more stable, more scalable. If we want consistent podiums, a chance at race wins, then we need to align with a manufacturer that knows how to win. Not just how to score points.”

Zak sat back again, slower this time, like the weight of the idea was physically pressing into him. He tapped the edge of the file absently with his fingers.

“You know how much this would rock the boat, right?” he said. “We’ve spent years building this partnership. Renault’s got skin in the game. Contracts. Commitments. There’ll be consequences if we walk away.”

“I know,” she said. “But you always said we should act like a front-running team, even when we weren’t. So act like one. Make a decision like one.”

Zak was quiet. Still.

“I started working on this after Hockenheim,” she added, voice lower now. “I just… didn’t show anyone.”

He closed the file. “This isn’t a light suggestion, Amelia.” He sighed.

“I know,” she said again. “But I think it’s the right one.”

He exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand across his mouth, then looked at her; really looked at her.

She was calmer than she’d been the last time they’d spoken. Still paler than usual, still guarded, but steadier somehow. Like something had hardened and solidified inside her in the silence of the past few weeks.

“I’ll take it to the board,” he said finally. “Quietly. Just to test the water. No promises.”

“Okay,” she said.

There was a beat. She stared at the paperweight on his desk, the one she’d bought him for Father’s Day when she was thirteen.

“I just want us to stop being afraid of wanting more,” she added, softer now. “That’s all.”

Zak didn’t respond right away.

And as she turned to go, hand already on the doorframe, he couldn’t help but ask, “You didn’t just do this for him, did you?”

She paused. “No,” she said. “I did it for the team. I did it for you.”

She walked out.

—

The press release dropped on a Thursday.

A neatly timed, efficiently worded, professionally curated announcement: McLaren Racing to become Mercedes-AMG Powertrain customer team from 2021 onwards.

Quotes from her dad. From Toto. From Andreas.

A photo of a handshake she wasn’t in.

No mention of the folder. No mention of the analysis. No mention of her.

Of course there wasn’t. She hadn’t expected it.

Not really.

And yet she sat at her desk, surrounded by pages and pages of sketches of cooling architecture redesigns, and felt… strange.

Not angry. Not exactly.

Not proud either.

Mostly just quiet.

She clicked out of the article. Closed her browser. Opened a new tab, then immediately forgot why.

When she'd handed her dad the folder two weeks ago, it hadn’t even been about recognition. She hadn’t cared about credit. She’d just wanted them to be better. To try harder. To take a worthwhile risk.

And when he’d said, I’ll take it to the board, she’d believed him.

She just didn’t think that would be the end of it.

He hadn’t spoken to her about it since. No follow-up. No texts. No update. No “you were right.” Not even a half-hearted thank-you over dinner or a passing “good job” in the hallway.

The decision had come. And it had come without her.

Which made sense. She wasn’t a department head. She wasn’t on the executive team. She didn’t even have an official job title.

She wasn’t owed anything.

But still… still, she sat there with her heart lodged high in her throat and her fingernails digging crescents into the seam of her jeans, wondering why she suddenly felt like a ghost.

Why it felt like this was supposed to mean something.

And why it hurt so much to realise that her dad was okay with taking her work, her time, her thinking, the thing she’d built, and not giving her even a whisper of recognition.

Because he was used to it.

Used to her just handing things over for free.

And the worst part was, he wasn’t the only one.

She’d been doing this for years, hadn’t she? Offering up all the sharpest pieces of herself like they were scraps. Little theories, little fixes, the way she could spot patterns no one else could, pick through race data like thread. Suggestions left on the kitchen counter, ideas floated during test weekends, whispers passed to engineers when no one else was listening. Quiet contributions, all of them. Invisible fingerprints.

She’d given it away. All of it. Every clever thought, every hard-earned observation; just laid it down, like it didn’t belong to her in the first place.

And now someone else got the credit. Again. And she wasn’t even surprised.

She was just tired. And quietly furious.

—

The house smelled like woodsmoke and dog shampoo. Roscoe was already halfway into Amelia’s lap, snoring, his head heavy against her stomach as Lewis slid a mug of tea across the coffee table.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said, settling into the armchair across from her. “He’ll try and sleep there all day.”

“I won’t complain about that,” she murmured, scratching behind Roscoe’s ears. He was a big dog, solid and heavy. He felt a bit like her weighted blanket. Anchoring.

Outside the windows, snow clung to the corners of Lewis’ sprawling. Quiet. Still. The way winter was meant to be. Amelia pulled her sleeves down over her hands and stared at the steaming mug.

Lewis leaned back, watching her over the rim of his cup. “You keeping up with the silly season chaos this year?”

“As always.” She nodded.

“Gasly back to AlphaTauri, Hulkenberg out, Ocon sliding into Renault. There will be a bit of a bloodbath next year.” He said.

She nodded, though her mind was elsewhere.

Lewis gave her a second longer before asking, “What about Lando? You two—”

“I don’t want to talk about Lando,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her eyes stayed on Roscoe’s fur.

Lewis didn’t press. He just leaned forward, brows faintly furrowed. “Right. Okay.”

They let the silence settle again. Roscoe shifted in his sleep, his paws twitching as if chasing something through a dream. Then, quietly, Amelia spoke. “The Mercedes-McLaren deal,” she said, voice low. “That was mine.”

Lewis blinked, gave himself a second to repeat her words in his head, and then said. “What?”

“McLaren dropping Renault, becoming a Mercedes customer team.” She rubbed a thumb over Roscoe’s collar. “I ran all the projections. Power unit deltas, reliability, development pace, all of it. I put together the entire case. Handed it to my dad in a file. And two weeks later, they made the announcement.”

Lewis stared at her. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, swallowing. “No one said anything. Not to me. And I wasn’t… part of the meeting, or the rollout. He never even followed up. I just saw it in the press release like everyone else.” Her voice wavered, but didn’t break. “And I know I don’t work for McLaren. But I thought; I thought maybe it would mean something.”

Lewis’s jaw twitched and his eyes looked darker than they usually did. “Amelia. That… that’s a big deal, you know that? That was your intellectual property.”

“I know.” She hugged her arms tight around herself. “It just… it feels wrong to be angry. Like I should’ve known better. Like it’s my fault for not asking for anything in return. For just giving it away.”

“That’s not on you,” Lewis said, voice hardening. “That’s on him. Your dad. And on the team. They’ve taken advantage of you. You should get credit. You should get a bloody job offer and a signing bonus. Not… whatever the fuck this is.”

She sniffed. “I don’t have a degree.”

Lewis scoffed. “So what? Since when does a piece of paper mean more than years of proven genius?”

That made her pause.

“You are one of the sharpest minds I’ve seen in this sport,” he said. “And I’ve been in it a long time. You see things before they happen. You think ahead of the curve. That’s what teams dream of having. And if McLaren can’t see that, if your own dad can’t see that, it’s not because it’s not there. It’s because he doesn’t know how to recognise it in you.”

She nodded. She already knew exactly what the problem was. “He doesn’t know how to see me as anything but his daughter.”

“Toto does,” Lewis said. “And that offer is still on the table, by the way.”

Amelia looked away, cheeks flushing.

“I’m not trying to pressure you. I just want you to know that you’ve got options,” Lewis said, softer now. “Real ones. And you don’t have to keep waiting around for your dad to finally recognise your potential.”

She didn’t answer, but her hands were steady on Roscoe’s back now. And when she finally did glance at him, there was something a little sharp in her chest. Something that felt a lot like clarity.

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2019 F1 Grid

Lewis H. @Lando You are an absolute prick.

Sebastian V. Good morning to you too?

Daniel R. Shit. What’d he do this time?

Charles L. Ah, this does not seem good.

Lando N. what the fuck did i do

Lewis H. You ghosted her. Like a child.

Carlos S. What??????????

George R. Wait are you serious?

Lewis H. Dead serious.

Lando N. oh my god can you not it’s literally none of your business ok

Max V. You’re an idiot, Norris.

Pierre G. Landooooo bro.

Alex A. Yeah nah that’s rough. You ghosted her? I actually thought you liked her, man.

Daniel R. She was so nice. Bet she feels like shit now.

Sebastian V. Is she okay? @Lewis

Lewis H. She’s fine. Too good for him anyway.

George R. I can’t believe this. Didn’t he literally write his racing number on her shoes? Or was that a fever dream??

Max V. @George He did. He’s just a right dickhead.

Carlos S. 😐 Told you not to screw it up, @Lando

Lando N. ok fucksake i get it You can all stop now i already feel like a piece of shit

Charles L. Why would you ghost her when she is so pretty and smart? I do not understand.

Daniel R. He’s still a kid. Dumb as hell. He’ll regret it in a few months, trust me.

Lewis H. He should be regretting it already.

Max V. Extremely dumb move. I wouldn’t have ghosted her and I’m famously difficult.

Sebastian V. Maybe I will set her up with my younger brother. He’s very clever. And rich.

George R. Is it weird if I throw my uncle’s name in the hat? He’s only 24. Really lovely guy.

Carlos S. My cousin Carlo is already in love. He will be thrilled to know she’s single.

Lando N. fuck off i get it I’m the villain Jesus christ can we drop it now

Daniel R. Glad you’re finally on the same page, mate!

Alex A. You could’ve just talked to her. Didn’t need to ghost her. That was cold, man.

Kimi R. 👍

—

Interlagos was hot and loud and humming with tension, and Amelia made sure to stay pressed to the edges of it; a shadow against the garage walls, an expressionless face hidden behind a pair of black sunglasses.

It was her first time at any track since before Belgium. Her first time being in the same place as Lando since he’d decided that she was not worth knowing. And she was careful. Careful to keep to service corridors and briefing rooms, careful not to risk running into him. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she looked did.

Nothing, probably. He would just ignore her, like he had been for two months.

She had just slipped away from the hospitality bar, iced-coffee in hand, when a voice called out to her from the outside deck; warm, accented.

“Chica! Are you too busy to stop and talk with a very ignorant old man?”

She turned and found Carlos Sainz Sr. waving her over, a bottle of water in one hand and a wary smile on his sun-worn face.

“I was just—” she started, but he was already rising from his seat, gesturing for her to come join him.

“Come, come. Sit. I have good seats here.”

She hesitated for a breath, then nodded and climbed the short steps up to the guest viewing area. The chaos of pit lane sprawled out below. Mechanics scrambled. Tyres stacked like soldiers. Race engines sang in the background, vicious and alive.

“Gracias,” she murmured, sliding into the chair beside him.

He nodded, then stared at her for a long, quiet second. “I wanted to say,” he said, his English thick with Madrid roots, but kind. “I think that… earlier in the year, I judged you too quickly.”

Amelia frowned at him. “Yes, you did.”

He sighed and nodded. “I assumed that you were just a pretty girl in the paddock.” He said. “And you see, my son has a terrible habit of becoming fixated on pretty things. But I realise now that I was wrong. You were there to, eh, help. To fix.” He sounded worn, like he’d had to work hard to say that out loud.

She shrugged, staring out at the grandstands. They were full. “I was upset about it, I think. But it was not a big deal.”

“It was,” Carlos said, serious now. “It was a very big deal. My son made that clear to me. You are very clever. A real asset to the McLaren team.” He told her, firm and steady.

She didn’t have anything to say to that. Just gave him a tight, (hopefully) polite smile and turned her eyes to the pit-lane as the cars peeled out of the garage to line up on the grid.

The race was long, and she stayed on the balcony throughout it all. Heat shimmered off the asphalt. Pit strategies flexed and fractured as the laps ticked down, and through it all, Amelia sat with her hands still in her lap, her mind sharper than the TV graphics overhead.

And when Carlos Sainz, the younger one, made it to third after a messy, brilliant final few laps, when the checkered flag waved and the paddock exploded into cheers and disbelief, she turned to his father and smiled, truly smiled, for the first time all day.

“Felicidades,” she said, voice soft but real. “That was very well done.”

Carlos Sr. beamed, pride etched into every line of his face. He stood up quickly, hurrying down to find his son and the rest of the team.

Amelia stayed.

The viewing deck emptied fast. Celebration echoed below. But she just slipped back into the motorhome, past the catering crew and out of the line of sight, into a quiet alcove near the storage lockers where no one would think to look for her.

She sat down on the floor, pressed her back against the cool wall, and closed her eyes.

She was proud. Of Carlos. Of the car she had helped make faster. Of the whisper of her fingerprints across the strategy that had put him on the podium.

But the truth still sat heavy on her ribs; that it had all happened without her. That even here, even now, she felt like a ghost.

—

The paddock at night after a race was one of her favourite places in the world. Empty water bottles clattered in the wind, discarded tyre blankets lay forgotten in corners, and the once-buzzing garages now hummed low and tired beneath the fluorescent lights. Amelia walked slowly, hands in her pockets, trainers scuffing against the tarmac, the cool Brazilian evening pulling the heat from her skin.

She passed the Mercedes motorhome, its sleek black exterior reflecting the dim light. Through the tinted glass, she caught a glimpse of Toto Wolff, head bent in conversation with one of his engineers. Calm. Assured. In control.

She didn’t stop walking, but something in her twisted. Guilt, maybe. Or the quiet ache of uncertainty.

Red Bull had been circling for a while. Quiet at first; emails she half-dismissed, a few engineers asking her strangely specific questions, casual feelers through people she didn’t realise even knew her name. Then Christian on Dutch TV, mentioning her potential. Helmut at COTA, watching her from the edge of the pit wall like a cowboy evaluating livestock. And Adrian Newey, who bypassed all of them and emailed her directly in early November. Short. Direct. Complimentary in a way that didn’t feel rehearsed.

She hadn’t told her dad. Not yet.

Nothing was official, anyway.

“Brown,” came a voice behind her.

She turned, blinking as Max strode over from the Red Bull suite. His jacket was unzipped, and he still reeked faintly of champagne. Hair a bit damp. Grin lazy.

“Christian asked me to make sure you knew where to go,” he said, lifting his brows. “You’ve got ten minutes before Jos starts vibrating.”

She pulled a face. “Is everyone going to be there? Like… your dad is going to be there?”

“Obviously. It’s Red Bull. We are very theatric,” he said, deadpan. “Zusje, you are the most in-demand person in Formula 1 right now, of course everybody wants to be in the room when we finally win the battle for your brain.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t call me that. Zusje. I don’t know what it means.”

“Little sister,” he said, Dutch accent thick, shrugging as he fell into step beside her. “It suits you. You talk just as much as I do, and you are equally annoying as me. We will give Christian many headaches, I think.”

“I always carry ibuprofen in my handbag.” She tried to joke, but it came out flat.

Max looked at her for a moment, but then he grinned, so she imagined he must have thought her joke was funny. At least somewhat. “Adrian’s been trying to steal you since Canada.” He told her.

She sighed. “That explains the espresso machine he sent to me during the summer break. I was very confused.”

He gave her a look. “You kept it?” He asked curiously.

She nodded. “It is a good machine. Expensive.”

“Of course it was. It’s Adrian.” Max shrugged.

They stopped a few feet from the Red Bull motorhome, which buzzed under the night lights like it was wired into a different voltage. Something kinetic hung in the air; possibility, maybe. Restlessness. Momentum.

She stared. “This feels like betrayal.”

Max rolled his eyes. “It is not betrayal.”

He nudged her shoulder. She recoiled, glaring at him. He raised his hands in defence. “Sorry. Sorry.” Then, quieter, he said. “You’ve outgrown the shadows, zusje. It is not your fault that your dad doesn’t know what to do with you. But we do. Adrian does. Christian definitely does. You belong somewhere that doesn’t try to keep you small.”

She started to chew on her bottom lip anxiously, “Do you really think that I am worth all of this?”

He didn’t even blink. “I think you’re going to make me a world champion, Amelia Brown.”

—

The Yas Marina Circuit gleamed beneath the Abu Dhabi sun, all smooth marble floors and overly modern hospitality suites. It felt more like a luxury mall than a racetrack, but Amelia liked it. Everything was polished, controlled.

She slipped through the back corridors of the McLaren unit with practiced ease, unnoticed as usual. It was early, quiet, the calm before the chaos of FP1.

In Carlos’s driver room, she placed a neatly bound packet on the table beneath the television. His telemetry from the entire season, annotated and colour-coded: green for improvements, yellow for repeat tendencies, red for danger zones. She’d included braking inconsistencies, corner exit deltas, and fuel load trends, with suggestions tailored to the 2020 chassis.

He’d get it. He always did. Carlos read data like scripture.

In Lando’s room, she left the same. A different binder. Different tendencies. More throttle hesitation in traffic, sharper degradation when chasing, lapses in tire preservation across high-deg circuits. A note in the front, written in her smallest, sharpest handwriting.

You are an asshole. You are also better than your instincts. Learn the difference between fast and frantic. Good luck.

She didn’t linger. She didn’t need to. No one would know she’d been there except the two of them, and even then, it didn’t matter anymore. She’d done it. Helped them. One last time.

She turned down the corridor toward the exit, and almost walked straight into a man who was standing too stiffly in her path.

He was older, expensively dressed, with the familiar face of someone she’d seen on enough pit walls to know he didn’t belong there out of curiosity. Adam Norris.

He looked her up and down, his voice clipped. “Ah. Amelia, is it?”

“That’s right.” She muttered.

“I suppose we haven’t met.” He said.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

He hesitated. A beat passed. Two.

“I’ve… heard you’re very capable,” he said finally. “Talented. Bright.” He said it like he didn’t really believe it.

She tilted her head. Frowned at him. “Did you tell Lando to stay away from me?”

He flinched, just barely. “I advised him to focus on his career.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It wasn’t a happy smile. “You should teach your son better manners.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She stepped around him, slow, deliberate, and kept walking. Past the orange panels, past the McLaren logo, past the team she’d poured her entire self into.

By the time the sun dipped below the grandstands and the lights came on for the weekend's final showdown, she was long gone from the paddock. A flight booked for her under a new team name. A seat at a new table. A blank page waiting for her red inked scrawl.

Red Bull knew she was coming.

They just didn’t know what she was prepared to become.

—

The Browns’ living room was filled with the scent of cinnamon, pine, and whatever Christmas candle Tracy had been obsessed with that week. The fireplace crackled softly, fairy lights twinkled around the windows, and somewhere in the background, Ella Fitzgerald was crooning something vintage and sentimental.

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor in sweatpants and a hoodie, half-watching as her dad unwrapped a book about American muscle cars from the 1960s. He grinned like a kid, holding it up for Tracy to see.

“This is great,” Zak said. “I’ve been looking for this one.”

“I know,” Tracy said, leaning in to kiss his cheek before returning to her place at the table with a glass of wine. “I listen, you know. I’m a good wife.”

Amelia smiled faintly. She hadn’t said much all day. She’d made breakfast. Helped put the chicken in the oven. Unwrapped the gifts they handed her; socks, a new set of sketching pencils, a silver pen engraved with her initials, and said thank you each time. But the weight in her chest hadn’t lifted, not even when her mother handed her a plate stacked high with garlicky roast potatoes.

Zak was still talking, flipping through the book, animated now. “I’ve got such a good feeling about next season,” he said, his eyes bright. “The team’s in a good place. Carlos is dialled in, Lando’s matured a lot. And the Mercedes power unit; I know we’re still with Renault this year, but it’ll be a game-changer for us in twenty-one. Might be the year we really start bothering the top three again.”

Amelia swallowed hard. Her fork hovered above her plate, untouched. She glanced down at her food. It was getting cold. Her stomach turned.

Across the table, Tracy watched her. Her gaze was soft but sharp, a mother’s intuition in full force.

“Everything okay, Amelia?” She asked gently.

Amelia nodded. “Yeah,” she said, quickly. “Just tired. Long few months.”

Tracy didn’t push, but Amelia could tell she wasn’t convinced.

Her phone buzzed once, facedown on the table beside her glass of water. She flipped it over, half expecting a message from Carlos, or worse, from her dad, who had a terrible habit of sending her random articles from F1Tech like she wasn’t sitting five feet away.

But it wasn’t Carlos.

iMessage — 17:02pm

Vrolijk Kerstfeest,

Can’t wait for you to build my championship-winning car. – M.V.

She exhaled, barely more than a breath. The corner of her mouth lifted. Not a smile, not really, but the closest she’d come to one all day. She tapped her fingers against the table, hiding the message beneath her palm.

Of all the gifts she’d been given that morning — the socks, the pen, the awkward hug from her dad that still smelled faintly of cinnamon and gasoline — this was the only one that made her feel something. Recognition.

She glanced at her dad, still rambling about wind tunnel simulations and team morale like the world hadn’t shifted beneath their feet. Then she looked back down at her plate, her fork still untouched.

She hadn’t told him yet. She didn’t know when she would.

Maybe she wouldn’t at all.

Maybe she’d take a page out of his book.

—

“Red Bull Racing Hire Amelia Brown as Technical Design Intern, Working Under Adrian Newey”

— Motorsport.com

Red Bull Racing Announces Amelia Brown as New Technical Design Intern “Mini Newey” Joins Office of the CTO Ahead of 2020 F1 Season

Red Bull Racing has officially confirmed the addition of Amelia Brown to its technical department, naming her as a Technical Design Intern working directly under Chief Technical Officer Adrian Newey.

Brown, 19, has quietly gained a reputation in Formula 1 circles for her analytical precision and instinctive approach to problem-solving. Though never officially affiliated with a team, her behind-the-scenes contributions have turned heads up and down the paddock — especially within the aerodynamic development community.

“She’s one of the sharpest minds I’ve come across in years,” said Newey in a brief statement. “She has an innate understanding of car behaviour, balance, and airflow mapping that’s rare at any level of engineering, let alone someone so early in their career.”

While her appointment as an “intern” may sound modest, Red Bull insiders are already referring to Brown as “Mini Newey,” a nod to the technical savant under whom she will be working and a reflection of the high expectations within the team.

Team Principal Christian Horner added, “We’ve always prided ourselves on fostering talent, and Amelia represents the next generation of creative engineering thought. Her insight, even during early informal conversations, has already helped shape some of our thinking going into 2020.”

When asked about her appointment, Brown declined to comment directly, but sources inside the team say she will be working across simulation, aero development, and design review cycles throughout the season.

“She’s not here to make coffee,” said Gianpiero Lambiase, Verstappen's race engineer. “She’s here to change the game.”

Red Bull Racing’s 2020 challenger is set to be unveiled in Bahrain next month. Whether Brown’s influence will be visible from day one remains to be seen — but if early whispers are any indication, she won’t stay behind the curtain for long.

NEXT CHAPTER

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libraryofgage · 1 month ago

Text

After checks calendar 84 years, I am once again offering Smart Steve content lmao

Listen the writer's block has been hitting recently if you couldn't tell, but I'm still happy with how this came out.

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't :P

----

So.

Steve Harrington is smart.

Like, smart smart.

Like, the kind of smart where he not only understands shit, he can explain complicated shit to Eddie without sending his brain into a coma.

It's been two weeks, and Eddie is still trying to come to terms with this discovery. He's four tutoring sessions in and a little spark of surprise still rocks him whenever Steve can easily explain a new topic using the stuff Eddie likes.

He explained velocity using D&D spells. He explained electrical circuits using the concept of plugging a guitar into an amp. After asking a few questions about Lord of the Rings, Steve Harrington managed to explain the in-depth concepts of magnetism using the fucking One Ring.

How the fuck is Eddie supposed to be normal about any of that? Ignoring the sheer fact that Steve is capable of it, how is Eddie supposed to feel about the...the willingness to learn what Eddie understands best and meet him on that level?

If the answer is awed and practically starstruck, he's ahead of the game.

"Hey, you doing okay? Kinda spacing out over there, man."

Eddie blinks, the textbook in front of him coming back into focus. Steve had been explaining the concept of momentum, but his words just floated in one ear and out the other because Eddie was once again consumed by the absurdity of the situation.

It's not like he can say that, though. So, instead, he settles for a grimace and pushes the textbook away. "I think I'm all fried out for physics," he says, looking up at Steve.

"Oh," Steve says, blinking a few times before nodding. "Yeah, sure, uh, sorry."

"Wait, what are you sorry about?"

Steve looks away, an awkward frown tugging at his lips. "I...probably wasn't explaining it too well, huh?"

"Woah, woah, no way," Eddie says, putting a stop to that train of thought before it can leave the station. He turns in his chair to face Steve directly, ignoring how the metal rod that attaches it to the desk digs painfully against his shin. "Listen, Stevie, I've never understood physics more than when you explain it. Like, I don't know, man, whatever you're doing works."

Steve must have been more worried than he let on, because Eddie can literally see the tension draining from his shoulders. "Great," he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances away. "Seriously, that's great. I'm glad nothing's been confusing."

"Yeah, so, nothing you did," Eddie says, feeling like he needs to reiterate that point to drive it home. "Honestly, you could probably even make me understand geometry. Not like our teacher is doing shit to help."

"Do you...not understand geometry?" Steve asks, looking a little unsure like he can't tell if that's a joke or Eddie's attempt at suggesting another class he needs help in. This one is a class they share, which means Steve will have seen Eddie's floundering attempts at answering questions, and he feels a whole new burn of embarrassment course through him.

"Do you?" Eddie asks in return.

"Yeah. It's just, like, angles and shit, man."

Eddie stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowing and trying to figure out if Steve is somehow, subtly, making fun of him. But of course he isn't. If Eddie has learned nothing else, it's that Steve doesn't ever think Eddie is actually stupid or deserving of ridicule. He just thinks Eddie hasn't been taught properly, which is more on the teacher than him.

After a moment, Eddie twists around to dig in his bag. He pulls out his geometry homework, slaps it on the desk, and gestures at the triangles and squares and other shapes with unidentified angles and side lengths. "I have literally no clue what the fuck is going on here," he says.

Steve moves closer, looking over the sheet with a slight frown. Eddie knows this face by now. It's the one Steve makes when he's searching for the relevant knowledge in his own brain, pulling it to the front so he can easily identify the gaps in Eddie's understanding. "So, how would you start?" Steve finally asks, offering his pencil.

Eddie takes it, twirls it between his fingers a few times, and looks over the questions. He eventually chooses one asking him to find the length of a side. "I know this one. It's the equation with the squares and shit," he says, carefully writing it out and plugging in numbers under the triangle.

"Right. Pythagorean theorem. A squared plus B squared equals C squared."

"Yeah. That," Eddie says, working through the math on a separate sheet of paper instead of in his head. He can do easy addition and subtraction, but one of the first things Steve did was get him used to using scratch paper. His brain doesn't feel quite as crowded by numbers anymore; now it's just crowded by the endless rotation of bites of knowledge and equations that have nothing to do with the work at hand. It's like his brain can recognize that it needs to remember something, but can't identify what exactly, so it just offers up everything.

When he's done, Eddie shows Steve his work, the answer circled at the bottom of the scratch paper. "Perfect," Steve says, flashing a smile that makes Eddie's heart lurch dangerously. "Okay, so that's solid. What about this one."

He points at a right triangle with only one angle listed and the other marked as unknown. "No fucking clue," Eddie says.

"This one is asking for the unknown angle. It'll just be some subtraction."

"It's only giving me one angle, Stevie," Eddie points out, gesturing to the angle marked as 53. "What the fuck do I do with that?"

"Well, the main thing is that a triangles angles will always add to 180. Also, this is a right triangle," Steve explains, taking the pencil from Eddie to circle the L-shaped corner of the triangle. "This angle will always be 90 degrees on right triangles. Should I keep going?"

"No," Eddie says slowly, drawing the word out as he takes the pencil back. "I'm starting to get it. Lemme try."

Steve waits patiently as Eddie hesitates before adding the angles together and subtracting that from 180. When he gets to a solution of 37, he gestures for Steve to check.

"That's right," Steve says, nodding as he points to another triangle on the sheet. "For this one, I'll teach you about the SOH CAH TOA trick."

Eddie nods, paying as much attention as he can, but he can't help feeling a little distracted by Steve's happy smile and relaxed posture. He's never seen Steve like this during class, and he's struck by the sudden notion that nobody else will see Steve like this, either.

------

When Steve gets home, he drops his bag in the hallway, grabs a soda from the kitchen, and collapses onto the couch.

A few National Geographic and Scientific American magazines are still spread out across the coffee table. A brief glance reminds Steve that none of the stories were particularly interesting in these editions.

He pops the tab on his soda, takes a sip, and glances at the phone on the end table next to him.

Steve had noticed something today. Eddie's shirt. Most of the band shirts Eddie wears are popular enough that Steve sort of knows them. Metallica, KISS, and AC/DC were recognizable since he's passed their albums on display in record stores.

Today's band, though. He didn't recognize that one. What the fuck was Manowar?

After a few seconds of thought, Steve reaches out and grabs the phone. He's just doing research. Wanting to understand the music Eddie likes is reasonable. That's how Eddie learns. There's no other reason for Steve dialing the number of an old classmate.

The phone rings a few times before picking up. "Amare residence," a girl says, sounding distracted.

"Hey, Dee. It's Steve."

"Hmm, Steve. Steve. ...Steeeeve. Oh, is this Steve Harrington, deserter of friends for the woes of public education?"

Despite everything, Steve can't help an amused smile. "Yeah, that Steve," he says. He doesn't apologize, since he knows that's not what she wants. If she was actually angry, she would've hung up.

"Well, how kind of you to grace me with your voice," Dee says, sounding distant like she's set the phone down. "I suppose I can give you until I finish braiding my hair."

"Great. You know about metal, right?"

"Like iron? Duh, Steve, I'm not thirteen."

"No, like, heavy metal."

"Iron is pretty heavy."

"Music, Dee. Heavy metal music."

"Oh! Aren't you a Tears for Fears kind of boy? What are you doing asking about heavy metal?"

Steve starts to answer but stops himself. He doesn't know why. Dee tutors kids all the time. Everyone in their private school group did. That's how they made money. She'd understand that he's trying to learn more about Eddie's interests for tutoring purposes.

So why can't he just say that?

"This long pause says you're thinking about lying to me," Dee says. "Don't bother, Steve."

"Well, I do want to know for the guy I'm tutoring. But not just because I'm tutoring him."

"Awww, are you trying to make a friend?" Dee teases.

Steve grimaces, wondering why his stomach twists slightly at the question. "Yeah, kind of. I want to know more about the stuff he likes. And he likes heavy metal. So, ya know, I thought of you."

"Well, you've come to the right place," Dee says. "And I love talking music, so I guess we can keep talking even after I'm done braiding."

A relieved smile tugs at Steve's lips. "Thanks, Dee, I appreciate it. So, first question, what's Manowar?"

-------

Tag List!

@estrellami-1, @ravenfrog,

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #smart steve harrington #anyone else remembering being taught SOH CAH TOA?#that shit lives rent free in my head cuz it's a weird little rhyme thing #also Dee is like one of those OCs that exists for three seconds #but has more lore behind her than you'd expect lmao #anyway thanks for reading this little dude i hope you enjoyed the soft steddie #and the math #lemme know if you'd like to be tagged ^_^#listen i wrote this and then didn't go back through for spelling errors #so genuinely this might be messier than usual i just wanted to get it to the people lmao

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deadly-diminuendo · 1 month ago

Text

A Fitting Reunion

a tailor (spawn) astarion x fem!tav reader fic | nsfw | ~13.7k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Tags/CW: anxiety, piv sex, oral sex (both ways), post-game, fluff/smut/mutual pining

Read On AO3

Or read below...

Breathe.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Then again. And again.

You can do this.

He is your friend.

A friend you used to sleep with.

A friend you never stop thinking about.

Ever.

Hells.

You have not seen Astarion since Withers’ party. The one where you drunkenly suggested you would not mind taking a stroll together back into the woods where the two of you once used to go. You could still remember the way.

You might have phrased things a little less delicately at the time.

And of course he said no.

“Darling, flattered as I am, I think it’s best we get you to bed. Your own bed, to be clear.”

A more gentle rejection from him than you perhaps deserved. What must he have thought of you? Coming on to him like that when you knew a night of passion was probably the last thing on his mind? You are supposed to care about him, not treat him like a piece of meat.

Not that you ever thought of him that way—but still you worry how it seems.

Fuzzy though the details are, you remember enough to know Astarion was the one to ensure your safe journey home that night. The one to step through the portal with you, to help you up the stairs, to tuck you under the covers. And how did you repay him?

You made yourself a stranger.

You should have gone to see him sooner. Apologized. Been a real friend.

Granted the party happened only a month ago. A month is not too long a wait, is it? People live busy lives. Some of your friends you only see a few times a year.

Or maybe it has not been long enough. Maybe you are making too big a deal of this, and you will only be making an even greater fool of yourself by doing this now.

The garment bag draped over your arms feels heavier and heavier. Maybe a purely social call would have been a wiser choice than this transactional one. On the other hand, you do want to show your support for his new business venture. Any friend would do that, right?

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

You repeat your exercises as you try to calm your rapid heartrate. A near impossible task knowing he will be able to hear it the second you walk through that door. Gods, your heart is hammering so hard that you worry he might already hear it through the walls. Curse his vampiric senses.

You can still turn back around. Come back another time. When you are ready.

Who are you kidding?

You will never be ready.

But, if the choice is between now or never—between the shame of showing your face or the pain of never seeing his again—you know what you have to do.

Swallowing your pride, you manage to free a hand enough to turn the handle, lean against the door, and push.

The bell rings.

Its shrill announcement of your arrival sends you spiralling. You think of running. Hiding. Just dropping to the ground and crying.

But there will be no escape because the second you hear that achingly familiar voice sing out the word, “Coming,” your feet are frozen to the floor.

Then comes the inevitable moment, when you see him and he sees you, and you look away, and you look back, and you try not to avert your gaze, and you try not to stare, and gods help you through this for his beauty stuns you still.

He briefly mirrors your silent stupor before you see the crinkle of his eyes and the crook of his charming smile. “Hello, darling.”

Frantically you ask yourself what this means. You sift through every detail you know about the man before you as you try to deduce the thoughts running through his mind. Whether he is truly happy to see you or if he only pretends to be. Whether this is his real face or once more the mask.

You have imagined this scene a million times, practiced every possible variation of it in your head, but when you try to think what to say your mind runs blank. You settle for a few words that are simple and true. “It is good to see you, Astarion.”

“And same to you, my friend,” he says, and you manage a small smile. Are you really worthy of being called his friend after all this time apart? Is an honest-to-goodness friendship even possible between the two of you?

You do not speak so he continues. “And might I add that you are looking more delicious than ever.”

Oh. He is flirting with you. Falling back on old habits, perhaps. Or maybe he seeks to lighten the mood, to ease you into a conversation that clearly makes you feel awkward. Nothing more. Still your heart flutters as it always used to back in those early days.

Back when you were foolish enough to believe he might be your forever.

“I was hoping you could help me,” you tell him, trying to get yourself back on track. “I have a gown that needs alterations. I take it you have heard about the upcoming Ravengard ball?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching out to take the garment bag from you, and though you are glad to be free of its weight, you are not quite sure what to do with your hands. “I have been invited myself, but honestly, I expect the whole affair to be dreadfully boring. I suppose I could always introduce a little chaos into the mix myself, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll likely just skip it.”

“You’re not going? Not even for Wyll?”

Not even for me? That third question burns in your mind but you dare not ask it.

“We were not exactly the best of friends if you’ll recall.”

That is true. You remember many a tense exchange between them—Wyll needlessly cruel at times, Astarion spitting back with an understandable but equally vicious venom—no real surprise that the unlikely alliance between a monster hunter and a vampire spawn would also be an uneasy one.

The fact that you once shared a dance with the Blade did nothing to help matters. The tenderness in his touch and the awe in his eyes told you he wanted something beyond friendship. A true love, a happily ever after, a tale straight out of the pages of a storybook—tempted though you were, you could not envision that future with Wyll. Not while you were still spending your nights tangled up with Astarion.

Even knowing now how it all turned out you would not have chosen differently.

You consider encouraging him to attend, expressing how much you would appreciate having his company there, but you let the moment pass as you follow him deeper into the shop. “It seems you have done quite well for yourself,” you comment—your words still feel more stilted than you would like, and your gaze meanders about the shop rather than meeting his—but at least you are here.

And he really has done well for himself, you think. The front of house proudly displays a tasteful array of apparel—a combination of carefully curated selections from local clothesmakers and his own elegant and inventive fashions. Perhaps you should have commissioned him to design your dress in the first place.

“I have, haven’t I?” He lets out a little hmph as he considers it. “I thought this life might be a little, uh… pedestrian, for my tastes, but… to my surprise, I like it. It suits me rather well.”

“I agree,” you say with a genuine smile as he stops you in front of a series of curtains—the dressing rooms, you assume. Sure enough he pushes one open and gestures you inside, hanging the garment bag on a hook.

“Well, darling, let’s get you out of those clothes and into that dress, hm?” Your breath hitches. You almost let your imagination run away with you, but of course he gives you your privacy. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

You peel off each layer one by one, trying not to think about the fact that your former lover is on the other side of this curtain, trying not to remember the slow and sensual ways he used to strip you bare.

But you do think about it. You do remember.

You are just friends now, you remind yourself. No more. And no less, you hope. To be without him all this time has left a hollow in your heart. You want to fill its empty spaces with his presence. You want him to be part of your life again.

So why does being here only make your heart ache harder?

And why are you still so godsdamned nervous?

You sigh and slip into your gown, admiring its A-line silhouette and its delightful shade of purple. Not quite the right fit, but that is why you are here after all. Astarion can surely fix that for you. He does work wonders with his hands.

Hands that you now realize will have to lace up the back of your dress because there is no way you’ll be able to accomplish that by yourself.

Hugging the loose garment tight against your chest, you call for help. “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to fall into peril right here in my dressing room. You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble wherever you go.”

“Just… come in, please.”

He pushes through the curtain and you are instantly and acutely aware of just how snug this little space is.

“Ah, you need to be tied up, I see.”

Of course he would choose to phrase it like that. Now you are thoroughly convinced he is thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He always did like to make you squirm. In more ways than one, the Astarion in your head adds. Ugh. You feel a fleeting sense of relief as you spin around, but the mirror betrays you, putting your mortified expression on full display while the look on his face remains a mystery to you. The chuckle you then hear at least helps you picture his smirk.

He takes his time with you. Like he always did. Words he once said echo in your mind. A treat like you deserves to be savoured. Does it tempt him still to be so close to you? To sense your blood pumping through your veins? To see your neck so deliciously exposed? You ponder and you reminisce and you catch yourself tilting your head to one side.

It seems the tempted one is you.

You wonder if he noticed. He may be ‘tying you up’ as he so eloquently put it, but you feel more like he is undressing you. Like he is uncovering you bit by bit, inch by inch, piece by piece. Like he could reach into your mind and read your most intimate thoughts even though the tadpoles are long gone.

“There we are,” you finally hear him say, snapping you back to reality. You pause in front of the mirror together and you wonder what it isn’t telling you. What he thinks when he looks upon you.

“A fine choice, my dear,” he says as you both step out of the dressing room. “Much better than those hideous rags and that horrid armour you wore on the road.”

You roll your eyes at him. “That horrid armour kept me alive. Forgive me for picking function over fashion.”

“Oh, come now, fashion need not be sacrificed. Yours truly had both, thank you very much.” He gives you a playful bow.

You snicker—and then a full-fledged grin spreads across your face. To have this bit of banter with him again feels right. A bit of good-natured ribbing is something you can handle. What you do not know quite how to handle is—

“Luckily for you that smile more than made up for your questionable wardrobe.”

And just like that you no longer know what to say.

Astarion guides you over to a fitting platform, circling you as he sizes up what needs to be done. And though you know this is all about your dress and not you, you begin to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

“Much too long, obviously,” he remarks. “Typical. It should be taken in at the waist, too. We must do justice to that pretty figure of yours after all.”

Another flirtatious comment from him, another internal panic for you. You are not given much time to ruminate on this one though before he asks you a question that catches you off guard.

“Did you bring your shoes?”

“My shoes…?”

“Shoes, darling,” he says, elongating the rounded vowel as he repeats the word. “You have heard of the concept, surely. They come in pairs? You wear them on your feet?”

“I know what shoes are,” you insist, glancing towards the open dressing room where your trusty boots remain on the floor.

He follows your line of sight, and you nearly laugh when you look back to witness his eyebrows raise in horror then furrow again in exasperation. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. You will not be wearing those ghastly things to a ball.”

“They’re comfortable, and no one will be able to see them,” you say with a shrug and a smile, and this time you do laugh at the indignant noise he makes in response. Really, you did plan on wearing something more suitable—but you are enjoying this little opportunity to vex him.

“Absolutely not. As an upstanding citizen of this fine metropolis, I cannot stand idly by while you commit this outrageous crime against fashion.”

“Upstanding citizen, huh?”

“Of course,” he says with that mischievous smile of his. “I’m hardly the ‘help every poor unfortunate soul in sight’ type—that, my dear, is unique to you and you alone—but perhaps a smidgen of your do-gooder nature has rubbed off on me. Now,” he continues, returning to the matter at hand, “let me find you some decent shoes. We’ll need them to measure the length.”

Ah, that makes sense. You pout and you nod, playing your little game, but you do look forward to a new pair of shoes. Your adventures did leave your boots well-worn, not to mention covered with so much gore and grime that not even repeated scrubbings could remove all the stains. Your boots really did see everything.

He disappears into another part of the shop then reappears with a few options in hand—a selection of flats and modest heels you can actually picture yourself walking in—all simple but elegant. He knows just what you like.

“Sit and try these on,” he says, extending a hand out to you—an offer to help you down from the platform you presume—and you take it.

His touch is pure electric shock. Or maybe it is only the chill of undeath that leaves you shivering. And then you think on it, that pleasing tingle, the texture of his skin, the way his long, slender fingers interlock perfectly with yours, and your heart is fluttering, and he lets go all too soon, and you are lost. Empty. Incomplete.

And right now you are not ready to consider what that means.

You push your confusion out of your mind as you take a seat on the edge of the platform, refocusing on the task at hand. You pick out a pair of off-white kitten heels and try them on, and you find yourself pleasantly surprised by how comfortable they feel. To be sure, you take a few steps, you test other pairs, you return to the first—yes, these will do.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asks, and you nod. “Good. Back up you go, darling.”

You step onto the fitting stand once more—without assistance this time, which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. Astarion sets about his work, pulling pins out of the small cushion tied to his wrist and pushing them through the hem, all while you stare into space and contemplate whether or not you should say anything.

You should say something, you decide. You did manage to catch up with him a little at the party last month before your drink got the better of you, but you are doing a poor job of it now. You’ve barely even talked. Not really. How can you call yourself his friend if you cannot even gather the courage to speak to him?

“How are you?” you blurt out. Those few trite words do little to express how much you truly care for his well-being, how every day you wonder if he is fed, if he is safe, if he is happy. Quickly you add, “With the whole ‘vampire tailor’ thing, I mean. No monster hunters at your door, I hope?”

His nature clearly isn’t a secret. The many mirrors give him away if nothing else.

“Not a one,” Astarion says, glancing up at you from where he kneels. “I am, after all, one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The fact that I also happen to be a vampire spawn is not so much a threat, but an… eccentricity. And a bit of eccentricity is right at home in this city.”

“I’m glad no one is giving you any trouble,” you say. Another question needles your mind, one you are almost afraid to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. “And… are you feeding well?”

“I have my sources.” Oh. Good. That is good. Yes. Definitely. Not like it matters who or how. Not like the mere thought of him sinking his teeth into someone else crushes you. Not like the scene plays out in your mind no matter how much you don’t want it to. Your eyes shut. Your stomach twists. Your heart sinks.

“None quite like you,” he adds, and beneath that sultriness he so likes to tease you with, you detect a softness there. Or maybe it is only a trick of the imagination. A pretty lie you tell yourself.

And yet, when your eyes flicker open, all you can see is his boring back into yours, staring, seeking, searching.

Breathe. You must breathe.

And then the moment is gone, and he shifts out of your sight, concentrating his efforts on the back of your dress.

The minutes pass in screaming silence.

You wish he would fill your ears with little jokes, or idle chatter, or something, anything to save your mind from spiralling. Anything to save you from you.

You regret all you have done wrong and all you have failed to do right. And yet, you want, and you yearn, and you hope.

“It really has only ever been you, you know.”

His words shock you back to your senses and suddenly he is standing on the platform with you, mere inches away.

“Oh,” you say. Gods, what else can you say?

All is quiet between you. He fusses with your straps, and the fabric of your bodice, pins everything into its proper place. A hand lingers at your waist.

“You once told me that the world can be a kind place. That has been truer than I expected. But no one has been more good to me—and good for me—than you.”

What?

No. Whatever you think this is, you are wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that,” you protest, your heart pounding. “That night at the party… I wasn’t thinking, I… I know it wasn’t what you… I’m so sor—”

He stops you, shushing you softly. “Oh, no, no, love, you will not apologize for that. A little drunken fancy is nothing to be ashamed of. You were nothing but sweet. And it was sweet of you to worry. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

Your head is spinning. You were far from a good friend that night. You did him wrong. You were so sure.

But he does not seem offended in the least.

Quite the opposite, really.

“Although,” he says, and you hear the mischief in his voice as he leans in to speak into your ear. “I am rather curious about those pretty words you said when…”

The bell rings.

The two of you startle and separate.

“Oh, Astarion, dear?” a voice calls out, singsong yet sharp.

The scowl that then sullies his features tells you all you need to know. He curses under his breath before singing out an answer. “Just a moment, Lady Furrington. I am finishing up with another client.”

Astarion is all business now as he checks over his handiwork, and as he ushers you to the dressing rooms, and you cannot help but to mourn what could have been had no one else stepped foot through that door. You wonder what he would have done. What he would have said. What might have sparked between you.

You will lie awake tonight wondering and wondering and wondering.

You pause together just outside the dressing room, and he says, “My apologies for the abrupt finish, darling. Her requests are endless, but her coin purse is bottomless. Enough so that an extra charge here and there goes unnoticed.”

“You have to do what you have to do,” you say with a shrug. You take a step into the change room, and to your surprise, he follows you inside. You shoot him a quizzical look.

“The laces?”

“Uh, yes. Right. Thank you.”

He reaches around you as he begins to pull them loose. He is close. Impossibly, maddeningly, enticingly close. His gaze falls to your lips and, gods, you can almost taste his.

“Astarion?” cries out that same shrill voice.

He steps back. Another moment lost forever.

“Come back tomorrow night?” he asks.

Sooner than you thought, but you do not question it. You simply say, “Yes.”

You leave. You start your trek home. And, as you walk, an inkling of something forgotten—something you wanted to forget—itches within your brain. What was it he mentioned about that night? Something about ‘those pretty words’ words you said?

You think, and you think, and you think, delving deep into your fragmented memories, searching for the missing pieces you need to complete the puzzle.

You stop in your tracks.

You remember.

That night, as he put you to bed, at the height of your foolishness, you told him the most mortifying thing you could have told him.

But in wine there is truth.

You felt it. You said it. You meant it.

You love him.

It was the right choice. The right choice. The right choice.

How many nights have you lain awake, desperate to believe in the truth of those words? You thought one day they would sink in and soothe you. Instead their endless echoing always felt more like a pulsing headache.

Funny that, last night, the very opposite thought is what kept you awake.

What if, all this time, you were wrong?

You were so sure back then that friendship was the right choice. A hard choice, but the right choice. Never had anyone given him anything without the expectation for more. You could be that person, right? You should be that person. You wanted to be that person. A friend was what he needed. What he deserved. That superceded any silly notions of romance you had in your head.

Your offer of friendship meant everything to him, or so it seemed. Not a friend in the world until you, he said. His sincerity and his soft words melted your heart, and when he took your hand in his, and gazed into your eyes, you knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You fought it. You denied it. You cried and cried and cried over it.

Still your feelings stayed the same. And so you did the only thing you could do. You resolved to keep your secret hidden under lock and key.

As if anything in this world under lock and key is safe from the likes of Astarion.

You love him. You have always loved him. You still love him.

And it seems he knows it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there exists the teeniest tiniest trace of a possibility that he might be interested in you?

No, no, no. Surely you are mistaken.

He thought about kissing you, though, didn’t he? You saw him glance at your lips, right? Or did you?

No, no, no. A figment of your wild and wishful imagination, nothing more.

He would never want you.

Still you primp and you preen before the mirror like you are prepping for a date, not a dress fitting. Still you want to impress him, enamour him, pretend you stood a chance with him. Still you wonder and you worry that, maybe, improbable as it seems, you did once stand a chance with him, denied him and deprived him, denied and deprived yourself.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Those words of his still echo in your memories. You thought, then, that friendship was the realest thing you could ever hope to share. But, if you let yourself try, you could have been something more, couldn’t’ve you?

Maybe he did want you, could want you, does want you.

And if he does…

No. Do not let yourself go there. Do not get your hopes up. Never get your hopes up.

You take a moment to breathe, pull yourself from the mirror and leave through the front door. You will go to this appointment and you will be normal and you will be sane and you will be the friend you promised him you would be, not some gawking idiot full of foolish desires.

Twenty minutes is what it takes to walk from your place to his. Twenty minutes of exercise? A good thing, of course. Twenty minutes of cycling through these same tired thoughts ad nauseum? A not-so-good thing. That will not help you through this.

Maybe it won’t make much of a difference. After all you are quite capable of sending yourself into a frenzy in a mere twenty seconds let alone twenty minutes.

When you finally arrive at his door your head is still swimming.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You did it yesterday. You can do it again today.

The bell rings.

The silence that follows is enough to deafen you.

Well, it would seem you underestimated yourself before. You thought it would take twenty seconds to achieve total panic? More like five.

Astarion appears in the blink of an eye, all elven grace and vampiric mystique, emerging from what feels like out of nowhere but in reality must have been somewhere back of shop.

He is somehow even more gorgeous today, if that is even possible. His hair, perfectly coiffed; his vest, exquisitely embroidered; his whole ensemble, impeccably tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His sleeves are rolled up, and his shirt is a little more open than it perhaps needs to be at the chest, and gods, are you blushing?

You are here for a reason, and that reason is not to ogle him, tempting though it might be.

“Darling!” he says, greeting you with that brilliant smile you so adore. “I’m glad it is you, and not a certain patriar that so rudely interrupted us yesterday. There is only so much of that particular displeasure I can endure. My patience is thin enough as it is.”

“And yet you have managed to endure,” you remark, laughing a little at the thought of him attempting to navigate customer service. “The coin is that good, huh?”

“Oh, it is. Satisfying as it might be to deny my services to the worst offenders, a few of these annoying but harmless ones must be tolerated. Bad for business otherwise. Today, though, I made a point of keeping my schedule clear of all other distractions. My only priority now is you.”

You. The way he purrs out that one little word sends a thrill throughout your body.

But you must not read into that. You must temper yourself.

Be normal. Be sane. Be his friend.

“Alas, your gown is not quite done yet, though. I was just finishing up the hem when I heard you come in. It won’t take long. Follow me into the back, if you will?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you say. You had expected more or less a repeat of the previous day—trying on the dress, making sure it fits correctly, changing back into your regular clothes, returning home. A nice, predictable order of events.

You like predictable. You like all its safeties and comforts. You like how it acts as a balm to all your anxieties. If you can predict, then you can prepare.

Unpredictable, though. Unpredictable is unnerving. Downright terrifying, even. And yet it is rife with possibilities.

The best things in your life have come from unpredictable. The greatest adventure you’ve ever had. The happiest memories.

The man you love more than anything.

Even if what passion you shared was fleeting. Even if this platonic connection is all that remains. Even if that glimmer of hope you cannot quite quash, no matter how unwise you think it, crushes you one day. You will still tend to and treasure your bond in any and every way you can.

So you take a deep breath and you follow him.

Astarion leads you into a room just big enough to double as a work area and a storage space. Rolls of fabric, diverse in colour, pattern and texture, fill the shelves lining the walls. What you notice most, though, are the in-progress projects draped over the mannequins. You would love to watch him at work. You suppose you will get one little taste of that now.

You also spot the base of a staircase in one corner, and that sparks an even greater curiosity within you. This lower floor is his business, but that upper floor is his home. A place entirely his own, and you hope he has filled it with anything and everything that makes him feel safe and happy and free. Maybe he will invite you up those stairs someday—you are friends after all—but for now you both seat yourselves across from each other at his work table.

“A good thing you came to me for this, darling,” he says, and you try not to stare as he licks the tip of his thread and pulls it through the eye of his needle with ease, “—else you would have been out of luck. Wait times are usually much longer than this.”

That is true, and you know you should have planned for this better. The ball is only a tenday away. “Oh, I’m sorry for the rush, you didn’t need to—”

“Hush, hush, my sweet,” he says, a gentle chiding that reminds you of yesterday. “It was not a bother. Not in the least. Although…” He pauses and smirks. “You haven’t paid me yet.”

Aghast, your mouth drops open, but he stops you before you can blurt out your hundred apologies.

“Now, I know that one so honest as you would never make such a mistake on purpose. Our time was cut short after all. Then again, not all of our gold was acquired by honest means, was it?”

“Thanks to your thievery,” you remind him. “Gods, you practically cleaned out the whole Counting House.”

“And yet I don’t recall you objecting. True that I picked many locks during our adventures, and why was that I wonder?” He makes a show of his hums and his haws and then one final aha. “Oh yes, that’s right. Because you asked me to.”

“Our mission was important,” you insist. “We needed gold, intel, resources… We did what was necessary to succeed. To survive.”

“Oh? Tell yourself that if you must, darling, but I think you just liked to watch my hands.”

That comment instantly warms your cheeks—and the realization that you actually have been watching his hands as he starts to sew absolutely scorches them. When you glance up to his face, you find him grinning at you.

And just like that you’re grinning too. You are embarrassed, yes, but you must admit there is something especially endearing about seeing Astarion like this—the skill, the passion, the care he puts into his work, the way his smile softens as he settles back into his state of calm and contented concentration—he looks happy.

It makes you happy. It makes you calm—or at least as calm as you can be under these circumstances. It makes you love him even more.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” he says, shifting back in his chair, pulling the garment from the table and into his lap, pulling farther away from you. Have you been staring too much? Has he taken offense? Does he no longer want you here?

He pauses, and gives you a pensive look, and you look back, lost as to what to do or say or think. Maybe you should go. Give him some space. But, he invited you in, didn’t he? Said it wouldn’t take long? You can’t just leave.

And you don’t want to leave. You hope that he doesn’t want you to leave either.

He breaks the silence with a chuckle, resuming his stitching like nothing has changed. “You never were. Not that I mind, though. If you want to watch a master at work, then who am I to deny you?”

“I can hardly see what you are doing now, though.” You try to keep your words matter-of-fact. Try not to show just how unsure and insecure you are in this moment. In too many of your shared moments.

“A shame. I’m afraid you will have to settle for admiring the stitchwork when it’s done. And it will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

You try to read him. He gives nothing away, offering up no more than a little smirk as you study him. He was always better at reading you than you were reading him.

You want to know. You need to know.

“I will,” you say, and that need to know brings out a boldness in you that was not there before, and though your inner voice scolds you and screams at you, you add, “though I would rather admire you.”

His eyes briefly flicker to yours, then back to the dress. You swallow hard.

“Then, by all means, bask in my presence and shower me with your praises.”

Good. No scrunching up his nose, no recoiling in disgust, no sign you went too far. But neither did he give you any indication that his feelings mirror yours.

Not that you truly expected that, of course.

Still you continue to examine him closely. He seems relaxed, focused, comfortable. There is a hint of fang to his smile and a gleam to his eye, and when he next glances at you, he raises an eyebrow.

Wait, does he actually want you to praise him? Should you? What can you even say? Oh, Astarion, you are clever, and funny, and talented, and gorgeous, and I am completely, absolutely, madly in love with you?

The greater your panic, the greater his amusement, until he can no longer resist clicking his tongue at you. “So shy now, darling. And yet you were not the least bit shy for me the last time I had you on your back.”

Oh. Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that.

Your wide-eyed, open-mouthed, heart-thumping shock earns a hearty laugh from him.

“Gods, you’re so adorable.”

Words fail you, and so you let out a giggle, its pitch too sharp, its volume too loud, its presence awkward, your presence awkward.

“It’s a good thing, my love,” he says softly, sincerely. “Trust me on that.”

My love. You zero in on those two words, and though your head tells you to dismiss them, your heart tells you to keep them and to cherish them.

And you are growing quite the little collection of words to thrill and fill you. Adorable, on your back, tied up, pretty figure, looking delicious, that smile, nothing but sweet, good to me, good for me. My love. You have not forgotten a single thing he said.

But you know it would be foolish to treat every flirtatious remark and sweet nothing as a romantic overture.

Even if you want to. And, oh, how you want to.

You seek distraction now, glancing at the table in front of you. It is a rather cluttered space, various tools of the trade scattered about—spools of thread, scraps of fabric, scissors and needles and pins—but what catches your eye most is a messy little pile of papers. Sketches.

“Are those your designs?” you ask, nodding towards the stack, leaning a little closer—just enough to imply a second question: “May I see them?”

“Yes,” he answers, and though he rolls his eyes, he smiles. “Go on, then. Take a look.”

Carefully you gather up the pages and begin your perusal. His sketches immediately impress. Astarion, the artist—you had never pictured it—but perhaps it should come as no surprise that a man with a skilled hand and a keen eye would take so well to pencil and paper. The time, the effort, and the creativity he poured into these—into every aspect of his work—is clear, and you are glad to see this side of him.

One by one, you look through the sketches, giving thoughtful attention to each and every one before moving on to the next. Some are still in their early stages, little more than rough outlines, while others are fully realized with intricate detail and vivid colour. The designs range from the everyday to the formal, from the simple to the elaborate, from the masculine to the feminine, and everything in between. A little something for everyone.

It eases you, this repetitive motion, this comforting quiet, this sweet glimpse into the life of the one you love.

Until you see it. Until your fingers tighten against the paper. Until you freeze.

Not because of the clothing, but because of the model. The shape of her figure. The shade of her skin. The style of her hair. The familiarity of her face.

It’s you.

He drew you. Like you are his muse. Like he could not help but to think of you. Like he is as in love with you as you are with him.

No, you try to tell yourself, this must be some coincidence. And even if it isn’t a coincidence—and really you should just admit to yourself that this cannot be a coincidence—it cannot mean what you want it to mean, right?

Maybe it is just because you are his friend. A real person he can easily visualize in his mind’s eye. Yes, that must be all this is. Yes, of course.

You quickly flip through the remaining pages. There is no Karlach, no Gale, no Shadowheart, no Wyll, no Lae’zel, no Halsin, no Jaheira, no Minsc—not that any of them got to know Astarion as well as you did, though. All you find are faceless figures, generic and unremarkable. Until, oh, there you are again. Oh, and once more. And again. And, by the gods, again.

“Did something catch your eye, darling?” Astarion asks, lips curled into a smirk, looking and sounding every bit like the cat that got the cream.

You pull that first sketch of you out of the pile and set the rest down, holding it in the air for him to see. “Is this me?”

“Ah, come to think of it, I did have you in mind when dreaming up that particular outfit, yes.” He shrugs, and the nonchalance of it all vexes you.

“And not only this one?”

“Not only that one, no. I do think of you often, you know.”

No. You don’t know. But maybe you are beginning to know. Beginning to let hope blossom in your heart, brave and beautiful and boundless.

He pauses his work, stares at you a moment, meets you eye to eye—and, gods, you feel like you are connecting heart to heart. Soul to soul. He speaks again, eventually, shifting back to a less serious, light-hearted tone. A retreat into his own comfort zone.

“What more can I say? I like to imagine you in my clothes, darling.”

And out of them, you can almost hear him say. Honestly you could go for a little body to body as well, but you know not to push him. Hells, you are not even a couple.

You never will be, says a different voice. An unwelcome voice. Your own voice, ever cruel and destructive. But maybe that voice of yours is wrong. Maybe it isn’t never. Maybe it is just not right now.

And you can live with not right now.

“Actually,” Astarion continues, “I’m not sure imagination is enough anymore.”

You blink at him.

“I’ve always thought working with a live model could spice things up a little. Someone to be my canvas, so to speak. Perhaps you might be willing to step into that role sometime? I rather like having you around.”

He wants you here more often. Does not mind being up close and personal with you. Wants to be up close and personal with you.

The very notion of it makes you giddy with an excitement you are no longer able to contain, and so when you open your mouth, what slips out is, “I like you, too.” Gods, what are you saying? “Like being around you, too.”

Embarrassing, yes, but you decide that grin upon his face and that laughter rippling out of him are worth it.

“If it is what you want, then I will be here.”

“It is what I want,” he says, and there is a conviction to it that sets your heart fluttering. You watch as he reaches for a pair of scissors. “Well, darling. It’s settled then. And I am pleased to tell you your dress”—a pause, a snip—“is complete.”

Oh. You were starting to wish this would take the whole night.

He sets down the scissors, the needle, and what remains of the thread upon the table, standing as he smooths out the gown—and that is when you realize it. That thread. It is thick and gold, not fine and colour-matched like you would have expected. Granted, you are not the expert here, but it is a curious choice—and a choice that makes you curious.

But, before your mind can wander too far down that path, Astarion’s voice startles you back to the present.

“Well, darling? You do realize you will have to try it on again?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, your chair screeching backwards as you push yourself out of it. “And thank you. For everything.”

“It is my job, after all,” he says, slathering his words with a thick coat of exasperation, but even he cannot hide the pride underlying them. “And for you? It is my pleasure.”

Always the flirt. But, for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe there might be more to it than a little teasing or empty flattery.

And, small and insignificant as it seems, you are still wondering about that thread.

He leads you out of the back room and over to the dressing rooms, back to that same snug space you shared with him yesterday, pushing the curtain to one side and hanging up your gown. You step inside and pull the curtain closed.

You undress, and you think, and something he told you tickles your brain. Something about the stitchwork. “It will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

Hmm. Maybe you should take the time to admire it.

You lift the hem and examine its inner edge, following that neat, flawless line in its circle, not a single speck of gold to be seen—

Until you find it. A hidden message, simple in design, yet elegant in execution. Four words. Four earth-shattering, heart-warming, life-changing words.

I love you too

You want to laugh and you want to cry and you want to sing. You want to wrap your arms around him and squish him and squeeze him until he can take no more. You want to tell him how much you love him, tell him a thousand times, then a thousand more, and gods, you want to hear him say it.

But to embroider those words so lovingly into the fabric is the sweetest confession he could have made to you.

You love him even more for it.

You can hardly wait to tell him—properly this time, not uttered out on some drunken late night like before—but, for now, you slip into your dress, and step into your shoes, trying hard to suppress the squeals begging to burst out of you.

He loves you. You spent so much time—too much time—convincing yourself that such a thing was impossible. But he loves you.

You exit that little room, and you see him, and you know it would only take seconds to close the gap between you and hug him and never let go. But, your dress is hanging open in the back, and you’re shaking, and you don’t want to ambush him with your touch if he is not yet ready for that.

The moment will come.

Or maybe it is time to take control of this. You will find that moment, and if you don’t, then you will create it, and then when you do, you will make it count.

Automatically he walks towards you, steps behind you, laces up your bodice, so close yet not close enough. You wish you could touch him, and the next thing you know, he is offering you his hand, and so you take it, and you squeeze it.

And he squeezes yours back.

He guides you onto the fitting stand. You catch a brief glimpse of yourself in the surrounding mirrors—the perfect fit of your gown, the way your smile shines—but the only thing you want to look at is Astarion.

He completes a single revolution around you, and when he stops in front of you, and you beam down at him, he stares back in admiration, in adoration, in awe. Like you are the sun itself. Like you are the centre of his whole world.

How could you not have known?

“You love me?”

His eyes grow wide as those words fall out of you. It’s all surprise, at first. But then it is openness. Vulnerability. “Ah. So you saw it already, then?”

“Yes,” you murmur, afraid to make a wrong move lest you wake up from this dream before you hear those words you want to hear more than anything. “You love me?”

Silence. You panic, and you retreat, pulling back, looking away. “Not that you need to say it out loud, of course. Not if you don’t want t—”

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap back to his. You watch him draw nearer and nearer, and you feel his hands find their place at your hips, and you breathe in that nostalgic scent of bergamot and brandy.

“I love you,” he says again, and you are so happy you could cry.

You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that feels like home. You needed this. You needed him. And, when his arms wrap back around you, you know that he needed you, too. Here, both of you are snug, and you are safe, and you are loved.

And though you know he must know it by now—that he must see it in your eyes and feel it in your embrace—you say it anyway. “I love you, too.”

You both pull back, but only a little, just enough to smile at each other.

“This time on my own,” he begins, “it has given me the chance to think about what I truly want. All of this,” he says, gesturing around the shop, “I may not have expected to end up in a life this domestic, but… I’m happy. Mostly happy, anyway.”

He pauses, and you tilt your head, waiting, wondering, hoping.

“I want more. I want a partner. And who better than the woman who stood by my side through everything? Who always treated me with kindness and understanding? Who I just so happen to utterly adore? I want you.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you are smiling so hard it hurts, but you are sure this is the happiest moment of your life. “Then I am yours.”

And then he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt into him, into his softness and his sensuality, into the comfort of his embrace and the heat of his touch. This is perfect. This is right. This is where you belong. You pour all of your affection into every press of your lips, willing him to feel your devotion, your desire, your love down to his very core. But, when you part your lips to meet his tongue, he breaks away.

You fear something will break inside you—but his reassuring grin steadies you.

“Just a quick moment, darling,” he says. “There is but one little thing I need to do.”

Astarion steps off the platform and heads towards the front of the shop. At first you are confused. And then you understand.

The bell rings.

The ‘open’ sign is flipped to ‘closed.’

The lock clicks in place.

And, tonight, the bell will ring no more.

Astarion locks the door and locks eyes with you.

You remember the day you met him as if it were yesterday. Little more than a beautiful stranger to you, back then, all elegance and ice. Even as your lover he felt unreachable, with you by midnight and gone by morning, no more real than a dream.

But now, as you gaze upon him, he is warmth, and he is sweetness, and he is truly, honestly himself. Mask off for you and only you.

Unbelievable, really, how far the two of you have come. And yet, with your whole heart, you believe it.

The man before you is your best friend. Your love. Your partner.

And tonight, together, you will take your first steps towards a life intertwined. Whatever that looks like.

And, gods, what does that look like? What comes next? Will he invite you into his arms? Into his home?

Into his bed?

The mere thought of it, you all wrapped up in him, sets your mind racing and your heartrate rising. There is a familiar hunger to his pretty eyes as he draws near, and you wonder if that rapid rhythm in your chest is still, to him, the irresistible siren song it once used to be. If he longs to taste your blood, your lips, your—

Oh, but you should not get too far ahead of yourself. He might not yet want what you so evidently crave. You must not forget that.

You can be patient. You will be patient. You will give him as much time as he needs.

Not that Astarion is making this easy for you. Certainly not with the way he grins his roguish grin, nor the way he wiggles his fingers as he reaches a hand to you, coaxing you down from the platform.

Maybe patience is not so necessary after all.

But surely there are important conversations to be had, which you very much want to have, and surely a night of sweet kisses and cuddles would be a good place to start, the perfect place to start, even, no matter how much you want to—

Oh. A hard pull, an audible gasp, and you are flush against Astarion. His intense stare is holding you in place just as much as his hands on your hips are.

“What’s that look for, my dear?”

“What look?”

“That mind-going-a-hundred-miles-a-minute look. We’re not overthinking now, are we?”

“No.” It's a weak attempt at denial, and you know it. “All right, maybe a little.”

“A little, she says? Just a little? Well, even if that were true, I’m afraid even a little is simply unacceptable, sweet love. Not when I’ve got you like this. Whatever shall I do with the likes of you?”

His hands shift upwards, every bit eager as they sweep along the curve of your waist, every bit assured as they cup your face. In his eyes you see your whole world spinning, and your mind continues its endless spinning along with it.

“Well, darling. I suppose then I’ll just have to kiss”—a brush of his lips—“you”—so plush and perfect against yours—“senseless.”

There is an urgency to the way he kisses you now, to how his tongue tastes and his teeth tease, and it makes you drunk with desire you have too long denied. You match his every insistent press against your lips, the need blooming between you escalating into a feverish frenzy. Your mind is indeed rendered senseless—but your body is awash with sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, leaves you breathless and boneless, but still wanting more. And more is exactly what he gives you as he kisses a trail along your jaw. To your neck, perhaps? No, to your ear, and you giggle when he nibbles at your lobe.

He whispers, "Come upstairs with me?"

As if there were any chance you would say no to him now. "Yes."

And yet he makes no moves to whisk you away. Instead he pulls you back into the blistering heat of his kiss, his apparent haste to have you making you doubt whether you will even make it up to his quarters at all. His every impatient touch has you envisioning how he might take you—bent over his worktable, or pushed against the dressing room wall, or laid out on the floor, anywhere, everywhere—until, oh, he is tugging loose the ties at your back.

It is all suddenly a bit too much. A bit too fast. A bit too real.

Is he actually truly ready for this?

Astarion instantly senses the change in you, moving back, but keeping close. And even though he is calm and composed, and gives you a kind smile, you cannot help but feel that this precious moment is in ruins, and the reason is you. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, my love. Always so full of apologies even when there is no need for them. How about we go upstairs, make ourselves comfortable—change back into your everyday clothes first if that would suit you better—and we'll sit and have a chat, hm?"

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "That sounds wonderful. Truly."

"Good," he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms. "Off you go, then. I'll be waiting right here."

You make your way inside, glancing at your flustered face in the mirror before you slip out of your gown, your worries creeping their way back into your frazzled mind.

Where did it all go wrong?

To connect through touch is something you want desperately. And, by now, you are almost entirely sure Astarion wants to share in that with you, too. But therein lies the problem: almost isn't enough, is it?

What if he is only doing this because he thinks it will please you?

And how can you be sure when you hardly know how to be sure of anything?

Part of you still feels ashamed for lusting over him, knowing all that you know. The other part of you just feels ridiculous—here you are, pulling on layer after layer of clothing, when every indication suggests he wants to get you naked before the night is through.

You analyze every moment you've shared tonight, searching for even the slightest of signs that this is all just a performance.

Yet you find none.

Maybe the best thing to do is to just trust him. Trust him to make his own choices, to decide his own limits, to navigate all of this together with you.

After all, if you are sure of only one thing in this world, it is that Astarion loves you.

You gather the hem of your dress into your hands one last time before you leave it behind, tracing over every line and every loop of his embroidered message, committing those beautiful words to memory. It is exactly what you need to bring a smile back to your face.

And, when you finally step out of the dressing room, Astarion matches that smile the moment he sees you.

The two of you walk hand in hand into the back room and up, up, up the stairs, your anxious anticipation growing with every single step you take.

"I'd tell you I'd give you the grand tour, but I'm afraid my home is far too humble for that," he remarks, and for the first time tonight, you notice a bit of a shake to his laughter, an irregular height to its pitch.

And here you thought that the only nervous one was you.

What if that means—

No, you'd better not worry what that means.

No matter what happens, you will be here for him as he is here for you.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it's perfect. And I'd take a nice, cozy, humble home over a palace any day."

"I might not have always agreed with that sentiment, but now?" Reaching the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses long enough to smirk at you before twisting the knob. "I find that I do."

You step inside, taking in as much of the surrounding space as you can. The only light emanates from the fireplace, its flickering flames casting a sensual glow across the room. The open layout is typical of city merchants' quarters—no walls needlessly taking up the already limited space—a sitting area on one side, a small disused kitchen on the other. A pair of strategically placed dividers offers some sense of separation, and behind them—oh, yes, that is most definitely his bed.

Best not to linger too long on that thought.

Although you do make a mental note that it is big enough for two.

Taking both your hands in his this time, Astarion pulls you towards the loveseat in front of the fire, playfully pushing you into its comfy cushions and planting a single kiss upon your lips that you hope is a promise for many more.

He does not yet take his place at your side, however, instead lighting a candle on the coffee table—and it is then you study the scene before you.

A now-lit candle. A vase home to a single blush-pink rose. Two goblets and a bottle of your favourite red wine. A spread that is romantic. Meticulous. Premeditated.

You let out a chortle.

"What?" Astarion asks, eyes narrowed, but lips curved into an unmistakable smile.

"It's just so"—a bigger, brighter laugh bursts out of you—"so obvious."

"Obvious? Obvious?" He tosses his head to one side as he scoffs. "Are you really only realizing this now? Darling, I have been obvious this entire time. You, on the other hand, have been hopelessly oblivious."

And, in retrospect, you can admit that it's true what he says. The evidence was everywhere, even if you could not, would not, thought you should not believe any of it.

But you do now.

He settles next to you on the loveseat, warmth rushing to your cheeks at his sudden nearness. His fingers, cold to the touch though they are as they interlock with yours, do nothing to cool you. No, if anything, they have quite the opposite effect; the whole of you hot and molten beside him.

"Tell me, love," he begins, the purr in his voice and the mischief in his grin telling you he intends to use every ounce of his charisma to its fullest extent. "Should I have serenaded you with song? Recited to you a sonnet? Scattered a trail of rose petals from your door straight to my bed?"

"Maybe, though it's not too late," you suggest. "If you would like to regale me with music and poetry, I won't complain."

"Oh, my dear. I wouldn't be quite so sure of that. I am a man of many talents, yes, but I'm no bard. Although, if the result is hearing you laugh again, then it might still be worth a try."

You grin. "Then try."

Astarion clears his throat dramatically, and with his back tall and straight, and his nose held high in the air, he starts to speak.

You cannot even begin to take him seriously.

"Your skin so sweet and lips divine, / your blood the most delicious wine. / Each precious bite is my delight; / so let me make you mine tonight."

"You're ridiculous," you say—but you are indeed laughing.

"Why thank you, darling," he says, lowering his head in a mock bow. "Ridiculously eloquent, I hope? Or ridiculously charming? Ridiculously good-looking, at least?"

"Just ridiculous."

He gasps. "Oh, how you wound me. And here I was, professing my profound affection."

"It sounded more like you just want to eat me."

"Maybe I do want to eat you"—he leans in enticingly close—"in every sense of the word."

There is no mistaking his meaning now, is there?

You want this—you can feel it in pounding heart, and your weakened limbs, and your aching core—you want, you want, you want.

And yet you fear. Fear falling back into the dark depths of doubt, panic dragging you deeper, deeper, deeper down until you're drowning.

But you do not fall for it is Astarion's hands that keep you safe on solid ground.

"Oh, my sweet, lovely, darling girl."

And it is not only his hands, but his voice that soothes, and his eyes that blaze with such fierce certainty that you wonder how you could have ever failed to see just how much he cherishes you.

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you."

How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve.

That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are now in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is.

Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect.

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak.

And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean—

"And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I want to explore anything and everything that loving you means."

Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility.

And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality.

Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves.

You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he.

And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter.

His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire.

This is really going to happen, isn't it?

"And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

Oh. You stare in stunned silence, mouth agape, as you process the filth you just heard: his lust stated so exquisitely explicitly that you long to press into the hardness you know you will find there, kiss him wildly, pleasure him endlessly.

And that, you decide, is exactly what you will do.

But your affection is too soft and too shy to plunge any deeper without testing the waters first. You kiss him once, then twice, then again and again and again, tentative touches turning tender then teasing as your courage grows. Astarion welcomes it all, wants more of it all, urging you to take this further in all the ways he can: pulling you closer, holding you tighter, kissing you harder. When at last your hips begin to undulate against his, he matches your rhythm, eager for you to feel the full length of him against your wet and wanting core.

With shaking hands you unfasten the singular clasp that had been holding his vest closed. That ever anxious part of you waits a moment for his objection, expects it, dreads it—but it doesn't come. Instead he only gives you his gentle encouragement.

"Go on, love. Undress me. Touch me."

You nod and you smile. Yes, there is anxiety in your anticipation, but so is there desire that drives you, and elation that thrills you, and such deep, overwhelming love for the man before you that how could you not want to devote yourself to pampering him?

Button by button you work your way down his shirt, exposing more and more of him until every fastening is undone. You examine the hard planes of his chest, first with eyes and then with hands, delighting in the way his smooth skin and firm muscle feel beneath your palms. He purrs his approval, rocking his hips against yours with such abandon that you curse your clothes for preventing him from pushing inside you.

Your fingers trail downwards, delicate but daring as they dance towards their destination. When at last you reach to undo his trousers, your eyes dart up to his, one last search for any sign he doesn't want this—but the look he gives you, part lust, part unwavering, undying trust, tells you what deep down you already know.

And it is all the permission you need.

Your attention returns to where he wants it to be. The sight of him, his arousal straining against fabric in his desperation for you, intensifies the throbbing between your own thighs. And so, with eager hands, you set him free.

You know his body well. Studied him with all of your senses. Learned how to glide and twist him into a whimpering mess with only a hand. And yet, practiced as you are in his pleasure, you cannot help the gasp that escapes your throat when you finally set eyes on his cock. To see him so riled and ready, to know it is all because of you—it fills you with awe, and with pride, and with overwhelming desire to put all you have learned to good use.

You start with a stroke of the hand, sliding up and sliding down his shaft, pulling the sweetest of sighs from his lips. Oh, how you love it when he is needy like this, hips moving in time with your every repeated motion. You keep touching him and teasing him, hand gliding up and down and up and down, thumb sweeping across the milky bead gathered at the tip.

But what you really want is a taste.

You lean forward for a kiss—only a fleeting peck, nothing more—and, if the way he huffs and pouts is any indication, it isn't enough. But you have quite a different use for your mouth in mind, don't you? You withdraw your hand, and he opens his mouth in protest, but no words come—for by now he is wide-eyed and mesmerized as you lick your thumb clean, savouring his salty taste. You lower yourself to your knees.

"May I?" you ask, smiling slyly up at him.

"Oh, my love. There are few sights so delightful as your lips wrapped around my cock."

His lewd words bring fresh heat to your cheeks, and he laughs.

"Hmm, I must say that flustered look of yours does have its appeal, too," he says, and you try to maintain your composure as you grab one of the little couch cushions, settling it comfortably beneath your knees. "Especially when it means you're imagining me inside you."

Oh, that unabashedly wicked, aggravatingly arrogant, adorably lovable man. The advantage might be his now, but he won't be the one holding it for long.

"And," he continues, growing more smug by the second, "come to think of it, there are many, many positions that suit you just as beautifully. Like when—"

The words die in his throat as you lick a languid stripe along his length, earning from him a low, pleasured groan. The sound pleases you immensely. But what a shame it would be if he were to leave his filthiest fantasies unspoken.

If he loves to tease you so, then why should you not do the same?

You run your tongue all over him: exploring every inch, tracing every vein, flicking against the tip, but never quite taking him into your mouth. When you have him whimpering the way you like, you pause just long enough to prompt him to say what he failed to before: "Like when…?"

"When— gods—"

Oh dear, it seems language is lost to him again the very moment your lips close around him. You bask in your triumph, sucking him and swishing him with your tongue, watching the way he watches you. And though at times his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back, his gaze always finds its way back to you.

You keep working him, using your hands to pump him and play with him as your mouth performs its magic, rediscovering all the little things that drive him wild. It feels good to make him feel good. It feels even better knowing how much he truly desires this.

"You want to know what I like best of all?" he manages, eventually, his tone dark and throaty; you hum your enthusiastic assent, and the vibration of it sends a shudder through him.

But the words he says send a shudder through you.

"The sight of you lying utterly helpless beneath me."

Oh. Well. You do love this—relishing his pleasure as you bob your head along his length—but you very much love that, too. You remember well how it felt. How letting him have his way with you could awaken either of his extremes. The vampire at his most feral, or the man underneath, a secret softness reserved only for you.

When all was done between you, you used to worry those tenderest moments were only part of his act. But maybe you were wrong.

Maybe they were always real.

"I've been thinking about you"—you ache more and more for your own satisfaction now though you never stop giving him his—"fantasizing about you ever since that night at the party. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my own bed."

And you know at once his bed is soon to be your destination when he leans forward to give you a gentle nudge. You still, letting him slide out of your mouth with a wet pop.

"And, my love," he whispers into your ear, "I intend to find out. Now."

Far be it from you to deny this beautiful man anything he wants.

Astarion rises to his feet, shrugging off his open shirt and pushing off his trousers. To see him like this, so gorgeously and gloriously nude, leaves you speechless.

"Well, darling?" he says, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "I assure you you'll have much more fun without your clothes."

Needing no further encouragement, you start to disrobe—but your pace is found wanting and Astarion is all out of patience. He steps forward, tugging and tearing at your layers, eager for you to join him in his state of undress. Sure enough you hear a button clack against the floor, fallen victim to his reckless haste.

"Careful!" you insist, but really, you're more amused than annoyed.

Not to mention aroused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear. I'll fix that right up for you."

"You'd better."

"Of course. I'm your personal tailor for life now."

For life. This really is it for you, isn't it? You are his, and he is yours, and for however long you both walk this realm, you will spend your days and your nights together.

You wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would he.

When at last you are beaming and bare before him, Astarion takes a step back for a better look at you.

He stares.

And then he strikes.

You are swept into his arms, into his passion, barely conscious of anything but the feel of skin against skin and lips against lips—though it is abundantly clear he is a man on a mission. He pulls you along in his mad shuffle to reach the bed, sacrificing finesse to gain speed, unable to wait a second longer than necessary to have you.

And indeed he wastes no time in lifting you onto the mattress and pushing you flat on your back beneath him.

"Finally," he growls and he grins, and you're already there bucking on the bed before he has even touched you where you need him. "Finally I have you right where I want you. Right where you belong here in my bed. Right here with me."

The thought of this one day becoming your bed—your home—thrills you almost as much as his impatient touches do.

But, as eager as he is, he still recalls exactly how to excite you. Still gives ample attention to all those places most sensitive and secret. Still treats your body like his sanctuary—a sacred thing to be revered, to be relished, to be worshipped.

And, as he settles between your thighs, you know the pleasure he'll, oh, so willingly provide will be nothing short of divine.

He starts with a single lick—one long and languid glide along your slit—and already, all at once, it's too much, and it's not enough, and it's the most wonderfully perfect sensation you have ever known. It pulls from you a shake and a cry, and in turn, a soft laugh from him as he takes pride in his ability to please you. He licks you a second time, and then a third, and again, and again, until his tongue is lapping at you with a steady fervency.

The bliss he brings you is better than you remember. Countless times you tried to relive your memories—desperate to return to him, if only in daydreams—but your fingers always paled in comparison to the way his tongue dips inside your cunt and flicks against your clit.

Although maybe it is better than ever now that you know he loves you.

You grasp for his hand and he grabs it gladly.

And he certainly knows how to work you well. You writhe about, your moans mewling and wanton, your body wanting more, more, more. The pleasure you crave is close now. You glance at your lover—mussed up curls and pink-tipped ears, his attention focused wholly upon your undoing—and to know that Astarion is the one making you feel this way intensifies the heat coiling in your centre.

A little more is all it will take. You ready yourself for it, your grip tightening, your limbs trembling, your feet bracing against his shoulders. And, when he tongues you with the quick, precise flicks you like best, you yield, wave after wave of pleasure crashing into you. Astarion does not relent, continuing to devour you until you are thoroughly sated and spent.

You lie there, panting hard, basking in the pleasant tingle that still lingers in the aftermath of your orgasm. Gods, you haven't felt this good in ages. And, from the smug smile that begins to spread across his face, it seems he knows it, too.

"Well," Astarion says, licking his lips as he sits up. "You look positively wrecked, darling. And all because of me. You want more, don't you?"

Such self-satisfied bravado. Not that it stops your core from clenching at his suggestion. Nor do you deny him when he shifts over you, cock gliding along your swollen folds, ready to push inside.

Oh, you want more very, very badly.

And so you invite him in. "Yes."

Slowly Astarion sinks into your sex until he is buried to the hilt. A perfect fit. You did always take him exceptionally well. He pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in, coaxing gasps and moans out of you, ensuring you feel each and every inch of him as he makes love to you.

And it is love, this time. Love that underlies the lust in his eyes. Love that fuels the languorous rhythm of his hips. Love that urges him to lavish you with little kisses.

You return his love in every way you can: touching, holding, caressing, kissing, enjoying all that is nostalgic and all that is new. You roll your hips. You cry his name. Surely the extent of your adoration is made abundantly clear—but, if by any chance all this isn't enough, you sing it out loud: "I love you!"

He lets out a laugh, a soft and elated little sound. "I love you, too."

But, for all his sweetness, so is there carnality, frantic and feral and finally free. He thrusts harder, moves faster, pours all of his passion into every motion he makes. Of course you are more than happy to allow him this indulgence. The addictive friction, the lewd noises of bodies colliding, the delight of being filled so completely—every intoxicating detail feeds that familiar heat building within you.

Sensing your impending release, Astarion lifts his head from where it had been nestled in your neck and draws back just far enough to reach a hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. You imagine you must be quite a sight—all shivering and squirming under him as you begin your surrender to bliss—but his stare is locked only upon your eyes.

And it is then that you lose yourself to the euphoria he gives you. Then, that your walls clench around him; then, that you let out a keening cry; then, that pleasure radiates from your core to every extremity of your body. And where you go, Astarion is quick to follow, groaning as he empties himself inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you pull him into a tight embrace, vowing you will never, ever let him go again.

You missed him so much. Love him so much. And, to be with him like this, so close and connected, makes you feel that all is finally right in this world.

A comfortable and contented silence falls between you.

Until it breaks.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you before."

His words hang heavy in the air as panic takes hold. What if this was too much, what if this was too fast, what if he did not want any of this at all?

But then, when you feel like you might never catch your breath again, he takes your face into his hands and grins devilishly. "What I really like best of all is that I can take a single glance at you and tell just hopelessly in love with me you are."

Oh, that infuriating and wonderful man.

"Don't scare me like that!" you say, scolding him. But, despite his foolishness—maybe because of his foolishness if you're really being honest with yourself—you lunge forward for a kiss. Then another. And another.

When your lips breaks apart, and his eyes are again heavy-lidded with lust, he makes his suggestion: "Perhaps I might… find some way to make it up to you?"

You think a moment. And then you grin. "Why, yes, I do happen to have one idea in mind. About the ball… be my plus one?"

He does not roll his eyes, nor does he complain of the tedium he'd have to endure, nor does he make any attempt at denying you. He answers only with a soft smile and a single word.

"Always."

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @zozoparsnips, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk (join tag list for future fics here!)

Thank you so much for reading!

Special Note: This will be a series on AO3 as well, plus all entries will be crossposted here on Tumblr!

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#astarion smut #tailor astarion #astarion x reader #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #astarion #bg3 astarion #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x female reader #bg3 #bg3 fic #bg3 smut #my writing #my fics #a fitting reunion

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renren-006 · 4 months ago

Text

Familiar Eyes | Lucius Verus x fem reader

plot: eyes will look familiar when they belong to your best friend.

a/n: ahhh im obsesed!! I can't stop watching edits of Paul Mescal!!! I just had to write something for him. I also have another story idea I'm playing with for him as well! Let me know if you have any ideas for more Lucius stories!!

Word count: 2136

You sat in the emperor's box, watching the gladiators in the pits with curious eyes. Geta and Callicalla both sat in front of you, turning to see your expression every once in a while. They were both playing the game of waiting for you to grow yourself at them. You were playing the game of waiting till their deaths to celebrate. You wanted nothing to do with either emperor. You only wanted to sit and watch till it was time for you to take your leave. Lucille cast you a look of subtle remorse for the role you were thrown into, and you returned it with a small smile. You had known the woman for so many years, when you were younger you were her son's favorite friend. Lucius’s disappearance cast a hole in your heart and soul that could never be filled by anyone; your love for him lasted all these years and forever will.

Your eyes again focused on the arena, already cleared of bodies and resetting for the next fight. The announcer's loud voice boomed through the Coliseum, causing an uproar from the spectators. Awaiting the next game was always torture, anticipating who or what would fight.

When those doors opened and out came the group of gladiators, but one, in particular, fought your eye. A man with brown hair and the bluest eyes caught your attention. When he made eye contact, a sense of familiarity warmed your heart. He looked away almost as fast, leaning down to grab at the sandy gravel. You remember from your youth a particular gladiator used to do the same.

It couldn’t be him, could it?

The question swarmed your mind as you watched the man before you fight. It was mesmerizing watching him move around the arena; it was an art. How he moved around the arena reminded you of the boy you used to watch play “gladiator” with his guards. He would always have you watch and clap when he had won, always smiling brightly when you sang him praise. As you watched him, the realization shone through your eyes; Lucius was the gladiator. You wanted to scream, to run into that pit and throw your arms over that boy you loved and thought lost. You looked to Lucilla whose face was unreadable and calculating, she too was watching Lucius. When the game was over, and he and a few of his men won, you knew you had to wait and be careful before you ran to see him.

It wasn't until late in the evening when you rode our horse over with one of your guards and snuck inside the gladiator's cells and training grounds. You watched some of the men in the late hours training, and a few stopped and stared as you passed through the halls through the cell you were told Lucius was in. As the door opened, you saw the man sitting facing away from you.

“To go from the boy who played gladiator with his guards to being one in the Collosiem is quite a jump,” you said, causing Lucius to slowly turn, “or have I mistaken you for my best friend?”

“You have the wrong person,” he said; the hurt look in his eyes told you enough. The man in front of you was not him, not anymore. Lucius was a diffrent person.

“Ah. Seems I am wrong,” you said, stepping back and slowly turning to be able to tell the guards to let you out. A hand came up and took your wrist lightly. You jumped slightly.

“Your best friend…the one you thought I was…why did you think I was him?” he asked.

“When I looked in your eyes, you made me feel like I was looking at him. My heart felt whole again.” you told him, “Sorry to have bothered you, gladiator.” His hold on you loosened, and your hand slipped out when you left his cell. You didn't turn to see if he was still watching, but the feeling you got told you he was.

The next time you saw Lucius was the next round of gladiator fights he was to partake in. Another group battle was to commence. Watching Lucius, you could see there was a fire in him today. He glanced at at the box to see you, you tried your best to hide your gaze but it failed. Lucius gritted his teeth and looked back to fight.

“Seems that Gladiator has an attitude today,” spoke Geta, “I hope it foils his game”

“I hope he proves you wrong,” you said. Geta's eyes met yours, and fury was in them. His face folded into anger.

“How dare you speak to me that way. We have done you favors, making you a woman of high status,” Geta said, “Would you like that to be changed?” “It seems I spoke without thinking; truly, I am at your mercy,” you spoke, bowing your head toward the emperor. You knew your mouth would get you in trouble one day. These emperors tested you constantly, and the game you played was tiresome. Geta and Callicalla expected things from you, but you never gave in. Their feelings of annoyance were always made clear to you about this affair.

“Sit,” he spoke. “We shall not rid you of your status today,” Calicalla said from his chair. The man was relaxed in his chair with that pet monkey he loved. Geta sat down, letting the words of his brother flow over him. You bowed your head again before looking back towards the fight. Lucius caught your eye. He had seen the spectacle. A small smirk appeared on his face, one matching that same boy from the courtyard. You smiled slightly, this boy has a history untold to you making him difficult to understand. You were desperate to understand.

You revisited him a few nights after his battle. He was waiting for you this time. Lucius sat on his bed, watching the door with intensity. When you entered, it was clear he wanted you there.

“I was waiting for you to come,” he told you.

“I can see that. I tried to come sooner, but…had to play the role I am stuck in,” you told him. He scooted over in his bed. You took that as an invitation to sit next to him. Your blue dress flowed around you as you did.

“I see,” he said. You both sat in silence. Lucius nervously played with his hands, something he never grew out of.

“I have to know; you are Lucius, right?” You asked him, eyeing him hopefully. Lucius nodded.

“I am”

“Why lie to me?”

“I am not the same boy you knew, y/n,” He told you. You laughed a bit and smiled at him.

“You think I would care if you were? You were gone for almost 20 years, Lucius. I should not expect you to be the same. I know I am not”

“You are a woman of status now,” he said. You nodded your head.

“Underneath, I am still the same,” you told him. “I hate this role I was shoved into”

“What happened when I left?” he asked you.

“Rome was in disarray for so long, they still are. No one truly likes the emperors, and they are too blind to see the hate people have for them.” You told him, “I was still working in the palace when they came into power. For some reason, they wanted me, so they gave me a higher status, a ploy for me to…marry one of them,” you spoke slowly, looking up a few times. Lucious had his hands in his lap, fiddling. It was enough for Lucious to understand that there was a game at play with the gladiators and in Rome.

“Have you?”

“No” you spoke fast, meeting Lucius eyes.

“The emperors are not happy about that.” The open-endedness of his statement answered itself. Lucius had always been a smart boy. Even when his uncle played emperor in his palace, he could see through it all. Rome had always been home to a game, not the gladiatorial games, which was worse.

Lucius started calling on you throughout the week. You would enter the gladiator's home and walk with him, watch him train, or even sit with him and talk. You knew these meetings would get to the emperors sooner or later, and with what was conspiring behind closed doors, you knew it was sooner. Lucius was informed by his mother of the plan she and Acacius were planning. He didn't particularly like the man, but seeing how happy her mother was with him, he let his hatred die. He never would tell you that a part of him was also less hateful because he had found you again.

It became apparent the word of your meetings had spread to the emperor's ears. The tretory of your betrayal to the emperor's hearts while the tretory of two others came to light the same night. You stood in their halls in your evening gown, feeling as though you wore nothing. Acacius and Lucilla stood in the halls, too.

“You have betrayed your emperors,” Geta yelled, “You have betrayed our hearts,” He yelled at you as he grabbed your hair. A shrill cry left your mouth. “Do you love this gladiator? Hm? Should I make a show of his death for you”

“No! Please!” you spoke. Geta sparked a plan brewing.

“When I make a show of your treasuries, I shall put this…whore…on display as well. Show these gladiators never to mess with what is mine”

You stood on the balcony with the emperors, your hands bound, and a giant bruise was forming on your cheek. They had not done too much, but the show of your night clothes, a bruise, and unkept hair was enough for the people of Rome to know something had happened. Next to you stood Lucilla, a similar unkept state about her.

“Today! We have some traitors in our mist!” In the pits was Acacius. You watched as he fought and as Lucius entered the pits. He saw his mother, and he saw you. When you made eye contact, Geta grabbed your face.

“In horror of the betrayal of Acacius and the lover to my betrothed. Fight to the death.” Lucius was furious and wanted revenge on Acacius for his actions in Numdia. You watched as they fought; he was angry.

“Do you see now why you should have kept your promise” Calliclla spoke. You looked at him with hatred in your eyes.

“I will never be with you or your brother,” You told him. The slap rang in your ears and turned the heads of others. Lucius and Acacius both stopped and looked at the emperor's box. Lucius stepped twords the box.

“No,” you said to him; Callicalla didn't like this. He took your face in his hands and made you look at him. You wished your life at come to this moment.

“Let her go” Lucius yelled twords the box.

“Back to your game, gladiator. Kill the general, and all will end for today,” Geta told him. When Lucius refused to end the general's life, his was taken anyway. You watched as the crowd took uproar at the action. A small smirk played on your lips.

“You think my hate for you is small,” you told Callicalla. “Try Romes hate.” You were let go when the mob started their terror in the stands. The Romans disrupted so much that you managed to be forgotten about and were released. You ran down to the gladiators, many letting you pass so you could get to Lucius. He turned in the hallway as he heard your footsteps. When you saw him face you, he started walking towards you, picking you up in his arms and holding you tight.

“I will never let you go again” He spoke softly to you.

When all was done in Rome, you could finally rest. Sleep came easy to you next to Lucius in his mother's home. A new room and bed to accommodate the older prince. You were brought to his home and welcomed warmly by the others. You were no longer the mistress of the emperors but the wife of the Prince of Rome, your true love. You lay next to him, watching the stars through the window.

“Awake are we?” Lucius asked.

“How am I to sleep when you are here, home, next to me,” you spoke to him, smiling. Lucus met the smile with a kiss.

“Sleep my love,” he told you, “I will be here when you wake”

#lucius verus x reader #lucius verus #lucius versus x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #paul mescal #gladiator movie #lucius verus aurelius #lucius verus x you #lucius verus fanfiction #gladiator x reader

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downbad4sylus · 4 months ago

Text

“This mark is different”

(part 3 to “I killed you”)

synopsis: You and Sylus return to the base from the field of flowers where he shows you his horns.

content: NSFW; 18+ MDNI; smut with some plot; sylus x afab!reader; reader is MC; use of Y/N; soft!sylus; virgin!sylus (i am of the opinion that sylus wouldn’t so much as breathe near another woman who isn’t MC); virgin!reader; kissing; oral (fem receiving); p in v; soft sex; slightly rough sex; no protection (wrap it up kids); multiple orgasms; idk if this counts as monster fucking but sylus has horns and a tail; mostly proofread

word count: ~3.5k

tags: @travelerth; @midiplier; @satansdaughter123; @bookfreakk

a/n: massive thank you once again to everyone who’s read, liked, and reblogged parts 1 and 2, i genuinely can’t express how happy it makes me that so many of you have enjoyed these little stories :’) anywaayyy, in honor of the new banner and all the new spicy content (bless our game developer overlords) here is part 3 where things between you and Sylus get a little spiicccyyyy

Okay, so when Sylus asked if you wanted to go back to the base and see his horns, you might have taken him a little too literally.

What you thought was him innocently taking you to his bedroom—warning the twins on your way that he still didn’t want to be bothered—turned out to be far from that.

Which was how you found yourself currently pinned beneath him on his bed, tongues tangling and lungs screaming for air, no horns in sight. Or tail. Or wings.

You lightly pounded a fist against his chest. “Sylus…I need…to breathe…”

Sylus was loath to part from you, but did so regardless, taking the opportunity to marvel at the sight of you before him. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, chest heaving. You were beautiful, perfect, and his.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked, making sure he had your consent before he continued.

You bit your lip, and he nearly lost control then and there. How many times did he have to tell you to stop doing that?

“How far are we going?” you asked softly.

“As far as you want, sweetie,” Sylus assured. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

“I, um, haven’t really done anything before,” you confessed, turning your face away so you didn’t have to look at him.

Sure, you had a few boyfriends throughout the years but you’d never had more than a heated makeout session, it was usually the reason why those relationships ended. You weren’t a prude or anything, you were just saving yourself for when someone really special came along. Or maybe you’d unknowingly been waiting for Sylus to come along.

Sylus pinched your chin and forced your eyes back to his. “Me neither.”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’d never give myself to anyone but you.” He released your chin in favor of dragging a finger down your neck before wrapping his hand around it, careful not to choke you. “I do, however, have a very good memory.”

Your heart thundered in your chest. You wanted him. You needed him. And most importantly, you trusted him.

“Okay,” you breathed.

“Okay what, sweetie? I need you to tell me exactly what you want,” Sylus said, his thumb rubbing soothingly along the length of your neck.

“I want you, Sylus, all of you,” you said. “I want you to make me feel good.”

“Oh, Y/N, I’ll do so much better than that.”

He released your neck, trailing his large hand over your chest and down your stomach until his fingers teased the hem of your shirt.

“May I?” he asked.

You nodded. “But I get to take off yours next.”

Sylus chuckled. “Are you trying to make a deal with me right now?”

You nodded again, smiling. “For every one thing you strip off of me, I get to strip something off of you.”

His ruby-red eyes sparkled. “And those are your terms?”

“Those are my terms.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

You eagerly sat up and held your arms above your head. Sylus huffed, clearly amused by your enthusiasm, and gripped the bottom of your shirt in both his hands. In one smooth motion, he removed it, tossing it aside as his gaze roved hungrily over your now-bare skin.

When you reached for his shirt, intent on running your hands all over his delicious abs, you suddenly found yourself back against the mattress, wrists pinned to the pillows.

You blinked to find Sylus hovering above you sporting a positively wicked smile.

“Sylus! What are you doing?” you exclaimed, fighting to free your wrists.

He cocked his head. “You never said when you got to rid me of my clothes,” he drawled in that infuriatingly smug tone of his. “You need to be more specific when setting your terms, sweetie.”

Your mouth popped open. This was what you got for trying to make a deal with the King of Deals himself.

“Now, let’s get rid of this next,” he mused, trailing his fingertips along the underwire of your bra.

“How are you—“

Black-red mist enveloped your bra, tickling the skin underneath. It took only a moment for Sylus’s Evol to make quick work of it, the undergarment reduced to black and red specks of dust, leaving your upper half fully exposed.

Sylus’s pupils dilated as his hand gently cupped your breast, and you whimpered when his thumb brushed over your nipple.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “And all mine.”

He was barely touching you yet your core had already gone molten and was beginning to throb with need. You needed more of him, his hands, his lips, his tongue, his co—

A jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core, tearing a loud moan from your lips as Sylus closed his own over your neglected nipple. He continued, tongue laving and teeth biting until he switched to your other breast, giving it an equal amount of attention.

You were panting by the time he lifted his head with a quiet smack of his lips.

But Sylus was far from finished.

He kissed his way up to your neck, where he licked and sucked at your sensitive skin. You wanted to touch him, thread your fingers through his hair but he still had your wrists pinned firmly above your head with seemingly no intention of releasing them.

You cried out, your back arching as Sylus sunk his teeth into your neck.

“This mark is different,” he breathed, lapping his tongue over it to soothe the sting. “This time, I want to count how many times I can make you come before it fades.”

“Fuck Sy,” you groaned.

He trailed down again until he reached the waistband of your pants. He looked at you, one brow raised, silently asking for your consent. You nodded, straining against his hold on your wrists, desperate to bury your hands in his hair.

You nearly cried with relief when he finally removed his hand, only to have your wrists bound by his Evol instead.

“Sylus,” you whined.

He chuckled. “Be a good girl and let me have my fun first,” he said. “You’re the one who asked me to make you feel good.”

“Then stop teasing me already!”

“Mmm, very well.”

Sylus yanked off your pants, leaving you in just your underwear, which were soaked through by this point. He made quick work taking them off as well, groaning at the sight of you finally naked before him.

“So, so beautiful,” he murmured reverently as he reached out, brushing his thumb over your clit. Your hips bucked at the contact, and it was all the reaction Sylus needed before descending on you like a man starved.

Spreading your legs wide, Sylus licked your slick entrance, moaning at the taste of you on his tongue. Your back bowed off the bed, crying out in pleasure as he focused his efforts on your throbbing clit. He slung an arm across your waist and pushed you back down, keeping you locked in place, unable to escape the pleasure he was so eager to give you.

His unoccupied hand ghosted along your inner thigh, growing closer and closer to where his mouth was, until he reached your entrance and slipped a finger inside.

You moaned. “Please Sy,” you begged him. “Please let me touch you.”

Without parting from your core, Sylus’s Evol dissipated from your wrists, freeing you at last. Your hands immediately went to his head, burying your fingers in his hair.

Release tingled down your spine, the tension poised to snap. When Sylus added a second finger he nearly undid you then and there.

You grip his hair harder, moving your hips as much as his iron grip would allow, riding his face.

“Sylus,” you panted. “Sylus I’m gonna—ah.”

“Go ahead, sweetie,” Sylus said gruffly. “Come for me.”

And you did, the tension exploding as you came all over his mouth and fingers. He continued to lick and suck, his fingers pumping in and out while you rode out your high, stopping only when your body went limp beneath him.

“That’s one,” Sylus said proudly, straightening as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

You stared at the slick covering his fingers, transfixed by the way it shined in the light. Sylus noticed.

“Want a taste for yourself?” he asked.

Heat flooded your cheeks but when your eyes met his, you nodded.

“Open,” he commanded. You obeyed and Sylus slid his fingers inside your mouth. When you closed your lips around them he said, “Now suck.”

You couldn’t feel any embarrassment you were so turned on, tasting yourself as you licked and sucked Sylus’s fingers clean.

“Good girl,” Sylus purred as his withdrew his fingers. “Would you like to uphold your end of our deal now?”

You pounced on him, almost knocking you both off the bed. You tore at Sylus’s shirt, bunching it up over his torso before ripping it off his head. Without stopping to admire his physique, you rose on your knees, positioned on either side of his legs, and unbuckled his belt. The bulge in his pants made your mouth water and you wanted nothing more than to wrap your hands around his cock and wring as much pleasure out from him as he did you.

“Lift your hips,” you told Sylus.

He raised them, his chest heaving with anticipation as he watched you. You hurriedly popped the button and pulled the zipper down, then with all your might, grabbed the waistband of his pants and underwear and yanked.

Sylus’s hard cock slapped against his abdomen and you nearly abandoned undressing him at the sight of it. He was long and thick, precum leaking from his slit and onto his stomach. You wanted to touch it, taste it, feel it inside of you.

“Don’t stop now, kitten,” Sylus encouraged, his voice breathless. “You can’t leave my pants like this.”

You blinked, realizing you’d be staring at his cock, hands still gripped tight on his pants, which were only halfway down his thighs. You mumbled an apology and managed to finish stripping him, tossing his clothes aside onto the floor somewhere.

Sylus groaned as your hand wrapped around the base of his cock. “Kitten,” he panted. You dragged your hand up his length, gathering the precum at the tip before running it back down. “Hah—ah, that feels so good.”

But Sylus grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

You pouted. “I want to make you feel good too.”

He smirked. “You can do that some other time, right now, I need to be inside you.”

Sylus sat up, putting you at eye level.

Your breath caught. He was so beautiful, with his sharp, chiseled features, but what really took your breath away was the look in his eyes. He looked at you like you held his entire world in your hands. Like you were the only light shining in a life otherwise shrouded in darkness. You loved this man, and it was so heart achingly clear he loved you too.

Sylus cupped your cheek and ran his thumb over your bottom lip. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I’ve never been so sure about anything before,” you answered him with a smile. “I love you, Sylus.”

He smiled too, a real smile, not anything like his smug ones. “I love you too, Y/N.”

He kissed you, lips pressing softly on yours. It was slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world to just enjoy each other. Even when your tongues met, you didn’t rush, Sylus gently pushing you down onto the mattress.

He drew back when his cock teased your entrance. “I’m going to go slow, okay? If it hurts or you need me to stop, just let me know.”

Your hands flew up to his face. “Sylus wait.”

He didn’t move a muscle.

“You said I could see your horns.”

Sylus faltered. “Sweetie, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

You shook your head. “No, I want to see them, Sy, and your wings and tail. I said I wanted all of you and I meant all of you.”

Sylus’s heart thundered in his chest, unsure whether to give in to your demands. He was sure if he protested further, he’d be able to convince you to drop it for now. In truth, though, he was nervous. Yes you had remembered your past together but you’d never seen him in his dragon form in this life. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you. He’d never recover if you saw him as the monster he truly was, you were the only one who loved him despite that very fact.

“Sylus.”

Hearing his own name tore him from his thoughts, his gaze fixing on your face.

“I love you now just as much as I did then, dragon and all,” you said firmly. “Please, I want you to be able to be yourself with me.”

Sylus hung his head and sighed, resigning to your demands. “Fine, but no wings, they’re too big for the bed.”

“Okay, I can live with that.”

Sylus huffed and brought his lips back to yours. As you kissed, black-red mist swirled at the top of Sylus’s head and at the base of his spine, revealing his scaled, black horns and tail.

He held his breath as he parted from you, bracing himself for your reaction. But when you opened your eyes, they were not filled with fear. They were filled with awe.

You lifted a hand and brushed the bottom of one of Sylus’s horns. He shivered at your touch, his tail swishing back and forth behind him.

“Are they sensitive?” you asked, ghosting your fingers up the length.

“Yes,” Sylus breathed.

You hummed thoughtfully as you angled your head, peering at his tail, then looking back at him. “You really are beautiful, Sy.”

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, moved far more than he could ever express with words that you found him beautiful, even like this.

“May I continue now?” he asked, deflecting with his usual arrogance.

You laughed and wrapped your arms around his neck. “Please.”

Sylus almost lost his self control at the relief that flooded through him. His cock was throbbing so hard it was painful, and the only way he could soothe it was to be buried deep inside your cunt.

Tail thrashing wildly, Sylus repositioned the head of his cock at your entrance, somehow even more soaked now than before. Coating himself first, he then began pushing past your folds.

You inhaled sharply at the burn as your walls stretched to accommodate his size.

“Relax, my love,” Sylus soothed, one hand trailing down toward your core. He gently circled your clit, encouraging your body to relax.

You whimpered, clenching around the head of his cock, desperate for him to fill you more despite the pain.

Taking his time, Sylus rocked his hips slowly, easing into you inch by inch all while rubbing your clit to keep you loose. By the time he bottomed out, the pain you’d felt had been long replaced by the pure pleasure of being filled with his cock.

Sylus trembled with the restraint it took to not start pounding into you, wanting your first time to be more loving and tender. There was plenty of time to take you hard and rough.

“I’m going to move now, okay?” he warned, breathing heavily.

“Yes, please,” you begged, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He groaned and rocked his hips until just his tip was left inside you, before sliding back in. You both moaned as Sylus began thrusting in earnest, his pace slow and steady.

“You feel so good, Y/N,” Sylus panted. “Just like I remember.”

You were unable to respond, too consumed by the way he moved inside you, his cock hitting you in all the right places.

As though it had a mind of its own, Sylus’s tail snaked around one of your legs, keeping it locked to his waist.

Tension building already, your nails dug into Sylus’s back as each thrust brought you closer and closer to the edge. Sylus could fell your walls fluttering around his cock, and while he wanted nothing more than to lose himself right along with you, he was determined to rip as many orgasms out of you as he could.

He picked up the pace slightly and you responded in kind, tightening your grip on him as you cried out.

“Sylus, oh fuck, don’t stop, please please please don’t stop.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He captured your lips in an impassioned kiss, sweeping his tongue into your mouth as you moaned. One hand cupped a breast, his fingers teasing your nipple before moving on the other.

His touch, his kiss, his cock, it was all too much.

Your back arched as you came, waves of pleasure washing over your body again and again with seemingly no end. Sylus kept moving through it, pausing when you finally slumped into the bed.

“That’s two, but we’re not finished yet, kitten,” Sylus growled.

You hardly registered his words before he was flipping you onto your stomach, a shocked oof breezing past your parted lips. He dragged your hips up so your ass was in the air, sliding his cock back into your cunt with ease. His tail slid along your ribs, then across your breasts, the hard scales rubbing on your sensitive nipples, and it pulled you flush to Sylus’s chest. On instinct, you reached back and grabbed onto both of his horns. The groan he let out was purely animalistic.

“You better hold on tight,” he whispered in your ear, the only warning you got before his cock started slamming into you.

You moaned at the delicious new angle, your body already working toward another orgasm. Admittedly, you’d been a bit nervous that Sylus was relying solely on memory from another lifetime in order to please you, and truly you would’ve been happy with whatever he’d be able to give you. But this? This was not at all what you expected.

“I won’t last much longer, kitten,” Sylus warned, his thrusts growing sloppy, “and I fully intend on bringing you with me.”

His hand slid down your abdomen, two fingers finding your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circles.

Your cunt clenched hard around his cock as you pulled on his horns, your mouth popping open in a silent cry. Sylus groaned, doubling his efforts both with his cock and his fingers.

“Sylus!” you yelled, body tensing. “Sylus, oh please.”

“Give me one more, Y/N,” he muttered. “Be a good girl and give me one more.”

Your climax slammed into you, your vision going white as the pleasure rocked your body harder than the last two. It drove Sylus straight off the cliff edge, chasing his high right alongside you, filling your cunt to the brim.

When you were both spent, Sylus collapsed on top of you, but you were too fucked out of your mind to care about his weight crushing you.

He didn’t linger on you too long though, rolling over onto his side, taking you with him as his tail was still wound around your breasts. He peppered kisses on your neck and shoulder, making you smile.

You twisted in his hold to face him, placing a chaste kiss of your own right on his lips. “I love you, Sy,” you murmured.

“I love you too, sweetie,” he replied quietly.

“Does this mean you’re my boyfriend now?” you asked, the picture of innocence.

Sylus scoffed. “I was under the impression I was much more than just your boyfriend.”

“You are, but I can’t introduce you to people as my soul-bound lover,” you protested. “We need a socially acceptable label, Sy.”

“You want to introduce me to all your little Hunter friends?”

“Yeah, as my small-business-owner-slash-fruit-stall-vendor boyfriend, Skye!”

He gave you an incredulous look, as if he couldn’t believe you were having this conversation right now. But, he’d never deny you anything. “Fine, I’ll be your boyfriend as long as you get to be my girlfriend.”

“You have to ask me first.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You have to ask me to be your girlfriend first.”

Sylus pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Y/N, my love, will you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?”

You grinned and smacked your lips against his. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Little did you know that Sylus had much bigger plans in mind than you being just his girlfriend. Fiancé was good, but wife was even better. You know, for the sake of socially acceptable labels, of course.

#love and deepspace #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus x mc #sylus x you #sylus x reader #sylus smut #lads smut

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goldfades · 2 months ago

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

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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kaiser1ns · 1 year ago

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𝗶𝘁𝗼𝘀𝗵𝗶 𝗿𝗶𝗻 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

╹synopsis :: in an attempt to win once again, rin is betrayed by his own children who seemed to love their mother more.

╹contents :: domestic life with rin, characters are 25 years old, FLUFF, the kids betrayed rin wopsie, personal headcanon is that when he grows up he tends to be more gentle but only for you tho <3

╹notes :: posting this and going into hibernation again , I am cooking up some fics and drabbles tho

Never in your life would you have guessed and expected that you would have a family not with anyone, but with Itoshi Rin. The sixteen year old boy who ignored your existence but always gave you his English notes. The boy who always listened to your complaining during breaks, that you are thirsty or hungry and when you left the classroom and came back there was always a strawberry milk with a chocolate cupcake on your desk.

The boy who is now your husband, a successful young footballer who at only 25 years of age has a lot of achievements — in career and personal paths of course. Winning another treble with his team, he had a break during the summertime where he could spend more time with you and the twins — Haruto and Hinata.

Rin had never thought he would be a good father, that he would be a father at all if he was being honest with himself. But the miracle happened and now there are two little nine-month-old babies waiting to be fed sitting in their high chairs.

You sit at the kitchen table, feeding Haruto and Hinata their breakfast while Rin sips his coffee, a soft smile adoring his now more matured face as he watches the three of you. He was smitten by how fast you adapted to parenthood because just twenty years ago you were kids playing house taking care of the many baby dolls you had and now the game came into life.

"He's trying to stand again," you say, glancing over at Haruto, who's attempting to pull himself up on the edge of his high chair.

Rin looks over at his son, who looks exactly like you, but can't get by without the genes and the visible lower eyelashes. "Hinata's been babbling non stop. I swear she probably got that from you." Setting his cup down wiping the mashed potatoes from his daughter's mouth. As for her, she is Rin's copy , as you sometimes tend to joke that Rin and Hinata look more like twins instead of her brother.

Rolling your eyes at his comment as Haruto took another spoon of the puree. "Well, it's good that she is trying to say her first words." Looking at your husband with this glint in your eyes that now spark and he just knows that this stare is up for no good. "But with you always staying quiet, I think, it will take her way more time to say the two syllables."

Rin raised an eyebrow. "Careful who you are challenging now." As the babies giggle and play with their food, you and him engage in a staring contest, each silently daring the other to back down.

"I bet Haruto will walk first," you declared confidently, eyeing the little boy as he was just playing with his food along with his sister. Rin scoffed, furrowing his brows as he crossed his arms. "Hinata will definitely beat him to it. She's already trying to stand on her own and talk."

Just then, amidst the 'fight' a glob of potato puree escapes Haruto's grasp and lands on Rin's shirt, much to your amusement and his dismay.

"See, even your son disagrees with you," you replied, unable to contain your laughter as you got a napkin to wipe the mess off your husband's shirt.

Rin's expression softened, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite his annoyance. "Looks like Haruto is already making his own statements," he remarked, glancing down in an attempt to be angry at his son for throwing the mashed potatoes but he just couldn't. Not when he looked so cute, with his little baby eyes that were the same color as yours, it was really scary how each of you had a little copy of yourself.

"Maybe he's trying to tell us that he's ready for solid foods," You joked, reaching for another napkin to clean up the rest of the mess on your son's chair.

Rin shook his head, going to take a sip of his cold coffee, "Or maybe he's just following in his mother's steps to be a troublemaker." he teased, earning a playful swat on the arm from you making him nearly choke. "Oh, please! Just because I had detention twice in highschool doesn't mean anything."

"And why did you have detention?" That you didn't like to answer because he will again make fun of you for doing it when you were kids. "You know why, Rinnie."

He actually doesn't know because they didn't want the reputation of the school to be tarnished and kept it secret between the teachers and people involved.

"How lukewarm, and I wanted to show our kids who not to take an example from." Rin said, reaching out to tickle Haruto's chubby cheeks as if seeking his son's support in his quest for answers. A small smile playing on your lips despite your attempt to stay neutral. "Fine, fine. I may have... uh, taken matters into my own hands when some idiots decided to talk shit about you," you admitted shyly, trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation.

Rin's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You got detention for defending me?" he couldn't believe it, actually he can, sometimes you get aggressive, be it because of people who shit talk him, a video game, or the fact that your favorite flavor of ice cream was out of stock. "That's... You are actually insane."

For once you expected something romantic to come out of his mouth but having big expectations can only let you down. You didn't mind though, that was his way of showing his appreciation and apparently it was sarcasm with witty remarks. "Well, you know, I couldn't just stand by and let them bully you," you mumbled, busying yourself with cleaning up Hinata's highchair now, trying to avoid further discussion on the topic. "At least they stopped messing around with you."

Rin reached over, gently lifting your chin with his finger to meet his gaze. "Thank you, Y/N," the tenderness in his voice and the love in his eyes told you enough. And you felt sixteen again when you got your first kiss. Leaning closer his nose touching yours, his lips barely brushing against yours , suddenly the babies started crying, interrupting the moment. With a soft sigh, you pulled away, smiling apologetically at Rin before rushing to attend to the crying babies. Rin glared at the twins for momentarily stealing his wife's attention. And he wonders, from where did they get to be so clingy?

Changed and cleaned, Haruto and Hinata played with their toys on the soft rug in the living room, as you and Rin sat on the couch, enjoying a rare moment of relaxation and not changing diapers or removing food from your clothes but instead watched Mickey Mouse Club House.

Suddenly, your attention was drawn to Hinata, who was attempting to pull herself up using the fence of their playing crib. "Look, Rin, she's trying to stand!" Y/N exclaimed, excitement evident in her voice. Didn't Rin bet on Hinata being the first to talk? “Quick open your camera, if I don't have this moment recorded, I swear Itoshi!”

Rin quickly reached for his phone as you went inside the mini playground. "It's recording, calm down," he said, already tapping on the record button.

Hinata wobbled on her tiny legs, her little giggles with a gasp of surprise, she took her first uncertain steps, stumbling slightly before falling into Y/N's waiting arms.

Your heart swelled with joy as you hugged Hinata close. "You did it, sweetheart! You took your first steps!"

Meanwhile, Haruto, who had been watching his sister intently, seemed to be trying to do something. Suddenly, he blurted out, "Mama!"

You and your husband exchanged stunned glances, eyes wide with disbelief. "Did he just...?" Rin trailed off as he was trying to process everything.

"I think he did," you replied, voice trembling with emotion. Tears of happiness welled up in your eyes as you looked at Rin, Haruto crawling to you as you placed Hinata on your left.

Rin's expression mirrored yours as he stared at the children, phone still in his hand, "I can't believe it,”

“Me too… Our babies grew so fast, oh my I need to call both of our moms and tell them about this!”

“They prefer you instead of me...” As you reached for your phone, Rin pouted "I didn't know I had 3 babies instead of 2." His mock hurt expression made you burst into laughter.

Grinning, you teased, "Well, Haruto seems to be leaning towards Mama, but don't worry, I'm sure Hinata's first word will be Dada."

As if on cue, Hinata reached out towards Rin, her tiny fingers curling around his shirt sleeve. Rin's heart melted at the sight, and he scooped her up into his arms, pressing a kiss to her rosy cheek. "Looks like she's already practicing saying 'Dada'," you said, unable to hide the happy tone in your voice. One thing was for sure that Hinata was daddy's girl and you will practice saying da-da just for Rin to have his moment of glory.

“Do you want to go to call Isagi and brag about our kids?"

"Absolutely.”

#✧* 🤍 blue lock #blue lock fluff #blue lock x you #x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #blue lock #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #rin x reader #rin x you #itoshi rin fluff #itoshi rin x y/n #itoshi rin #blue lock itoshi rin #blue lock manga #itoshi rin x you

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back2bluesidex · 4 months ago

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To Be Popular - JJK [Chapter 1]

Pairing: Social Media Influencer! Jungkook X Marketing Manager! Reader ft. Yoongi

Summary:

You love everything about social media - apart from the ever-growing number of social media influencers. You don't understand how these people gain followers and admirers just by installing a camera and doing very basic things in front of it. And you despise how some of them can do anything to gain fame, to be popular - even if it includes uploading their bedroom scene in pornsites aka people like Jeon Jungkook. But when your company launches a new product and your department head tasks you with signing Jeon Jungkook up as an endorsement partner - you have no choice but to chase him like the corporate slave that you are. However, things turn worse when you embroil in a dating rumor with him and have to keep the game going for the sake of everything. is it really for the worse or things will turn in a way you never expected it to?

Theme: Strangers to lovers au, fake dating au, kind of enemies to lover au, angst, smut, fluff.

Full Series Word Count: 26k

Chapter word count: 5.8k+

Warnings: tiny flirting, argument, that's all.

Masterlist | Patreon (For access to the complete series)

Taglist requests are open.

Minors, I am not responsible for what you consume online. So, act more rationally and stay away.

Chapter index: -

Or read the full series right away on Patreon!!

Thanks to the every possible gods out there, you are capable of keeping your poker face even when your insides are burning with rage.

Like right now.

First of all you landed in a proposition with one of the people you don’t even like, that too, with the most insufferable one in question.

Secondly, your superiors are treating him as if he has won a gold medal or something.

Min Yoongi - the man who is known for his nonchalance and quiet wisdom, can’t seemingly stop giving his gummy smile to this guy, Jeon Jungkook.

Mrs. Lee, who is probably double the age of the guy, is ogling him as if it's a zombie apocalypse and she hasn’t seen another male for thirty years or so.

When they both turn to you, you realize they are probably waiting for you to react the same way as them.

Too bad, you are not even the least bit amused.

After greeting both of the superiors, Jeon Jungkook looks at you - with those big ass googly eyes. A kind smile plays on his lips.

He extends his hand with a soft “nice to meet you.”

Well. definitely not the same. You scream internally but you compose yourself and return his smile, somewhat half-assed, as you wrap your small hand around his big veiny ones (the same hand that does those dirty deeds with others of his stature).

“Nice to meet you too.” you murmur only because Yoongi is giving you those eyes you absolutely love and hate at the same time.

Yoongi gestures to Jungkook to take the seat, “So, Mr. Jeon. I assume you have gone through our proposal already?”

“Umm.. yeah. My manager did go through your proposal and briefed me.” Jeon Jungkook says with a voice that doesn’t match that gruff, breathy one from the video.

Why the fuck do I keep thinking of the video? You inhale a long breath.

“Okay so.. Is there any question in your mind? Or do you want me to go through it all once again?” Yoongi adds good naturedly.

“Umm no actually. I came here to decline your offer.” Jungkook drops the bomb. If you are low-key happy then you don’t let it show on your face.

“W-what? Why? Is there any part of the offer that is not up to your liking? We can revise it anytime you want.” Mrs. Lee butts in.

“Uh. no not that. I personally don’t like to use the devices that your company manufactures. All of your laptops are so bulky, the chassis is always too old-fashioned. It’s not something Jeon Jungkook would use, you know what I mean?” Jungkook reasons smugly, as he leans on the backrest of his chair and crosses his legs.

You hear blood rushing to your brain and before any of your superiors can say anything you start speaking, “oh really? Must be tough to carry our laptops to a pornset or something, huh?”

You see Jungkook’s eyes going comically wide as he tries to register what you have just said.

“What? What are you talking about?” he semi-screams. His attention is now trained only and only on you.

“You know very well what I am talking about, Mr. Jeon.” you lean on the table just as smugly. Under the table Yoongi kicks on your shin but you dodge his attack at the right time.

Jungkook laughs. A big, thunderous laugh, “I don’t see it being any of your business to question what I do in my free time, is it?”

You smirk. If he thought you are going to back off that easily, he was wrong, “it definitely is not. But the fact that we chose to offer you this endorsement deal despite your current public reputation, tells a lot about our dedication towards charity.”

“Oh.. so this is a charity huh?” Jungkook narrows his eyes at you, “sorry to tell you but Jeon Jungkook doesn’t need any charity.”

With that Jungkook stands up and gales at you for one last time before he storms out of the room.

Yoongi slams his head directly on the table making you wince at the loud thud.

“Y/N! What do you think you did?” Mrs. Lee screams in horror.

“What?” you shrug in nonchalance, “he was going to say no anyway.”

“Y/N” Yoongi finally says, probably after struggling not to punch himself in the face for inviting you to the meeting, “we could have negotiated if you chose to stay silent.”

“But I only said what’s true. This collaboration could have saved his face. He was the one who chose to be an ass- I mean, inconsiderate.” you argue.

“Oh really? Then why don’t you show him what’s right?” Yoongi says in a sugary voice, one that’s not really good news.

“What do you mean?” you question, suspicion landing on your brain.

“You need to bring him back if you love the year-end appraisal or you can kiss your promotion goodbye.” he says in a collected voice.

“What? Yoongi! You can’t do this!” you stand from your seat, and Yoongi only smirks at you.

“Oh I definitely can. I can also submit a formal complaint against you calming that you have messed up an important deal. Do you want that?”

You stay silent, questioning your life choices, your career choices. Cursing at the every god above for making you a human when you could have been a worm.

No job, no money issues, no Min Yoongi, no Jeon Jungkook - only soil and dirt.

You sit on the chair again, cover your face with both of your hands and curse “fuck everyone”.

Your eyes zero on your phone this time. The insta handle is burning too bright for the darkness of your room. Honestly, tapping the name is currently hurting your pride.

But what can you even do - you are a corporate slave after all. And the crush you have on your direct superior, prevents you from being rebellious.

But more than just that - you know you were wrong.

Your hate towards the social media influencers clan is pretty much ridiculous and apparently has no reason.

Is it due to your underlying insecurity? Is it because you believe you are inferior to them? While they make hundreds of dollars per hour, you make a dime?

You probably hate Jeon Jungkook because he is the same age of yours and yet has everything you don’t? - like an amazing sex life.

As you tap on the story, it takes you into a video with all colors of gleaming lights. Clearly a club. Loud music blares through your phone speaker, almost paralyzing your ears.

You can’t see Jeon Jungkook on the screen, obviously because he is the one recording the video. But you can hear him whooing in the background. There are some girls around him for obvious reasons.

Suddenly you feel jealous of him again.

He is of your age and he is enjoying a night out at a posh club while you are on your bed, with your ugly pajamas on and you can’t go out because you have work tomorrow.

As soon as the word “work” registers in your mind, you remember you have been tasked with bringing Jungkook back.

You look at the screen again. He has added the location, which means you can find the club, find him and apologize (oh god no!) and beg him for another meeting.

Yes. That's a nice plan. You can then mourn for your dead self-respect with a bucket full of ice-cream.

You have picked the shortest possible dress you own.

It’s a shimmery black bodycon that reaches your mid-thigh. The noodle strap of the bodycon dress gives a tempting view of your collar-bone and cleavage.

You have let your hair lose - you look the best like this. A touch of makeup and you are all ready.

You know you are attractive but will that be enough for the bouncers to let you inside that posh club? You pray it’s enough.

When the taxi drops you in front of the well-known club in Gangnam, you spot the line. And thankfully, the queue is not at all terrible.

Since the clock hasn’t hit 10:00 pm yet, the entry is free.

When you reach in front of the bouncers, they give you a once-over, then look at each other. Your hands feel clammy because they have rejected almost everyone before you. If you are not wrong then only two of the visitors were let in.

But then one of them brought the stamp out and held it in front of your face. You gave him your wrist with a squeal of joy.

You let yourself go blind and deaf with the glaring lights and loud music. Wherever you look, you see people attached to people. Some are dancing, some are drinking, some are making out, some are just standing and talking with drinks in their hands.

You don’t think you have seen this amount of strangers all year.

You will admit - you feel alive.

But no! No Y/N! You are here with a motive, you can’t let yourself be distracted!

In the story, Jungkook seemed to be close to the bar island. Even though that was more than an hour ago, you still start looking for the bar island.

“Why are there so many bars?” you mumble to yourself as you scan the entire floor. There are at least four bars here, there must be more on the upper floor.

You start feeling helpless at once. All these strangers around you, wrapped in wealth, some giving you long looks - trigger your social anxiety.

Bad decision. It’s a bad decision. You should probably just run away.

But when you are about to take an u-turn, you see him.

You see Jeon Jungkook on the dance floor, grinding on a red-headed pretty looking girl.

He looks - like a fucking wet dream.

A black baggy jeans, a black t-shirt, some bulky golden chains, his dark hair gleams under the lights. His lip ring shines directly on your eyes and you snap back.

Great. Now that you have found him.. You can proceed with your plan - which is to beg him.

Without a second thought, you start stepping on the dance floor.

There are not a lot of people, so you easily get past everyone and stand there behind him.

Your eyes drop on his ass, then his hands, his veins and you question your life choices.

Somebody just crashes on you making you lurch forward.

Your body slams against Jungkook’s back. You are about to apologize when he reaches behind with his hand and grabs your side. He grinds his ass on you without even looking at your face.

You feel nauseous. This is the second time you are meeting him and the proximity is very scandalous.

Placing your hand on top of his, you break free from his hold.

“Jeon Jungkook, can I please talk to you for a moment?” you scream in his ears.

He doesn’t stop moving, but you know he has heard you.

Jungkook slowly moves on his feet while vibing and then turns to face you.

His mischievous eyes bore into yours as he takes you in slowly. He shamelessly eyes your cleavage then looks back up your face.

“What?” he screams over the music.

“Not here. Can we go somewhere quiet?”

He smirks at you, “oh? Already? Wait- have I seen you before?”

Your blood turns cold, “no. I mean yeah. Actually-”

“You- that obnoxious employee from Techtonic? Right?” his eyes go wide.

“Obnoxious? I am obnoxious? Then what are y-” you inhale, “Yes. I am Y/N. You are right. I am from Techtonic. Can I please have a word with you?”

“No? Why would I spare my precious time on you? So that you can insult me again?” he frowns at your figure before starting to walk away.

You grab onto his hand, “Please. I am here to apologize. I promise.”

He looks back, takes a look at the place you are touching him and then looks at you, “if I give you a chance… What will you give me in return?” Jungkook challenges.

What in the world did you get yourself into?

You don’t have a single drop of alcohol in your veins.

I repeat - you don’t have a single drop of alcohol in your veins then what is making you feel so lightheaded?

If it’s the spicy citrusy smell that Jeon Jungkook’s emitting then you won’t admit it even if you end up dying.

“Tell me, Y/N. What will I get if I give you another chance?” he challenges again. This time his tongue pokes out of that perfectly small round mouth and plays with the glinting lip ring.

You don’t understand the science of hearing him clearly despite the sound of loud music and the loud beating of your heart.

“I- anything. Anything you ask for.” you choke out, uncertainty lacing your voice.

“Anything I ask for?” Jungkook comes impossibly close to your body.

You can see long fingers with even longer nails circling around his torso. The red-headed girl is clinged around him.

“If- If I can afford that.” you choke out again.

“Oh.. you definitely can.” he smirks like a devil. All the smug pride drains from your body at the thought of what he might be asking from you.

“Come with me.” Jungkook whispers briefly as he takes your hand and guides you through the crowd towards the upper floor.

The piece of skin, where his fingers are holding your wrist - burns.

You are ashamed, nervous, afraid - all in all you want to die.

Just a week ago you were scoffing at your laptop watching this guy make fame out of a porn video and now he is leading you god knows where to do god knows what.

Before you could take in your surroundings, Jungkook slams you on the nearest wall. He wastes no time in locking you between his arms.

“You really came here only to convince me? You had no other intention, huh?” He asks with the lowest possible voice. A shiver runs down through the path of your spine.

“No. What intention would I even have? I fucked things up at the meeting so my superiors are making me clean the mess.” Your voice comes out firmer than what you thought you could manage.

“Oh? Really? But I think there is something else to it.” Jungkook comes closer to your body. His chest touches yours. You take a sharp inhale but keep the eye-contact intact.

Jungkook’s eyes dip down to your chest again as he continues, “you want what you watched in that video, don’t you?” he wets his lips once those vile words come out of his mouth.

Your jaw hits the floor almost, “what the fuck? What makes you think I want you?”

Jungkook invades whatever was left off of your personal space and whispers right into your ear, “If you accept it nicely, tell me the truth whether you got turned on or not, I will give your company a chance.”

You gulp at his offer.

If you say you were completely unaffected after watching him fucking his partner so well, then it will be a lie for sure.

So… if you swallow your pride and tell him that he indeed had some kind of effect on you - he will be up for another meeting?

“And what if I tell you the truth?” you question, looking deep into his chocolate eyes. All you see there is mirth.

“I will schedule another meeting with your company. But I will be declining you all again.” Jungkook adds nonchalantly.

You scoff at that, pushing him away and making some space between your bodies, “so you are just going to use my confession and insult me in my workplace?”

“Oooohhhh… You are not dumb, I see?” he muses, stumbling back from your body.

“Wh-what? Dumb? You thought I am dumb? Mind you, Jeon Jungkook, I get paid for doing actual work and not because I keep hollering at a dumb computer screen in front of camera.” anger flares through every vein in your body.

“And yet you came here to beg me?” he shrugs smugly.

“You know what? Fuck you and your stupid followers who feed your stupid ego!” screaming at his face, you take steps away, stomping on the floor even if your heels are killing you already.

This was a bad idea. Indeed a bad idea.

You don’t get paid for dealing with these scumbags. So it’s not your responsibility. It’s better to have your appraisal compromised than falling in the trap of Jeon Jungkook.

You imagine Jungkook’s face in the place of the ice cream tub as you stab your fork in it with as much fierceness as you could find in yourself.

Yes, you are eating ice-cream with a fork, so that you can imagine Jungkook’s face and stab in it.

“Fucking nutjob! What do you even think of yourself!” stab stab stab “Karma will hit you back very soon! You fucking asshole!” stab stab stab.

As if granting your prayers, the cosmos sends a notification to your device. You take the phone to see Yoongi's instagram handle that has sent you a text.

You start blushing instantly.

“Is this the universe’s way of making up for today’s trashy encounter?” you murmur to yourself as you open his text.

It’s a link so maybe it’s one of those cat videos he sends you the links of.

As you tap on the link, it takes to a post that has been made just an hour ago. The post - a video, containing proofs of Kim Doona (the influencer Jungkook fucked) being a high school bully. The video has texts sent by Doona to the victim, threatening her not to reveal anything.

Looks like Karma mistook the address. It should have been Jeon Jungkook!

You go to the comments.

All of their followers are going crazy, it’s just the same shit in different sentences. So you scroll past it all.

But there are two comments that catch your eye, actually one comment and its reply.

Commenter: Can’t believe Jeon Jungkook chose her out of everyone? A class bully? Really Jeon? You could do better.

Reply 1: What are you even saying? Jungkook probably didn’t even know and mind you, none of them confirmed if they were together or not. Reply 2: but girl, they f*cked on camera! Reply 3: How does that confirm their relationship? Reply 4: Jeon Jungkook has a girlfriend, I caught them at the club just a few hours ago. The proof is in my story.

Eh? Kim Doona isn’t his girlfriend? That was a rumor? He has another girlfriend who was with him at the club?

But you were at the club too, you should have seen them. Is it that red-head girl?

All of these questions swirl inside your head as you tap on the person’s story.

The video is taken amid a mass of bodies, trying to be discreet, but you can recognize Jeon Jungkook, leading a woman through the crowd.

Your heart stops beating for a moment when you realize it’s you. Your face is not visible properly, curtained by your hair, and you are thankful for that.

The video continues as Jungkook takes you towards the quiet corner. The person, who’s recording, moves too for getting a clearer view.

Now he is hiding behind the end of the wall that Jungkook had pressed you on. The video shows how he had towered you in, whispered in your ear and smirked at you. But then it gets cut right before you push him away!

“Fuck! I am not his girlfriend! Are you people blind? How do we look like a couple?!” you scream at your phone.

You decide you have had enough humiliation today. Hence, putting your phone in charge and traveling towards dreamland is a better idea.

This fiasco may die down by the morning. People will definitely defy the girlfriend theory because you two don’t look like a couple. And your face wasn’t even properly visible in the video. So yeah let sleep solve your problems.

Except - nothing solves.

When you wake up and take your phone out of charge, you grasp so hard that your phone slips from your hold and lands on the bed with a thud.

You have a thousand new follow requests on your instagram account. There are a ton of texts from various people in Ktalk and most of them have sent you insta links.

You open your younger sister’s text. She has sent everything in caps:

Y/N!!!!!!!! WHAT IS THIS??? [Link] YOU DIDN’T TELL ME YOU ARE DATING JEON JUNGKOOK????????

You type your reply:

Calm down. I am not dating that douchebag.

And then you tap on the link.

The post that the link takes you to, can rival your natal chart. It’s a detailed discussion of who you are, what’s your job, how do you look, where you have probably met Jungkook and your insta handel.

They have also attached a photo of Jungkook talking to you standing in the middle of the dance floor.

“Fuck fuck fuck!!!!” you curse and curse and curse.

Why are these people dragging you into this mess now? Why do they have to link you up with him? What the hell is even happening?

How are you even going to get to work today?

You shoot a quick text to Yoongi saying that you need a off-day today for obvious reasons. He sends one of those rofl emojis along with a thumbs up and you try not to feel down.

Yoongi doesn’t really understand what you feel for him? Does he?

You mean you are embroiled in a dating rumor with someone else and he seems to be just fine?

It’s just another confirmation that he doesn’t reciprocate your stupid crush on him.

Just when you are about to keep your phone aside and sleep some more, you get a call from an unknown number.

You don’t think much before receiving it.

“Hello, who’s this?” your voice is still groggy and your stomach rumbles as you speak on the phone.

A sweet cherry voice rings in your ear, “Hello, is this Y/N?”

“Yes. and you?”

“I am Kim Seokjin, Jeon Jungkook’s manager.”

The remnant of sleep flies away from your eyes as the man introduces himself. Why is Jeon Jungkook’s manager calling you this early in the morning!?

“How can I help you?” you voice, not trying to mask your confusion.

“Y/N, I assume you are aware of the situation, right? I mean the rumors?”

“I am aware and currently waiting for Mr. Jeon to decline the speculations.” you state as firmly as possible.

“About that… Why don’t we discuss before revealing anything?”

You frown at that.

“Discuss? What is there to discuss? You know well that I got to know Mr. Jeon via a professional connection, there is nothing else added to it, except for the fact that I visited the club to convince him for another meeting. And all of these things happened.”

“Exactly. I know it all and I also know that it’s not nice to be dragged into this mess but we, me and Jungkook, have a proposition to make. We can use this situation for both of our benefits for strictly business purposes.”

You sigh, “I don’t understand what you are trying to say Mr. Kim.”

“Yes. That is only natural. So, why don’t we meet face to face and get down on the details of the proposition? You can bring a friend or family if you are not comfortable meeting us alone. How does lunch sound?”

You think for a moment. You could probably take Jimin with you? Even though it’s monday, he will squeeze some time out of his schedule if you promise him free lunch.

“Okay. I will send you a confirmation text in this number.” you reply before cutting the call and directing your fingers towards Jimin’s text.

He has sent you a similar array of texts, so hopefully he won’t have too many questions to ask. He will understand once you give him a brief.

“I will tell you everything, can you meet me for lunch? I need to meet Jeon Jungkook and his manager for obvious reasons. Free lunch will be offered.”

His reply comes within a few moments,

“I’m in. I will pick you up just text me the time.”

You now type a text to Kim Seokjin confirming him the meeting as he texts you the time.

Just when you are about to go to Jimin’s inbox again, another unknown number sends you a text.

Annoyance flares through your veins as you open it. It says:

“See you soon, pornaddict.

– Jeon Jungkook.”

You groan at the choice of nick name, “Fuck you, Jeon!”

You don’t understand many things.

But currently, you don’t understand why this fine-as-fuck man is Jeon Jungkook’s manager slash assistant.

He goes by the name Kim Seokjin.

When he smiles at you, you melt. And to compose your flustered state you look at Jeon Jungkook - the (current) bane of your existence.

He gives you a lopsided smile that obviously is fake, leaning down against the sofa seat absorbing as much sunlight as possible.

You don’t give him any reaction.. Beside you, Jimin introduces himself to both of the men.

“Miss Y/N. Thank you so much for coming.” Seokjin says in a pleasant tone. His voice sounds like honey dripping from a silver spoon.

You nod, “Yeah. Alright, Mr. Kim, can I ask about the proposition you were talking about?”

“Call me seokjin. And sure, let’s get into the important details.” he pauses to give you a sweet smile then opens his ipad and scrolls through something. Jungkook, too, scrolls through his phone so unamusedly as if he has been dragged here without his consent.

“So, as you already know, the situation is out of hand now. We tried to take down the initial posts but the photos and videos spread like fire.” he speaks calmly. You nod along with him, Jimin too gives the older man his utmost attention.

“On the other hand, our Jungkookie has been interacting with people, who are currently embroiled in controversy.” noted: Seokjin called Jungkook as Jungkookie and he is talking about Doona.

You see Jungkook rolling his eyes.

“If it wasn’t not for you, then he would be dragged down in the mess too.” Seokjin continues, “I know it’s not nice to be the center of unwanted attention and it is already causing you damage but… we need your help. Jungkook needs your help.”

Jungkook makes a very unapproving sound from his seat.

“What help? How can I even help you guys?” you are now extremely confused. Why would Jeon Jungkook, out of all people, need your help?

“Date him.” Seokjin proposes.

“What?” you and Jimin scream in unison.

“Not for real. Calm down. I meant to say, if you pretend to be his girlfriend before the world, on social media, it will help Jungkookie in defying possible criticism and hatred.” Seokjin explains calmly.

However, you are anything but calm.

Whatever criticism Jeon Jungkook faces, it is simply his own problem. You have nothing to do with it. What is your benefit by being involved with him?

As if reading your mind Seokjin now states, “in return, Jungkookie will sign an exclusive deal with your company for not only one but any kind of future collaboration your company wants with him, that too, at a discounted price.” he winks at you.

Your jaw hits the floor.

“Hyung! What the fuck! Where is this discount coming from?” Jungkook finally opens his mouth for the first time.

“Cool. I’m in.” you reply in a heartbeat. Jimin clutches your wrist under the table.

“Y/N! Aren’t you even going to think?” he whisper-yells in your ear.

“There is nothing to think about. This is a very good deal, Jiminie. I will be hard-pressed to let such an opportunity go.” you whisper back.

“But-”

“I knew you would be an intelligent one” Seokjin cuts off your friend with a cherry tone, “I look forward to working with you” he extends his hand, you take in him with a shake. The shit-eating grin is lighting up your face.

Jungkook sits there throwing daggers at you with his eyes.

“It’s all because of you! You fucked things up!” Jungkook’s loud voice invades the serenity you were enjoying while waiting for Jimin to show up with his car.

You turn your head in astonishment and give him wide eyes, “My ears must have gone cold. You are saying thanks and I am hearing something completely different.”

“No! You are hearing it right, I said you fucked things up. Only if you didn’t show up at the club-”

“Then people would be dragging you down in twitter and instagram for fucking a school bully on camera.” you finish the sentence for him.

Jungkook clicks his tongue and the smirks, “you know what? I can see how bad you are down for me. Is this all a part of your plan?”

You smirk back, folding your hand in front of your chest, “FYI, your manager reached out to me to help you out. I am doing you a favor and you are returning it. Got it?”

“Again.. Again that nasty attitude of yours.” Jungkook steps towards you, “you know what… I kinda like it.”

He breathes directly on your face.

The puff of his breath lands on the apple of your cheeks making a blush creep up without your notice.

“Make sure you save my number, girlfriend. See you tomorrow.” he leans down and whispers the last words in your ears and then disappears inside the parking lot.

You stand there, catching your breath and questioning your decision for the first time since the proposition landed on your lap.

But wait? What does he mean by ‘see you tomorrow’?

Somebody must have pressed a replay button on the cassette of your life.

If not then it’s certainly a deja vu, because the scene that’s unfolding is exactly the same as what happened last week.

You are sitting inside the conference room, with Yoongi and Mrs. Lee and there is Jeon Jungkook sitting right across from you.

The only thing that seems changed today is his attitude - which is a little more tamed.

And oh… your clothes too.

“This is so nice of you to come forward and ask for a meeting after whatever happened last time.” Mrs. Lee speaks in a sickeningly sweet tone. You wanna roll your eyes but decide against it.

“Ah. no no. Miss Y/N is really competent at what she does. The credit goes to her. Even though things went south for the first time, we figured out that we actually are very compatible and working together will be beneficial for both of us. Right?” Jungkook directs his question towards you.

“Uh- yeah. Hahahaha. Yeah.” you honestly don’t know what to reply. He is obviously faking it and you need to fake it too but Yoongi is sitting right beside you and he is staring at you and you are on the verge of losing your sanity.

“I’m sorry if I am overstepping any boundaries but I can’t help being curious if the rumors are true?” Yoongi barges in. He looks at you and then Jungkook, expecting an answer or a reaction.

Before you can say something - something you don’t even know what, Jungkook decides to answer.

“Only time will tell.” he smiles at Yoongi.

The amount of weird glances you are receiving from your colleagues is astronomical.

For most of them it’s just eyeing you up and down and for some of the brave ones, it’s throwing impromptu comments like “oh, Y/N is a celeb now.”

You want to punch them on their faces.

Nevertheless, you don’t want a new trouble right when you manage to fight one crisis in exchange for your name and relationship status.

You scroll through company social media accounts and start planning for all the new content that’s going to drop as soon as Jungkook’s done with the photoshoot.

Your phone chimes with a notification. When take it in your hand to see it’s a text from the devil himself:

“In front of the parking lot. Come in five minutes.”

Your eyes close in frustration. You haven’t even stepped into the deal properly and he has started ordering you already.

But what can you even do, you dug your own grave after all.

It takes you seven minutes to reach the parking lot - obviously because you work on the sixteenth floor and the elevators don’t run on your will.

When you find Jungkook waiting for you at the mentioned location with his bike, you find him kind of intriguing.

It’s been long, embarrassingly long, since you have had a guy waiting for you. Even though you know it’s fake. You can turn blind eye for a moment and let yourself believe otherwise.

“You are late.” he says with a pout.

You lose your sanity only a little.

“Sorry. The elevator didn’t listen to me when I asked it to run fast.” you reply.

“Haha. very funny.” he replies animatedly then reaches for his backpack and plucks out a document folder.

“What is this?” you question naturally.

“The dating contract for our fake relationship.” he shrugs, extending the folder towards you, “Hyung asked you to go through it meticulously. You can add or reduce any term you don’t see fit. We will finalize it and announce our fake relationship officially once you are done. You have time till Friday.” he recites flatly, “also, you can’t tell anyone just yet. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever-”

“Y/N?” someone calls you and it’s not Jungkook.

You whip your head to see Yoongi is standing a few feets away inside the parking space with keys in his hand.

Your stomach feels funny at his unreadable expression.

And then you feel a pair or lips pressing down on your cheeks.

Jungkook kisses you before parting and saying, “Hasta la vista, baby”

You freeze at your stop. You can see Yoongi’s eyes narrowing on you. Jungkook hops on his bike and leaves within a moment.

You stand there, staring apologetically at the man you like and he sports an expression you can’t comprehend.

“So.. the rumors were true, huh?” Yoongi finally voices after what feels like an eternity.

“No- I-” also, you can’t tell anyone just yet. Got it? Jungkook’s words reel inside your head, “yes” you lie, crossing your fingers behind you.

“Congratulations” Yoongi greets before flashing his gummy smile at you and then leaving you there to look for his car.

“You really don’t care, do you?” you ask him. Even though you know he can’t hear you. There is a mixture of different emotions inside your gut and you are way too tired to name any of those.

@phenomenalgirl9 @chimchimmarie @coffeedepressionsoup @meowstake @vonvi-blog @nochuel @chimmisbae @i-have-no-life-charlie @mikrokookiex @jjk174 @lallataegi @savageyoongi @jwnghyuns @parapiop7 @futuristicenemychaos @armystay89 @ryryvna @purple-realms

read the full series right away on Patreon!! (Start from part 4)

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kkoga · 7 days ago

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Hey, can i request a daniela avanzini x fem!reader where your the popular couple in school nd you get in a fight with someone who was flirting with daniela and after she takes care of you

(A/N : Sorry if it sucks a little, its very rushed and its currently 9 am and i finished hikijg about two hours ago and i wrote this at 1 am even tho i had to be up by like 3 or 4 to go hiking...)

FIGHTS AND THE AFTERMATH daniela avanzini x fem!reader

Warning ! Foul words, physical violence

Disclaimer ! Everything written here is pure fiction. Every person is not a real portayal of themselves.

Now playing ! ALL MINE by Brent Faiyaz

WC — 1.03K

Synopsis ! After your long-time rival, Mark, decides to ignore your inital warnings about hitting on your girlfriend, you finally decide you've had enough.

You clicked your tongue at the sight of Mark approaching Daniela. Sophia—your friend—confused by the sudden change in mood, followed your gaze. After seeing Mark slowly make his way to your girl, the Filipina sighed in defeat. She knew you weren't gonna let this one slide.

You and Mark have been rivals for the past four years— you two were competitive with everything you both shared.

You and him were the captain of your basketball teams— him being the captain of the boys team and you being the captain of the girls team.

Although you initially didn't hold anything against the boy, he always seemed to have it out for you, which resulted in the dynamic you both had now.

Everything was a competition. The amount of medals under your teams, the total shots you both made the entire season, popularity— everything.

You were fine with it—it was just fun little banter to you—until he started hitting on your girl.

Daniela Avanzini, the captain of the cheerleading team, a member of the school's modern dance team, the golden girl.

She was every boy and girl's dream girlfriend. She was everything anyone could possibly want.

Or at least she was everything you could possibly want.

It all started four months ago, when you and Daniela had gone public. The two of you had been dating for the past year, and finally had the courage to reveal your relationship.

At first, people were skeptical. Just because you were both popular doesn't mean homophobia just disappears. But eventually, it does. And once the homophobic nonsense settled down, you two became the golden couple of GEFFEN high.

Every student knew you two—that you were together—and you loved it.

Someone, however, hated it just as much as you loved it.

Mark, who thought he was finally winning in the “little game” you two were playing, got trampled because you had managed to score Daniela.

The boy took the game more personally than you thought he did, which was why you were shocked to one day find him leaning over your girlfriend's locker, talking to her with a huge smug smile on his face. Daniela, however, had an uninterested look in her eyes.

The first few times it happened, you were only annoyed. After all, you trusted and knew Daniela would never cheat on you. So, you let it go.

But today was the last time you were going to take this disrespect. You already warned him last time— that if he ever tried again, he'd wish he was being sent to the nurse instead of the hospital.

Before Mark even got a word in, you rushed towards him and pushed him away from Daniela.

“Listen man, I told you to stay the fuck away from my girl. What did you not understand?” Mark scoffs, and counters—or at least tries to.

“Oh please, it's not like she actually wants you. Just wait and see. She'll fall for me the moment she just gives me a chanc—” His rambling was stopped by a punch to the jaw. The sheer force of your punch knocked the boy backwards—and before Mark could even hold his jaw to feel it out—another one made its way to his cheek, causing him to fall on his butt.

You crouched down, grabbed his collar, and threw another punch—to the nose this time—and the boy responds by grabbing your collar and throwing you off of him.

You take a second to process the damage he did, but even that was enough for Mark to land a punch. The boy hit you in the cheek, narrowly missing your nose since you managed to dodge it— even by just a little.

The entire fight lasted ten seconds before Daniela pulled you away from him, another student holding Mark back.

A teacher then rushes to the scene, and tells everyone to back off, before sending you to the nurse and sending Mark to the hospital because you apparently had “Broken his nose”.

Daniela sighs before caressing your hand as the nurse grabs an ice pack.

“Alright, I've already gotten you both your passes, you won't be attending the next class.”

“Wait, me too?” Daniela looks at the nurse in confusion, and the nurse lets out a dry laugh.

“Yes, you too young lady. You were involved in the drama after all— you'll be needed at the principal's office after I deem Miss Basketball captain here ready.” Daniela nods as the nurse hands her the ice pack.

“Apply it for as long as you can. I'll be right back.”

The door clicks, indicating the nurse has already left the room. Silence fills the room until you muster up the courage to speak.

“Listen Dani, I'm so sorry to have involved you in—”

“No no cariño, it's okay. Don't sweat it. I understand why you did it okay?” You wince as Daniela presses the ice pack onto your cheek.

“Really?”

“Really. I just…” Daniela says as she tucks a strand of hair behind your hair.

“I just wish you handled it in a better way.”

You leaned forward and kissed Daniela on the forehead.

“I'm sorry. I… I didn't really mean to you know, hurt him. But with how he was treating you like some leverage to win our little banter? I just couldn’t stand it. You know I'm not the jealous type.” Daniela looks at you in disbelief before speaking.

“What? I could not give less of a fuck about that guy. I'm talking about you getting hurt Mi Vida. I don't ever want to see you in this state again, you hear me?”

You nod, which has Daniela smiling in satisfaction before leaning in and placing a kiss on your forehead.

You raise your right hand as you say the words, “Okay. I, Yn Ln, solemnly swear to never get in a fight in front of you ever again.

Daniela giggles as your tactics, and lowers the ice pack. Your girlfriend leans in—cupping your face—and kisses you on the lips.

You both pull away after a few seconds—out of breath—and say the words you would never get tired of saying.

“I love you, Dani.”

“Love you too babe. Always will.”

#kkoga #katseye #katseye x reader #katseye x female reader #ask #daniela avanzini #daniela katseye #daniela x reader #daniela avanzini x reader #daniela #daniela x femreader #wlw love #wlw post #wlw #gxg #gxg imagine #hybe #katseye x fem reader #katseye imagines

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obeymeshallwedateaddict · 9 months ago

Text

Devildom 'I love you' day

Imagine if there was a day in the Devildom where all demons had to show affection in one way or another. How would the brothers do it? How would the brothers express their undying love for you?

Contains: Fluff

GN!MC (Reader)

You can find more of my work here: Masterlist

............................................................................

Lucifer

You heard a knock on the door which woke you up. It was early in the morning and you had gone to bed late last night since you were playing games with Levi. So waking up early in the morning wasn't how you were planning to start the day. You sit up in the bed and groggily answer "Yeah?" You hear the door open while you rub your eyes.

-MC? Did I wake you? –You look over at the demon with fuzzy eyes. It was Lucifer. The raven-haired, red eyed, arrogant Avatar of Pride had come to wake you. You assumed that it is something important since he isn't the one to come wake you up. But then you saw a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his arms. And on top of that he was wearing formal attire. You rub your eyes once again to make sure you are seeing this properly and yes you were. The first-born was standing before you with a bouquet of flowers, wearing a costume! And the flowers were your favourite ones. Have you ever even told him you liked those?

-Uhm, Lucifer? What are these for? –You ask and look up to meet his eyes. His gaze was soft and loving.

-Today is the Devildom 'I love you' day. Every year on this day people have to show affection towards their loved ones. So here I am, MC. –He takes a deep breath and gets on one knee offering the bouquet to you.

-MC, I know I may not show it as often but you mean everything to me. I love you more than words can even begin to explain. And I promise you. I'm not doing this just because it's the Devildom 'I love you' day. –You swear you could feel your cheeks heat up and you probably have the biggest idiotic smile on your face you nod and take the bouquet from his arms. You bring it to your nose and the sweet scent of the flowers floods your nostrils. You close your eyes and inhale it.

-Thank you, Lucifer. They are lovely.. I love you too.. –You say as the demon sits next to you in the bed.

-I have planned many things for us today. I promise to make this day unforgettable. But before we start I have something else I'd like to do. –With those words the first-born grasps your chin and kisses you passionately. Your breaths mingle together while your lips dance in a heated rhythm. When the kiss ends you embrace him and inhale his scent. It was your favourite perfume. It was obvious that the day would be a success. After all it was planned by no other than the Avatar of Pride himself.

Mammon

You were walking down the hallway of RAD. It was in the middle of the school day so you still had a few hours left to go. The day was overall nice. Nothing too hard nor too boring. It was a pretty decent day. And then suddenly you hear someone shouting your name from the end of the hallway.

-Yo, MC? Wait up! –You turn around and look at the white-haired second-born run up to you. You wait for him to catch up while eying him with a questioning look.

-What's up, Mammon? –You ask as the demon reaches you. He puts his hands on his knees and pants. When he finally manages to catch his breath he looks over at you.

-MC, I bought ya something! –He says and pulls out two matching keychains from his pocket.

-Mammon, what are these for? –You ask and carefully observe the keychains.

-Let The Mammon explain. So I heard some bullshit that today is some Devildom blah blah 'I love you' day. And eh The Great Mammon just wanted to show you some love, human! –You chuckle and roll your eyes. Though you can't help but feel a bit flustered at the demon's determination.

-So hear me out! Cuz I'm gonna say this only once. MC, I love ya. –He hands you one of the keychains, looking into your eyes.

-I worked hard for these keychains ya know? So you better wear it every day. Cuz I am! And I wanna match! –You smile at Mammon's little demand and nod.

-Alright.. I'll wear it, Mammon –You see a big smile draw on his expression and you smile back at him.

-I love you too, Mammon. –You lean in and press a soft kiss to the demon's lips and he gasps.

-Yo, human! What's the big idea?! –He asks and you wrap your arms around his waist in an embrace. You can practically feel how the second-born rolls his eyes which almost makes you laugh.

-Fine. The Mammon will show ya some affection. Don't get used to it though. It's just for today. –You decide not to argue with his little statement but you knew it was a lie. Afterwards you and Mammon spend a great day, filled with kisses, hugs, holding hands and most importantly –love.

Leviathan

It was a regular day. You were painting your nails with Asmo in the living room when suddenly you got a message on your D.D.D. since your nail polish was still wet you asked the fifth-born to read it to you. You saw him tense up as he read the message.

-It's from Levi. He says he wants to play games and is inviting you to his room. Should I write to him that you are busy at the moment? –Asmo asks and you nod.

-Yeah. You might as well. I will talk to him later. I'll have to wait for the nail polish to dry out. –The eyes of the demon before you brighten and he nods, typing a few words on your phone before leaving it on the table.

-Okay! Let me put another layer of nail polish on you! –Asmodeus says and reaches for the nail polish but your phone buzzes again. Asmo leans over and reads it.

-Levi said that he has something important. Eh.. can't he wait? –Asmo whines and shakes his head. You think over it carefully before speaking up.

-If it's something important I must see what's up. I'll speak to you later, Asmo! –You say, grabbing your phone and turning to leave.

-You are seriously leaving for that boring otaku? And leaving the nail polish? MC, you are so bad! –You chuckle at the fifth-born's words and head for Levi's room. You knock on the door and prepare to say the secret phrase but to your surprise Leviathan just opens the door for you straight away. You greet him and enter the room.

-So, Levi what's up? –You notice a small blush on his face and wonder whether to question it or not but the demon speaks up before you do.

-So uhm MC.. I h-heard that today is.. uhm Devildom 'I love you' day and uhm.. I wanted to give you this as a token of my feelings.. –He stammers out before handing you a figurine of both of you's favourite anime. Your eyes widen and you take it eagerly. Thank you Levi!

-Y-yeah... No problem.. know that.. uhm.. I.. I l-love you.. okay? –the third-born speaks and you nod.

-Yes, I know.. and I love you too, Levi! A lot. –The demon's cheeks heat up in a pinkish color and you chuckle to yourself before leaning in a pressing na soft kiss to Levi's lips.

-Wh-what are you??? –He questions but you silence him.

-Let's make the best of today. –You state and hug the purple haired demon, wrapping your arms around his neck. He only nods. You and Levi proceed to have a nice day filled with love.

Satan

You were sitting in the living room, scrolling through your phone in the company of Mammon, Asmo and Beel. The three of them were doing their own thing. Mammon was counting money, which resulted in a silent "one hundred to thirty-two" for example. It wasn't often but it happened from time to time. Asmo was reading a beauty magazine. He looked almost lost in it. Like he wouldn't be able to move his gaze away from it while Beel was eating a pizza and a devil burger at once. At once.. oh and he was drinking soda along with it too. That demon is impossible. Suddenly you get a call which draws everyone's attention to your phone. You grab your phone and check the ID to see that the Avatar of Wrath was calling you. You pick up and your first words draw frustration in everyone in the room.

-Yeah, Satan? What's up? –You speak and wait for him to answer.

-I want to speak to you. It's important. Could you come to my room for a bit? –He asked, hanging up before you could respond, leaving you with little choice but to make your way to his room. Standing up from the couch you walk to the fourth-born's room. You knock on the door and soon enough you receive a firm. "Come in, MC" from the other side. By walking in you could smell the faint scent of Satan's perfume. He was wearing a formal attire with a book and a rose in hand. You shot him a questioning gaze and he chuckles.

-Oh MC. Why are you looking at me like that? Don't you know what today is? –The demon asks and you shake your head.

-No, not really.

-Let me enlighten you then. Today is the Devildom's 'I love you' day. People on this day show their love and appreciation towards their partner. And I would like to do the same. –He offers you the book and the rose, by taking it you feel that the thorns have been cut. For as long as you can remember you'd always poke your finger into a thorn. But not today. Supposedly Satan thought about that as well and clipped out the thorns. The book was one that you have been wanting to get for ages but never got spare money to do so. You look over at Satan and smile. -Oh my gosh! Thank you, Satan! That means so much... –You speak and see a faint blush cover the demon's cheek.

-You flatter me, MC. And here I thought that today was the day I got to pamper you. But let me tell you. I love you, MC. More than words or any book can express. –He says and takes your hand. You look at his eyes and feel the sincere love he feels for you.

-I love you too, Satan. –You smile and lean in to press a soft kiss to the demon's lips. Afterwards you and Satan share a nice and romantic day together.

Asmodeus

You were helping Lucifer run some errands around RAD and it was honestly tiring. The man himself seemed exhausted and was barely holding up considering he is one of the most powerful demons in the Devildom. So what's left for a human like you? You felt like you could collapse any minute now. And then all of a sudden you get a call from Asmodeus, the fifth-born. You answer and continue trying to catch up to Lucifer.

-Yeah? Asmo, what's up? –You ask and continue walking.

-MC, sweetheart... I've got something for you. Meet me in the cafeteria. –He speaks up and you watch Lucifer walk faster and faster into the distance.

-Sorry, Asmo. I'm kind of busy right now. Heyyy! Lucifer, wait up! –You call out for the eldest who didn't seem to hear your words.

-Lucifer! –You try one more time but it was also unsuccessful. The demon was lost in his own world. Meanwhile Asmodeus was giggling on the other side of the phone.

-MC, Lucy won't notice if you slip away. As I see he isn't even answering you. –You stop in your tracks and think about the fifth-born's statement. Perhaps he was right. But Lucifer would be pissed if you left him like that. Though do you care? You've gone through his punishments millions of times. It's not as if you cannot do it again. So there you were. Making yet again another poor life choice which you'll be scolded for.

-I'll be right there. –You say to the speaker and hang up the phone, heading to the cafeteria, instead of running after the lost in thought Avatar of Pride. Not long after you finally reach the cafeteria. When you opened the door you heard Asmodeus shout.

-Happy I love you day, sweetheart! –The fifth-born speaks and throws heart-shaped confetti your way. You chuckle and look over at Asmodeus.

-Thanks, Asmo. This is awesome! –You speak with the biggest smirk on your face. Asmodeus on the other hand claps his hands before walking up to you, wrapping his arms around you.

-I love you, MC. So so so so SO much! <3 –He speaks up and leans down, capturing your lips in a loving, yet passionate kiss. It lasted for a couple of minutes and when you finally pulled away, you whispered into the demon's ear.

-I love you too, Asmo. –The day you and the Avatar of Lust shared was irreplaceable.

Beelzebub

You were in your room, quietly scrolling on your phone. The day was pretty decent. You had a few errands you had to run but it wasn't something hard to do. And now that everything was done you had some free time left to do whatever you want. That's when suddenly Beelzebub the sixth-born barged in through the door. You looked at him with a questioning gaze. You didn't expect visitors. Or so you thought. After all your room is a public place and free to use for certain 7 demon brothers.

-Hey, Beel. You need something? –You ask and look over at the orange-haired demon before you. He had a hopeful look in his eyes. It felt like he was expecting something from you. Though you weren't sure what. Was there something you have forgotten? An outing with the twins? Or to make Beel his favourite demon sandwich? You weren't sure exactly why the sixth oldest would come into the room just like that.

-Yeah, MC. I heard from Lucifer that today is a Devildom 'I love you' day. And I wanted to show you how much I actually love you. To use the day as an opportunity. –The demon says and falls into complete silence before looking out the window.

-Well evening.. not day.. but.. will you spend it with me, MC? –The demon asks and you nod your head.

-Gladly, Beel! Let's go.. –You stand up and take the sixth-born's hand, leading him outside your bedroom.

Soon enough you and Beelzebub find yourselves in Hell's kitchen, waiting for your order. The sixth-born takes your hand, making you look into his eyes. You saw that same loving, yet innocent gaze he had. One of the many reasons you loved Beelzebub.

-MC, I want you to know how special you are to me. And how much I love you. –The demon speaks up while caressing your knuckles.

-I love you too, Beel. You are also really special to me. –You say and lean in, closing your eyes and gently pressing your lips to those of the Avatar of Gluttony. He smiled against your lips while they intertwined in a passionate dance. You and Beel proceed to share a nice dinner at Hell's kitchen.

Belphegor

It was a regular morning. You and the brothers had just shared breakfast though you cannot deny how wild it actually was. Mammon and Satan argued the whole time about the ingredients in the Devildom hell sauce. Asmodeus was painting Beel's nails while Lucifer was lecturing Leviathan for using his phone during breakfast. That was pretty much a regular morning at this point. And if it was peaceful you'd know that there is a problem. Suddenly the first-born finishes scolding Levi and turns to you.

-MC, could you wake up Belphie for me? I don't want him to be late to a meeting once again. –You listen to the raven-haired demon's words and nod before excusing yourself from the table. You walk over to the twin's room and knock on the door. When you didn't receive an answer you walked in. To your surprise though the Avatar of Sloth wasn't sleeping like he usually would. Instead he was sitting on the bed, wearing his school uniform. In his hand he was holding a little jewellery box. Playing with it and moving it from one hand to the other.

-Good morning, Belphie. Why aren't you at breakfast? –The demon turns his gaze to you and smiles. It seemed like his mood immediately shifted when he noticed you.

-MC! There you are! I was waiting for you. –He stood up and walked over to you.

-Waiting for me? I don't remember you asking me to meet you? –You question and the demon chuckles.

-I didn't call you over because I knew Lucifer would send you to wake me up at some point. But anyway. I have a little surprise for you. –Belphie says and opens the box, offering it to you. Inside there are two necklaces. Matching ones. The first one was formed like a moon and the other one was like a little sun.

-Happy Devildom 'I love you' day, MC. This is a little something I bought to show you how I feel. They are matching necklaces. One is for me and the other is for you. –He speaks up and reaches for the sun-shaped necklace. He wrapped it around your neck and clipped it.

-It suits you perfectly. Would you mind putting mine on? –The seventh-born asks and you nod. Taking the moon necklace you wrap it around the demon's neck and clip it up. And there you were. Wearing matching necklaces with Belphegor. You smiled and pulled Belphie into a hug. Wrapping his arms around you he leaned down and whispered into your ear.

-I love you, MC. –And with that he proceeds to capture your lips in a loving kiss. You were in a great mood for the rest of the day. Toying with the little necklace when you missed the youngest brother in class.

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