#Writing a 4k chapter though? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

capuccinodoll · 8 months ago

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Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter one ♡

Summary: It’s Joel’s birthday. As usual, you and Sarah are getting everything ready to celebrate, just like you have for years. However, while preparing dinner before Joel gets home from work, Sarah tells you that her dad has been seeing a mysterious woman for the past couple of weeks. This wouldn’t be an issue, except he’s been deliberately hiding it from you, even going out of his way to lie about it.

Though you try to keep your anger in check to avoid ruining his birthday, your emotions get the better of you later that night when it’s just the two of you. Joel doesn’t hold back either, sparking a heated argument that pushes you both further than ever before.

Word count: 9.4K

A/N: Okay, I was planning for the first chapter to be 4K words MAX, but my imagination went crazy with this lol I really hope you like it. I really enjoyed writing this <3 warning: ANGST! don't forget to leave feedback, tell me what you think!

If you want to be on the tag list, let me know too.

You met him on the night of your twenty-second birthday, at the small party Cassie had put together for you in her dimly lit apartment. You hadn’t wanted much of a celebration, nothing bigger than a few close friends, and certainly not a group of strangers. But when Brianna swept in, holding hands with a man you didn’t know, and introduced him as her boyfriend, you felt a vague flicker of annoyance, the kind that accompanies unmet expectations.

"I thought it was just going to be us," you mumbled to Cassie, catching her in the kitchen as she poured herself another glass of wine.

She looked at you, her cheeks already flushed, eyes bright. "They're a few of my friends, too; they’re nice—you’ll like them if you give it a chance." She smiled, urging you to relax, as though she could tease you out of your mood. "It’s your birthday; don’t be so sullen."

"I didn’t know Brianna was bringing her boyfriend," you said quietly, as Cassie started back to the living room.

She paused, giving you a half-smile over her shoulder. "Neither did I, actually," she admitted, lowering her voice. "Apparently, they've been together for about a month. She’s really into him."

And she was. Brianna clung to him all night, her laughter spilling out freely, unrestrained and buoyant from the wine. It wasn’t long before someone suggested karaoke, and as voices rang out in the next room, you slipped quietly back into the kitchen, craving a moment of solitude. You were surprised to find Brianna’s boyfriend there, leaning against the counter, scrolling absently through his phone with a glass of water in hand.

He looked up, straightened, and offered you a tentative smile. “Oh, hi. Happy birthday,” he said, his voice warm but reserved. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier…��

“No worries,” you replied, your tone reassuring. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, as though weighing what to say next. “Are you having a good time?”

You gave a slight shrug. “It’s…” but before you could finish, he cut in with a knowing smile.

“It’s okay. I don’t love my birthday either.” His eyes glinted in the soft kitchen light, and you felt a small smile tugging at your own lips.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, allowing yourself the indulgence. “I didn’t want to admit it,” you said, feeling the faintest hint of heat rising to your cheeks. “What was your name again?”

“Joel,” he answered, his gaze drifting briefly back to his phone. “Sorry, I’m a little on edge tonight. Left my daughter with a new babysitter. I think she’s having a rough time.”

Your eyebrows rose in mild surprise; you hadn’t pegged him as a dad. You moved closer, pouring yourself a glass of orange juice and asked, “How old is she?”

“Four. Her name’s Sarah.” He ran a hand through his hair, and you could tell he was tense. “It’s only the second time she’s been with this sitter, and apparently, she’s been crying all evening.”

“Oh, poor thing,” you murmured sympathetically. “She’s little. Changes like that must be hard on her.”

He sighed, his gaze drifting to the side as he typed something quickly on his phone. “I should probably get going. Brianna won’t love that idea; we’d planned to stay out…” He paused, eyes flicking up to meet yours, worry etched across his face. “You think she’ll be too mad?”

“No,” you assured him, though you knew Brianna wouldn’t be pleased. “Go be with your daughter. She’s little; she needs you. Brianna will understand.”

A grateful smile spread across Joel’s face, and for the first time, you noticed the faint dimple on his cheek. For a fleeting second, you wanted to reach out, trace it with your thumb.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on you in a way that felt unintentional, yet steady. “I hope your night gets better once karaoke is over,” he added with a quiet laugh. "Wish me luck."

You chuckled, meeting his gaze. “Good luck, Joel.”

He left with that same soft smile, and you watched him go, his warm brown eyes leaving an odd impression, like an unclaimed memory. And, as expected, Brianna didn’t understand. She spent the rest of the night sulking, casting sharp words at Joel through her bitterness.

“You knew he had a daughter when you got with him, this was bound to happen at some point,” Cassie told her, fed up with the other's complaints.

You didn't hear the answer, as you were distracted by watching the colorful pictures someone had put on the television.

You heard nothing more from Joel for a couple of weeks, until Cassie blurted out the gossip one morning while you were having lunch at her house.

“He broke up with her,” she began to tell you. “He told her she wasn't being empathetic and that he couldn't drop everything to party with her as if they had no responsibilities.”

It was no surprise. Brianna was a woman who lived at night; she was twenty-three years old and enjoyed it with the freedom that was rightfully hers. You couldn't blame her for wanting to have fun with her boyfriend. But Joel lived a very different reality than she did; at twenty-eight, he had a daughter to take care of, routines to follow, and a lot of work to do.

Although you thought it would take her longer to get over him, it wasn't long before she met a guy at her gym and got into it with him, outgrowing Joel in a matter of days. But for some reason, Joel’s warm, steady gaze stayed with you, like a whisper that hadn’t fully faded.

Years passed quietly, slipping through your fingers like sand until, suddenly, it was your twenty-sixth birthday. This time, the scene was different: you’d moved into your own place just two days earlier, and there was little thought of celebrating. Instead, the weekend found you alone, arranging your things and attempting to bring order to the chaos of a new home.

It was a crisp Saturday morning, and you stood in your front yard with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice in hand, humming along to some eighties tune drifting in from the living room. The song—one of those upbeat ones that made even housework feel light—had lifted your spirits, and you moved rhythmically as you pushed plastic flowers into the dirt along the front path, sending little puffs of air to make the petals flutter.

You were lost in your task when you heard soft footsteps behind you, instinctively making you turn.

“Oh, hello,” you said, quickly masking the slight surprise the girl’s sudden appearance had given you.

She looked at you with wide, curious eyes, seemingly unfazed by her solo adventure.

“Hi. What’s your name? Do you live here?” she asked, her gaze shifting from your face to the flowers in your hands.

Glancing around for any sign of her parents, you noted her relaxed stance, like she’d been coming here all her life. Smiling, you nodded and gave her your name. “Yep, I just moved in.”

She looked unimpressed. “This house was empty for a while. I didn’t like the kid who lived here before. He was a pain in the ass—”

“Sarah!” came a sharp voice from behind, making you jump slightly. Heavy footsteps approached, and you squinted against the sun to see a figure striding toward you, his features obscured by the bright morning light.

When he stepped closer, his face came into focus, and your breath caught. You knew him.

“Sarah, you can’t just leave the house like that,” he said sternly, a furrow in his brow, his tone more parental than reproachful.

He turned to you, and the scowl softened as recognition dawned.

“Joel,” you murmured, the name slipping out before you even meant to say it aloud.

His expression shifted into a surprised smile, and that was all it took to break the ice between you. You explained that you’d just moved in and were still settling. Joel offered to help with anything you needed, including taking a look around the house to ensure everything was in order. He formally introduced you to Sarah, now eight years old, who had nearly scared him to death by sneaking out. She had his same lively spark in her eyes, a brightness that seemed familiar.

That evening, Sarah invited you to dinner with them, leaving Joel with little choice but to agree. And one dinner became many, as evenings blurred into weekends, and you found Joel’s presence in your life weaving into something inseparable from your routine. He started popping by to help with small projects, fixing kitchen cabinets or adjusting the wobbly front steps, visits stretching into movie marathons or lazy conversations with cold beer in hand. Days flowed into evenings of chatting over the meals you cooked to share with Sarah, and sometimes her uncle Tommy. Though Joel claimed he was no cook, his barbecues were legendary, and you couldn’t deny you looked forward to them most of all. And soon enough, he was there for everything, from driving you to doctor’s appointments to accompanying you on those grocery runs he pretended to hate. He even started showing up early on days he knew you’d need a ride. Over time, he became the best friend you’d ever had, a safe place, someone who felt like family. With everyone else scattered—Cassie overseas, old friends moved away—Joel became your rock.

It wasn’t something you dared to admit to yourself often, but you couldn’t imagine your life without him. And maybe that’s why you never allowed yourself to voice those little fleeting thoughts, the ones that flitted through your mind every now and then: how safe you felt whenever he threw his arm around your shoulders, or how good he looked reclining on his couch after a long day. Or how perfect it felt when the three of you—Sarah dozing on his lap, you leaning into his shoulder—sat together in the warm silence of a Sunday afternoon. There was an ache, too, a quiet pang whenever he mentioned another woman. Thankfully, that was rare; Joel once told you, with a shrug, that he “wasn’t really looking for that sort of thing.”

Sometimes, you watched him carefully as you talked about your own dates, hoping to catch a glimmer of jealousy in his gaze, some subtle cue that maybe he felt the same way. But there was never anything you wanted to see, and you always felt silly for looking. So, you buried it all. The risk of ruining things with Joel wasn’t worth the confession.

One afternoon, however, your emotions almost escaped your eyes when, while preparing Joel's birthday cake, Sarah dropped a piece of news that caught you off guard. She told you, with her usual nonchalance, that Joel had gone out the night before with someone new.

“Yeah, it’s like… the third time they’ve gone out,” Sarah mentioned while spreading cream on the sponge cake. “I don’t know her name or anything, just that he met her in line at the bank,” a laugh choked in her throat, amused at imagining her father flirting with some woman in a public space.

You forced a smile, laughing along like it was funny.

"And who stayed with you last night?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

Not that Sarah was necessarily a baby; she was already twelve and extremely independent. But Joel never left her alone if he went out for the night, he knew how much she loved spending time with you watching movies and eating junk food. Then, when he arrived, you would pester him with gossipy questions and he would pretend to get angry and then answer every one of them.

“Uncle Tommy," she said, eyeing her work with satisfaction. “We had fun, but I kinda wished you’d come too. Hey, what do you think?” she fingered the cream neatly arranged with the angled knife.

“It's perfect,” you smiled at her, not waiting too long to ask the question you wanted so badly. “Why didn't you call me then?”

Sarah started sprinkling colorful sprinkles on top of the cream and looked at you for a second when she noticed the tone in your voice at the last word. She didn't seem to think much of it.

“You were busy, weren't you? Dad said you had something to do.”

Her answer hit you like a small weight to the chest. Joel had purposefully left you out. He’d even made an excuse for Sarah’s benefit. So, there had been three dates—three times he’d kept this woman a secret. A small knot formed in your stomach as you forced yourself to smile, still watching Sarah as she concentrated on the last of the sprinkles.

In the kitchen, you were running your hand through the steam from the beef stew on the stove—Joel’s favorite—when the door opened. His footsteps grew louder, approaching, and you nervously adjusted the dress you’d chosen, one you knew he liked, though he’d never said it. It was your favorite too, a cream-colored sundress with delicate shoulder ties.

Sarah sprang forward, covering his eyes. “Don’t look, the table’s not ready.”

You hurried to set the glasses in their places, your hands a little shaky as you moved, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“I don’t need to see it—I can smell it, and it smells incredible,” Joel grinned beneath Sarah’s tiny hands, which she’d plastered over his eyes, half to keep him from sneaking a glance, half just because she could.

“Too bad you don’t smell incredible,” Sarah retorted with a smirk, wrinkling her nose. "Go take a shower!"

You laughed, catching Joel’s raised brow at her.

“You’ve got five minutes,” you said, placing the lid on the simmering pot.

Joel snorted, brushing Sarah’s hands away from his face.

“That’s the smell of a hardworking man,” he replied, feigning offense as he turned for the stairs. “Y’all oughtta know.”

Later, the three of you sat around the table, and Joel took his first bite of the stew, eyes widening, a kind of bliss washing over his face. He tossed his head back and groaned.

“Sweet Glory,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “Thank you for this.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, though part of you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something between irritation and flattery. “You say that every time I cook for you.”

He shook his head, smiling as he chewed, then spoke softly, his gaze slipping downward.

“I’m not exaggerating—I love everything you do.” A pause, and then a quick, awkward clarification. “I mean, everything you cook.”

The clarification was like a line drawn in the sand, a boundary etched by his voice alone.

You smiled weakly and inwardly thankful when Sarah spoke, telling you about something that had happened at her school that week and distracting you from the question that was spellbinding your tongue. You were dying to ask it, to look him in the eye and ask: who did you go out with last night? Why didn't you tell me? Is it someone I know? Is that it?... But you didn't, you stayed quiet and participated in the pleasant conversation, celebrating his birthday as he deserved. After all, no matter how much it angered you that he kept things from you, it was still his special day.

After dinner, Sarah forced Joel to sit in front of his cake, two lit number candles glowing in front of him. You turned out the lights, watching as the light from the flames reflected beautifully in your best friend's dark pupils.

Joel was wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans, his hair was still barely damp from the shower he'd taken before, and his sun-kissed tan face looked smooth, decorated by the beard and mustache you loved so much. Behind him, his shadow vibrated and spread across the wall with grandeur.

“Make a wish!” Sarah cheered, bouncing with excitement as she placed her small hands on his shoulders.

Joel smiled, closed his eyes, and blew out the candles. In the dimness, you leaned in and kissed his cheek softly.

“Happy birthday, old man,” you whispered, your hand resting gently on his neck.

He reached for your hand, pressing a warm, lingering kiss into your palm. “I’m not that old,” he muttered with a mock frown.

Sarah giggled, holding a knife to cut the cake and licking a dab of frosting from her thumb. “You’ll be forty in four years,” she teased, catching your amused expression.

Joel scoffed, scratching his stomach as he stood back up, turning to you with a smile that made you forget, just for a moment, all the questions you were holding back. There was only Joel, his rumbling laugh, Sarah’s delighted giggles. It felt like home.

Sarah gave him his gift first: a copy of Curtis and Viper 2 with the deleted scenes and a mystery box. When he opened it, a smile formed on his lips.

He pulled out a weathered wristwatch, broken for months, now polished and repaired.

“I took it in to be fixed. Do you like it?” Sarah asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

Joel nodded, eyes softening as he extended his wrist for her to put it on. “It’s perfect, baby.”

“Let's watch the movie later,” Sarah said. “You can't fall asleep.”

“Let's see which one of us falls asleep first,” you joked, and you were right. Joel had been working all afternoon and Sarah had been yawning for hours.

You turned and picked up the box resting beside your feet, handing it to him. When he opened it, Joel pulled out a black cloth garment and a paper envelope. He tugged at the cloth, revealing a thick, soft jacket. He read the label and a smile appeared on his lips.

“I saw it and thought of you,” you said, mimicking his gesture.

“How much did you pay for this?”

“Don't worry about it, it had to be yours,” you noted as you stood up and took it from his hand. “Here, stand up. Let's see how it fits you.”

“And what if it doesn't fit? Do we have to travel to Rome to exchange it?”

You laughed, then helped him slide it over his shoulders, a comfortable, familiar movement.

“I know you by heart, I couldn't be wrong.”

“So?” he asked, smiling coquettishly. Your stomach tingled and you decided to ignore it.

“Lookin’ good, Dad,” Sarah chimed in, her innocent smile lighting up the moment. “Bet someone special will love it, too.”

Joel smiled weakly, as if he was trying to tell her something with his eyes, and for a second you hated the thought of your gift being enjoyed by someone else. You imagined him getting ready to go out with her -whoever she was-, running his hand through his hair and perfuming his neck as he did from time to time whenever he went out with someone. You knew that perfume perfectly, you'd recognize it anywhere, though you were sure it wouldn't smell the same on anyone else. Joel added his own scent to it, and you loved it.

“Okay, now, open the envelope,” you urged, your voice unintentionally sharper than you meant.

Joel sat back down and opened the blue paper envelope. He read the note carefully and when he looked up, you and Sarah were looking at him excitedly.

“Sunshine, did you pay for this?” he asked you, a soft disbelief in his tone.

Inside were three plane tickets. Sarah had helped you pick the destination—somewhere none of you had been but would love.

When you nodded, he let out a soft sigh. “Let me cover part of it.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes. “It’s my birthday gift to you, Joel. It’s all settled. You need a vacation, and we certainly do too, don't we?”

“That's right,” Sarah confirmed, smiling complicitly.

He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re too good to me.”

But he smiled, tucking the tickets back into the envelope.

Time with Joel and Sarah was easy. When you were with them, hours slipped away, and the heaviness of everything else seemed to dissolve. You felt at home, and sometimes it left you wondering about Sarah’s mother, about how anyone could have left them. Didn’t she see how extraordinary they were? Didn’t she realize what she’d lost?

You thought about this as you relaxed on the couch beside Joel, Sarah curled up with her head on your shoulder. Her breathing had slowed, and you smiled, realizing she’d fallen asleep. Three glasses sat on the coffee table: the wine Joel had opened just before dinner—a bottle you’d brought back from your last trip to Italy—and Sarah’s lemon soda. Joel snorted softly, glancing at his daughter with a smirk, then leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Fallen soldier,” he whispered, smiling.

You laughed, brushing a hand over Sarah’s hair. “She’s tired. She was up all afternoon making your cake, you know? Tried the cream three times before she got it right.”

Joel sighed, an apologetic note in his voice. “I know, sorry I was late. I know she wanted me here sooner.”

Curtis and Viper 2 was halfway through on the TV, forgotten in the background. Joel straightened, signaling he’d take Sarah to bed, and you shifted to make room as he lifted her, carrying her toward the stairs. You watched him disappear down the hallway, and as the house fell into a quiet lull, that familiar disappointment stirred in your chest. Now, without Sarah’s chatter, you’d have to keep pretending that nothing was wrong.

You took a long sip of your wine, finishing off the glass just as Joel returned. He sat down heavily beside you, causing the cushions to sink as he let out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes before giving you a grateful look.

“Thanks for today, I had a great time. Sarah was very happy,” he said quietly, a warm smile appearing on his lips.

“I'm glad, hun. Although the credit goes to her, I just made dinner.”

“Doesn’t matter. You helped her, and I’m grateful. I mean that. For today, and for… all these years.” His voice softened, almost reverent.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you whispered, feeling your pulse pick up as he leaned closer, his brown eyes unreadable but soft. “You’re my family, both of you. Really, I’m the one who owes you thanks.”

He shook his head and leaned back, taking another sip of his wine.

“Not at all,” he replied, leaning back again.

You watched him for a moment, turning the weight of your question over in your mind. If you said something, he’d make an excuse. If you kept silent, the doubt would eat at you. You tried to fix your gaze on the TV, on anything other than his profile in the dim room. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.

“So, what did you do last night?”

He tensed beside you, so subtly that only you could’ve noticed. “What?”

You tried to keep your tone even, hoping you didn’t sound like you’d spent all day thinking about it. “I just… didn’t see your truck out there, thought maybe you were gone or something.” It was a lie; you had fallen asleep on your couch last night, you hadn't even noticed Joel was gone.

Joel seemed to measure his words carefully. “Oh. Yeah… I just went out for a beer with Tommy,” he answered, his tone a little too casual.

Heat crept up your face, disbelief taking root. He really was holding out on you for some reason, wasn't he? The man was lying to you, and not very cleverly. Tommy had been with Sarah, what if you had seen him, hadn't he thought of that? Apparently not.

It took a moment before you could bring yourself to say anything, watching as he glanced at you with an uneasy smile, waiting for you to believe him.

“Joel,” you murmured, not quite able to keep the accusation out of your voice. “You’re lying to me.”

He gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, but you didn’t let him off so easily. Before he could say anything, you spoke again.

“Tommy was with Sarah last night, here,” you pointed out, your voice firmer this time. His silence told you everything, his face drawn and uncertain as he realized you’d caught him.

After a long pause, he looked down, his voice unusually flat. “Alright, yeah. I know.”

The admission was so casual it took you by surprise, but you shook your head, feeling the ache of frustration and betrayal creep in.

“Why would you lie to me?” you pressed. “We’re friends. Why wouldn’t you tell me you’re seeing someone?”

Joel sighed, avoiding your gaze, his eyes instead locked somewhere in the distance. “It’s… it’s nothing serious,” he mumbled. “Just getting to know her. Don't make such a fuss out of it.”

“What? what you're saying doesn't make sense. You’ve kept it hidden, avoided every chance to be honest about it. Why?” you asked, trying not to let the hurt seep into your voice.

“It’s not like that,” he insisted, but his voice sounded unsure.

“So if I call Tommy right now, he’ll tell me the truth? Or did you ask him to keep this from me too?”

Finally, he met your gaze, his eyes scanning your face, reading the frustration and hurt you’d tried to keep buried. You could see it in his eyes, that familiar tug of defiance, a flash of something deeper than guilt or secrecy.

“What if I did?” His voice was almost philosophical, his gaze intense and challenging. “This is my private life. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, not even you. Do I?”

You drew in a sharp breath. His words struck like a slap, but you steadied yourself. “You’re right, Joel. You don’t owe me explanations. But you don’t have to lie to me, either.” You looked down, feeling your voice start to waver. “You’ve never hidden your relationships from me before.”

He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face and slumping back against the couch.

After a few seconds, he finally looked at you, a look of exasperation crossing his face.

“Because of this.” He gestured between you, his tone gentle but firm. “This reaction, right here, is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

What Joel was saying didn’t make sense. Your frustration wasn’t over him seeing someone else; it was something else entirely, something more fundamental.

“Oh, just stop,” you snapped, voice sharp. “I’m not mad because you’re dating someone, Joel. I’m mad that you lied to me. They’re two completely different things.”

He took a breath, settling back on the couch, and turned to face you, a guarded expression crossing his face. “No, it’s always the same thing. Remember the last time I was seeing someone?”

And you did, briefly. A year ago, one of his friends had introduced him to his cousin—a woman who had just moved to town. She was polite enough, but her smiles had a brittle quality to them, and when she met Sarah, her warmth never extended beyond a single, dismissive greeting. The indifference was obvious, at least to you, and maybe you’d let that show a little too openly. Joel had caught on quickly, and after that, things with her fizzled out.

“That was different,” you argued, exasperated. “She wasn’t nice, Joel. She had zero interest in Sarah.”

He gave a bitter, half-smile. “Maybe, but it wasn’t your job to manage that. I can handle my own relationships. But you always—” he paused, thumping his chest with a finger, “you always step in. Always get defensive.”

“That’s not true!” Your voice rose as anger crept in, heating your face. “You’re just making excuses. Date whoever you want, Joel, I don’t care. But don’t lie to me, don’t insult me with these flimsy excuses. Or if you’re going to lie, at least make it convincing.”

He clenched his jaw, his gaze hardening, something fierce sparking in his eyes. “Are you sure about that?” he asked, his voice low and measured, the words hanging between you like a dare.

“Sure about what?” Your brow creased in confusion, the pulse in your chest picking up, a flurry of anger and… something else you couldn’t place, mingling with the haze of the wine.

His eyes narrowed, holding yours, unflinching. “That you don’t care. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Because I know you, i know you to well to know you’re just jealous.”

Jealous. He thought you were jealous.

He had missed the point completely. Your feelings for him were complex, that much was true. But you had learned, or thought you had learned, to carry them quietly. Your friendship with him had come to feel like a sturdy house you could live inside without having to ask too much of it. Having him in your life was enough.

But now, you felt that house shift, cracks spreading through the walls. His inability to trust you hurt more deeply than you’d expected. The openness you’d once trusted was fracturing. You felt the sting of tears prick at your eyes, the words he’d thrown out so casually cutting to the quick.

“Fuck you, Joel,” you muttered, standing abruptly, storming to the door and slamming it shut behind you. You barely heard him call your name as you left, fury driving you down the front steps, the cool night air biting at your cheeks.

Honestly, he could go fuck himself.

Just as your hand reached your front door, his footsteps closed in behind you, his strides fast enough to catch up. You tried to close the door before he could reach you, but his hand caught it just in time, his voice heavy with irritation.

“Just go away, Joel,” you said, barely glancing at him. “I don’t want to see you again.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.” His voice was calm, almost pleading.

You stepped back, reluctantly letting him into the foyer. He’d have come in anyway.

“I mean it, God. Go home,” you insisted, your voice wavering, betraying the anger mixed with something else.

He shook his head, taking a few steps closer, his jaw tight. “Can we just talk?”

“Talk?” you repeated incredulously. “Talk about what? About how wrong you are?”

He didn’t flinch, but his eyes darkened. “Don’t act like what I said was crazy,” he said, voice steady but a little sharper now.

You scoffed, throwing your hands up. “Oh, so now I’m jealous, is that it? Then, by your logic, you must’ve been jealous too, right? Like last month, when Travis asked me out. Because if that’s the case, then we’re having the same conversation, aren’t we?”

Joel clicked his tongue, tilting his head with an exaggerated sigh. “No, Travis is just a jerk. And I don’t like him, plain and simple.”

Travis Dunn, your neighbor, had moved in a few months after you did. Handsome, tall, and friendly, everyone on the street adored him—everyone except Joel. He couldn’t seem to stand him, though Travis was always polite to him.

Last month, when Travis had asked you out, Joel had practically laughed in your face when you told him about it, muttering something dismissive as if the very idea was absurd. You’d told Travis you were busy, though deep down you knew the real reason you hadn’t accepted was because of Joel’s disapproval.

You shook your head, exasperated. “Travis isn’t a jerk, Joel, you just don’t like him. He’s nice, honestly, much nicer than some people, if we’re being honest here. Everyone loves him; you’re the only one who has a problem with him.”

“Then everyone’s as much of an idiot as he is, sunshine.”

“Oh, really? Or maybe… you’re jealous of him?” Your tone was teasing, but you felt the shift as soon as you said it.

Joel’s mouth twitched in a half-smile, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. He ran his tongue over his lips, shaking his head slowly, twice.

“Don’t turn this on me,” he said. “This isn’t about Travis or me.”

“No?” you shot back, voice edged with challenge. “So if I go tomorrow and say yes to him, that wouldn’t bother you at all, right?”

He stepped closer to you, his eyes dark with something you’d never seen in him before. The air seemed to thicken, his presence so intense it felt as though it wrapped around you. He leaned in, his face close enough that his words brushed your skin.

“You can do whatever you want, baby. It’s your fucking life.”

“And you can do whatever you want too, Joel. That’s the fucking point!” you nearly shouted, hands pushing against his shoulders, shoving him away. “I don’t care what you do! It’s already clear you don’t get it, you don’t get anything, ANYTHING!”

Joel staggered back for a split second, but it wasn’t long before he closed the distance again, though he didn’t get as close this time.

His voice was lower, a thread of something hard in his tone. “If you’re so insulted by the idea of being jealous, maybe that’s something for you to think about. Ever thought of doing a little introspection?”

“Are you drunk, Joel?” you asked, eyes narrowed, softening your voice a fraction. The argument was exhausting you, and the anger left you feeling hollow.

He laughed, an odd, choked sound. ��Oh, c'mon, you know one bottle of wine ain't enough to get me drunk.”

“Yeah, but you’re tired, and you’re not exactly young, Joel,” you said, brushing past him, his gaze glued to you the entire time. “Alcohol hits you differently now. Just go home, leave me alone.”

“Fine. I’ll leave you alone, and maybe then you can run across the street and fuck Travis Dunn, if you want it so badly,” he shot back, impatience tinging his voice as he turned toward the still-open door.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze for a moment, the anger washing over you in a wave. Before you could think twice, you rushed up to him, gripping his arm tightly to force him to turn and look at you.

“What the hell did you just say, Joel?” you hissed, grabbing his shirt, fingers bunching in the fabric as you backed him up until his shoulders hit the wall by the door. “Go on, say it again!”

Your breaths came fast, chest rising and falling as the rush of anger pushed tears to your eyes. You couldn’t believe he’d actually spoken to you like that, cutting right through to something raw and vulnerable. He’d never spoken to you like that before. Maybe he was a little drunk, or maybe he was losing his mind.

But there was no softness in his gaze, no hint of the Joel you knew. His stare was sharp, almost wild with something simmering underneath, something you didn’t understand. To you, this whole argument made no sense, at least not his reaction.

Joel’s grip on your wrist was firm, almost grounding, as he pulled you closer, pressing your palm against his chest. “I can’t stand that asshole, but go ahead and fuck him if you want,” he spat, voice laced with frustration. “Go fuck the whole neighborhood while you’re at it. I really don’t care anymore.”

His words were harsh, designed to cut, but they only drew a laugh from you—sharp and derisive. A tear slipped down your cheek, uninvited.

“What, did you ever care?” you asked, your voice trembling on the last syllable, thick with emotion.

But Joel didn’t respond, and the silence ignited a fire in you, something that swirled beneath the surface, ready to boil over.

“Do you know why we’re friends, Joel?” Your pulse quickened, each beat like a drum in your ears. “Because it just works between us. There are no ulterior motives. You know why? Because I don’t like you like that. You’re not even my type, and you never will be. And no, I’m not jealous that you’re dating some woman you’ll probably dump in less than a month, so get the fuck over it and leave me the fuck alone!”

You watched as his gaze flickered between your eyes, uncertainty warring with something darker. Suddenly, with an unexpected strength, Joel tightened his grip on your wrist and pushed you back hard against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your back hit the unforgiving surface.

His expression had transformed, those deep, dark eyes piercing you like arrows. His breath quickened, crashing against your face, and you could feel your lower lip tremble as he pressed even closer, pinning you against the wall.

“You don’t know how to lie,” he murmured, his lips almost brushing against your cheek.

The sensation was unbearable; his body pressed against yours, heat radiating off him and melting you inside. You could feel the edge of something primal, something that could tip either way. But suddenly, clarity surged through you. With a burst of strength, you pushed him away, breaking free from his grasp, forcing him to pull back just enough for you to gasp for air.

But the distance felt worse. In his eyes, you recognized something you’d never seen before—desire, raw and unfiltered. It clawed at you, igniting an inexplicable need. A sigh escaped your lips, and like a match struck in a dark room, it was enough to set off an explosion. In an instant, Joel lunged at you, and you found yourself wrapped around him, mouths colliding in a desperate kiss filled with moans and the urgency of your racing hearts.

With a loud thud, Joel kicked the front door shut, his hands moving feverishly down your body, fingers skimming your thighs, slipping beneath your dress. He caressed your skin before squeezing your ass hard, drawing a moan from your lips that echoed in the small space between you. You clung to him tighter, his hands fitting around you as if they were made for this very moment.

He pulled back for a breath, the sound wet and chaotic against the walls of your home, and then his lips descended down your neck, unraveling what little sanity you had left. A moan rumbled in his throat as your hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently to tilt your head back, giving him better access to the tender spot just below your ear, your blood pulsing beneath his hungry mouth.

Joel seemed to want to devour you whole; his hands roamed erratically, trembling as his mouth kissed and bit your jaw, pressing your bodies together in a way that felt impossibly intimate. When you lifted your right leg and wrapped it around his side, he was quick to respond, hands securing your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto his hips, burying his face against your chest.

Another moan escaped you, and he pulled you down just enough to find your lips again. “Joel,” you whispered, breathless as you parted from him, pressing your forehead against his, eyes searching his.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, his voice low, almost broken, each word laced with a vulnerability you’d never heard from him before. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you replied in a small, desperate cry, feeling the heat radiating from him, the thin fabric of your underwear igniting a fire deep within you.

You were dying of thirst, and he had just asked you if you would refuse a sip of water. Was he mad? You wanted to drink it all.

No sooner had you answered than Joel pulled you off the wall, striding toward the stairs with a confident grace. You lowered your legs cautiously, meeting his lips again in a frantic, wet kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with urgency.

You walked to your room with the agility of one who knows where to step, and once inside, you grabbed the shirt you had angrily grabbed earlier and lifted it up his body in a desperate attempt to rip it off. Joel raised his arms, letting the fabric pass over both of you and then fall to the floor, and as quickly as your hands returned to his chest, he kissed your neck again, desperate, pressing his fingers into the tender flesh of your waist, seeking a physically impossible closeness.

His hands found your thighs once more, fingers gripping and kneading with a measured intensity that sent electric shivers through you. As he moved lower, his fingertips brushed the thin fabric of your underwear, inching closer to where you ached for him, squeezing you tighter as if to draw you in.

In a single, decisive motion, he grasped the hem of your dress and pulled it upward, the fabric sliding along your skin as he lifted it away, tossing it aside with a casual disregard that only heightened the tension in the air. He took a step back, his gaze roaming over you, from the soft curve of your face down to the tips of your toes, a look of hunger that felt almost consuming.

You weren't wearing a bra (your dress didn't require it) and your breasts fell beautifully in front of him, hard nipples and soft skin. Your chest flushed with warmth, a rosy hue creeping into your cheeks as you swallowed hard, feeling vulnerable yet exhilarated when he stepped closer.

“I’ve always loved that dress,” he said, his voice trembling with an emotion that was both reverent and raw.

“I know,” you replied, a smile curling at the corners of your lips, the moment igniting an intimacy that made your heart race.

His eyes swept down your body again, glittering with an unmistakable lust, and when he closed the distance, standing right before you, your breath caught in your throat.

His hands slid around your waist, firm yet tender, pulling you into him with a deftness that sent a thrill coursing through you. In one seamless motion, he lifted you off the ground, your feet barely grazing the floor as you instinctively stood on your tiptoes, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

Joel’s eyes darkened with a hunger that left you breathless, and he leaned in, his lips finding one of your breasts with a soft kiss that felt both electrifying and reverent. The warmth of his mouth sent a rush of heat through your body, and before you could gather your thoughts, he nipped your nipple gently, a teasing bite that sent chills racing across your skin.

His teeth grazed you just enough to elicit a gasp, a shuddering reaction that echoed in the space between you. But he didn’t linger on the sharpness of that moment; he quickly replaced the sensation with the soothing warmth of his lips, enveloping you entirely.

He sank to one knee, lowering himself until his lips brushed your stomach, the warm sensation sending ripples of desire coursing through you. His face lingered dangerously close to where you needed him most.

Joel placed his hands on your hips, fingers gripping the elastic of your underwear, his gaze locking onto yours for a moment that stretched into eternity before he slowly began to lower it, the fabric sliding down your legs and pooling at your feet. You felt his breath hitch at the sight of your now bare center, the anticipation thickening the air between you as he inched closer, finally brushing his lips against your mons pubis.

“Precious,” he murmured, and the warmth of his breath washed over you like a caress, drawing a small, needy moan from your lips. His hands parted your legs slightly, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you firmly in place.

You cupped his face gently, as if afraid you might break him, and then, without warning, Joel licked his lips and plunged forward, his mouth connecting with you in a surprise that made your eyes flutter shut. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer as he devoured you, his tongue working its magic as he sucked and kissed you whole, with an urgency that left you breathless.

He growled into you, the sound reverberating through your body, and you felt weakness seep into your legs, trembling under the weight of his relentless attention. Joel was eating you like a hungry man, tasting you and soaking in your juices with a fervor that felt primal, kissing you as if his life depended on it.

“Fuck,” you gasped, feeling every muscle in your body tighten as a building pressure coiled inside you.

He pulled away for just a moment, his eyes darkened with lust, a playful smile creeping onto his lips before he returned to you, closing his mouth around your clit, sucking and licking with a skill that made your head spin.

“Ah—Joel, I’m going to—I’m going to—” You struggled to articulate the intensity of what was building within you, your words stumbling over the tide of pleasure washing over you.

His voice vibrated through you, trailing off into a soft, “Mhm.”

You pulled at his hair, tugging harder as a wrenching moan escaped your throat. The world around you faded as his movements grew more frantic, his tongue flicking at you with a desperate fervor. One of his hands released your thigh, and a low groan escaped his lips as his finger found your entrance, sliding inside with an ease that made you gasp.

“Fuck me, you’re so wet,” he murmured, pausing for a moment to take in the sight of you—your cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with lust. A satisfied smile broke across his face, and you thought he had never looked so gorgeous.

From your point of view, he looked beautiful. His bright eyes worshipped you intently, his mouth and mustache glistened bathed in you, his hair tossed by your hands mingled in all directions. Joel Miller had never looked so good.

Another finger joined the first, and you closed your eyes, surrendering to the sensation as he curled them just right, hitting that sweet spot that made you gasp for air. You gripped his hair again, pulling him closer, and he let out a throaty laugh, clearly reveling in the sight of you completely undone.

You felt his mouth on you again, the warmth of his lips kissing and sucking with an insatiable hunger that left you breathless. The sound of it was utterly obscene, echoing around the room like a carnal symphony, and it drove you to the brink of madness, your mind spinning in a dizzying haze of pleasure.

His movements grew more intense, a rhythm building that sent waves of ecstasy rippling through your body. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, your hips moving in desperate undulations, surrendering to the climax that Joel savored with unrelenting focus. Your fingers clenched around him, digging in perhaps a bit too hard, but he welcomed it, desperate to drink in every last drop of what you were offering, to savor you whole.

With a low grunt, he squeezed your hips before pulling away, the wet sound of his departure from you hanging heavy in the air. You barely registered his rise from the floor, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure, your eyes still closed as the vibrations coursed through you. It wasn’t until his hands gripped your waist that you finally blinked awake, lifting your eyelids to find him gazing down at you, his face mere inches from yours.

He leaned in, capturing your mouth again, a kiss that was both desperate and tender, igniting a fire deep within you. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer as you melted into the kiss. As the intensity built, you let your fingers drift down his chest, trailing lightly until they found the leather of his belt, the sensation sending shivers through you as you tugged him closer.

Joel vibrated against you, a low growl escaping as he nipped at your lower lip while you fumbled with his steel buckle, the sound of it being released becoming your new favorite melody. You unzipped his pants, your heart racing as you slipped your hand inside, finally touching him for the first time.

Your pulse quickened as you wrapped your fingers around him, feeling the heat radiating from his velvet soft skin; big, hot and throbbing in your palm. A rush of desire flooded you, and you pulled away from his lips, dropping to your knees before him, your eyes wide as you took in his form.

There he stood, beautiful and swollen with need, and your mouth watered at the sight. You cupped him gently, drawing him closer to your lips, placing a soft kiss on the tip. Joel closed his eyes at the sensation, surrendering to the moment completely, and you traced your tongue over him, tasting the salty sweetness of his pre cum that made your insides tighten with longing.

With a hint of effort, you attempted to take him fully into your mouth, but he was too large, stretching you in ways you hadn’t expected. Joel lowered his gaze to you, his fingers caressing your jaw as you struggled to adjust.

“Slow, baby,” he urged, his voice silky yet strained, and it sent another rush of need through you. "I know you can do it."

You matched your hand to your mouth, stroking him where you couldn’t quite reach, while your other hand gently caressed his balls, moving in a synchronized rhythm. Joel tensed beneath your touch, his fingers shifting from your face to tangle in your hair, guiding you as he reveled in the pleasure you were giving him.

The sounds in the room became a symphony of pleasure, every moan and gasp echoing off the walls, and you watched as Joel's pleasure climbed. The image was enough to drive him over the edge; your pink, swollen lips covered him and his cock glistened with your saliva, dripping from your chin with every move you made. Your teary eyes looked up at him desirously, and he could take no more; his gaze was filled with a primal hunger that threatened to unravel him. He finally withdrew from your mouth with great reluctance when he felt his stomach tighten, a low complaint escaping your throat in protest.

His breathing was heavy, and a flush colored his cheeks as he lifted you effortlessly, holding you at the waist, his lips finding yours in a heated kiss. In one swift motion, he laid you back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moved closer; Joel kneeling and settling between your legs which you instinctively opened for him.

You needed him, you needed him to fill you whole. You had never needed anything as much as you needed him at that moment. And as if he was reading your thoughts - or maybe he needed you as much as you needed him - he leaned in, taking your mouth with his once more, his moans blending with yours as he lost himself in you.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss, the taste of him igniting a fire in your veins. You felt him positioning himself at your entrance, his heat pulsing against you, and an intense sigh shot through your chest as Joel entered you in one thrust, burning and stretching you around him.

“Oh God,” he groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. His right hand traveled to your left leg, lifting it and resting it high on his shoulder, while without hesitation, his other hand mirrored the movement with your right leg, bringing you into a position that felt both intimate and vulnerable. You were completely folded under him.

A cry escaped your lips as Joel began to move on top of you, his face hovering just inches above yours, the heat between you palpable. No one had ever penetrated you so deeply; it felt as though he was everywhere, filling you completely, every inch of you alive with sensation.

Joel's right hand gently squeezed your neck, seeking your mouth for a kiss as his movements took on a more urgent pace. The rhythmic collision of his hips against your buttocks created a beautiful sound that echoed off the walls, each thrust punctuated by the soft, desperate gasps that slipped from his mouth. Your own cries mingled with his as your body tightened again, your hands moving frantically up and down his back, your nails digging into his flesh, leaving little marks that he would surely wear like badges of pleasure.

A broken sound escaped from Joel, raw and primal, as he sank his face into the crook of your neck once more, increasing his thrusts with a fervor that felt animalistic, as if the world outside had fallen away and this moment was all that mattered. He fucked you into the mattress with an intensity that left you breathless, as though he were trying to ground you both in this fleeting reality, where nothing else existed except for the two of you entwined together.

You melted around him, your juices mixing with his as you enveloped him completely, and just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, he lifted his head, your forehead resting against yours, his wide eyes locking into yours. You had never seen them so dark, so filled with intensity and strength.

And then it hit you: It was Joel, your Joel, the one who had been your best friend for four years, and here he was, fucking the life out of you like no one ever had before. What could possibly come after an experience like this?

“I thought you didn't like me,” he said, his voice choppy, strained with effort. A smirk played at the corners of his swollen lips. “Such a bad liar, baby, look at you.”

You growled in response, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him towards you with a mix of force and anger. Your lips found his in a kiss that was anything but patient, igniting a spark between you. You felt him tense above you, one of his hands quickly moving to your center, exerting immense pressure as he leaned his weight on his other arm, holding you captive beneath him.

His fingers found your clit, tracing gentle circles that made your back arch involuntarily, another wave of pleasure building inside you. Your mouth was still on his, consuming him completely, when your second orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You felt your insides tighten around him, squeezing him with a ferocity that pulled him closer to his own climax.

Joel gasped into your mouth, and the intensity of it sent your vision spiraling into darkness for a brief moment, the sensation so strong it felt as if the world had collapsed around you. When your breathing finally steadied, you found his hot body pressed against yours, moving in tiny tremors, quickened breaths brushing against your jaw.

He stayed inside you for a few moments longer, savoring the closeness, your hands continuing to caress his back, each touch a silent promise. Then, slowly, he pulled out of you, leaving you feeling achingly empty, his cum trickling from your entrance.

He fell limply beside you, his body slick with sweat, and pulled you close to him, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. His breaths, still heaving, crashed against your damp skin, wrapping you in warmth. Unable to muster the energy to move, you let your eyes flutter closed, surrendering to a deep, exhausted sleep that you would not remember when you woke up...

No, you didn't remember any dream, Because when you opened your eyes the next morning, you stirred in place and your muscles ached pleasantly, reminding you of the night before. And as you stretched your arms across the bed, your fingers grazed the sheets, feeling an emptiness beside you.

When you looked to your sides, the realization hit you hard.

Joel was gone.

taglist: @orcasoul

#joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #tlou fic #tlou hbo #tlou joel #capuccinodoll #joel miller is your best friend #joel x reader #joel tlou #joel the last of us #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal joel #dbf!joel

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sirensslament · 2 months ago

Text

UNREQUITED yeon sieun x reader

summary!: You’ve had a quiet crush on Yeon Sieun for what feels like forever, obvious to everyone, even him. Despite your popularity and his usual indifference, something shifts one ordinary school day. When bullies cross a line, and you're the one to defend him, your world and his unexpectedly collide. A late-night tutoring session turns into something much more, something neither of you can quite put into words.

Pairing: oblivious!sieun x pining!femalereader

Trope: academic rivals (ish), to reluctant crush

Genre: fluff, slice of life, school life, romance

Note: i needed to write something for sieun, he's been invading my mind. also, i feel the need to write something for suho and beomseok. yes even beomseok.

Word count: 4k

warnings !: none!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft white glow over the rows of students slouched at their desks. Outside the classroom windows, the sky is clear, just blue and clouds and the occasional rustle of wind. It’s one of those rare calm mornings, the kind where everything feels still, yet full of potential.

Your pen glides across the page with practiced rhythm, highlighting a line of notes in pink. You’re not really studying, you already read this chapter, twice even, but it’s something to do while waiting for the teacher.

Around you, the usual murmur of chaos unfolds: chairs scraping, laughter bubbling from random groups, the distant thump of someone playing music too loud through their earphones.

Suho is, unsurprisingly, dead asleep at his desk beside you. Face smooshed against his pink arm pilllow, hair a wild mess, mouth slightly open.

You narrow your eyes at him.

He’s been like that since first bell.

You reach down, grab a rubber ball from your pencil case, and flick it at his forehead.

Thunk.

He jerks up with a strangled grunt. “What the hell—?!”

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” you say sweetly, flipping your pen between your fingers. “Drooled a little, by the way.”

He wipes his cheek and glares at you. “I was in the middle of a dream.”

“Yeah? Dreaming about being a normal functioning student for once?”

He flips you off without looking. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two of you bicker like this every morning, a rhythm so natural it’s practically a warm-up for your brain. You’re close with Suho, not in a romantic way (which is something you two used to get mistaken for), but the kind of close that only comes from years of mutual trust, shared secrets, and stupid arguements.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You snored.”

“Liar.”

“Ask the class.”

“Ask your mom.”

You gasp. “Wow. You’re bold for someone who failed last month’s exam.”

“Bold for someone who’s still pining over Mr. Calculator up there,” he mutters.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He jerks his chin toward the front row.

Yeon Sieun sits in his usual spot, upright and pristine. His desk is spotless, not a single pen out of line. He reads from a thick textbook like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.

You try not to look.

You fail.

His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, just enough to soften the sharpness of his features. There’s something annoyingly elegant about him, even when he does nothing but sit and read.

“I’m not pining,” you say, a little too fast.

Suho smirks. “You literally sighed when you looked at him yesterday.”

“I was yawning.”

“You whispered ‘he’s so mysterious’ under your breath.”

“You have no proof.”

“I recorded it.”

You smack his arm. He snickers and slouches deeper into his chair.

The truth is: yeah, okay. You might be a little into Sieun.

Okay, a lot.

It’s not just the looks (though the looks are a problem). It’s the way he moves, like he’s too precise for this world. The way he’s smarter than every teacher but never brags. The way he somehow makes silence feel heavier than shouting.

But also? The way he doesn’t give a single shit about you.

It’s maddening.

He’s the only guy who’s never flirted, never smiled, never acknowledged your existence beyond the occasional polite nod. And for some reason? That makes you like him even more.

You sigh, quietly this time, and go back to pretending to study.

That’s when you hear it.

The slap of sneakers against the floor. The loud, lazy laughter of guys who think volume equals confidence.

Yeongbin and Jeongchan swagger into the classroom like they own it, already bumping into chairs and shouting inside jokes no one else fucking cares about.

“Here comes the circus,” Suho mutters under his breath.

You glance up just in time to see Jeongchan knock over someone’s water bottle with a flick of his foot. No apology. Of course not. He's the same guy who made a poor student record himself dancing to some k-pop song, the same guy who forced another student to eat their own shoe.

You tense. Watchful.

They don’t usually mess with Sieun. Not because they respect him, but because they’re scared of you.

Everyone knows. Everyone knows you’ve got it bad for him. Even the bullies. Especially the bullies. And up ‘til now, they’ve been smart enough to steer clear.

But something’s different today.

Yeongbin tosses a paper ball.

It lands right on Sieun’s desk.

You sit up straighter.

Sieun looks up. His movements are slow, deliberate. The kind of calm that feels dangerous. He doesn’t speak, just stares, those beautiful, dark eyes of his staring into yeongbin.

Yeongbin grins. “What, you got something to say?”

The class quiets.

You can feel it coming. That shift. That storm in the air.

Before Sieun can respond, you do.

You shove your chair back and stand, voice sharp.

“Hey!” The word cracks like a whip. “Why don’t you fuck off for once, huh? Or are you so bored you have to pick fights with someone ten times smarter than your dumbass?”

The entire class goes “Ooooohhhhhh—” like it’s a playground fight.

Yeongbin opens his mouth, but you stand up and walk past your desk.

“Say one more word and I’ll rearrange your face.”

He snorts. “Damn. Sieun’s bitch is barking now?”

You take the blow and smile sweetly. “I bite.”

The door slides open.

The teacher walks in.

Everyone snaps back into their seats.

But the air doesn’t go back to normal, not really.

You glance at Sieun.

He’s already turned back to his book, like nothing happened.

But you swear,

Just for a second,

His eyes flicked to you.

The classroom settles into something like silence, not the peaceful kind, but the awkward, tight-lipped kind that hangs in the air after something just barely avoided becoming a scene. You slide back into your seat, heart still beating a little fast from earlier. You’re not usually one to shout in class, but Yeongbin and his idiot minions had it coming.

Beside you, Suho lets out a low whistle, eyes wide. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

You huff, flick your pen at him again. “Should’ve been on that note weeks ago.”

He chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head with the casual smugness of someone who has no idea what’s about to hit him. “You’re so protective of him,” he says, nodding subtly toward the front.

You glance up, instinctively. Sieun’s still reading, his posture perfect, back straight, fingers curled neatly around a black pen. He hasn’t even looked back at you. Not once. No gratitude, no reaction, not even a single twitch of acknowledgement.

Your lips twist into something between a pout and a sigh.

Suho watches you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Unrequited love is crazy.”

“I will break your nose.”

“You can try.”

Before you can retaliate, the teacher’s voice cuts through the room.

“Alright, everyone, settle down. Time to return your exams.”

A groan ripples through the class. People shift nervously in their seats, the bravado from a few minutes ago immediately melting into dread. Even Suho straightens a little, lips pressing together in quiet fear.

You swallow.

Right.

The exam.

You did study. Kind of. You had good intentions. But between school drama, watching late-night films, and… okay, maybe you spent too much time scrolling through study playlists and not enough actually studying.

Still. You’re usually solid. You’ll be fine.

The teacher begins handing out the papers, row by row, her voice a low mutter as she comments on the scores.

“Kim Haejo, 83… Not bad, but you rushed the last page.”

“Lee Da-in, 71. Need to revise the essay format.”

Then she reaches the front.

You catch it before it’s even announced, just a flicker of movement as the teacher places the paper down in front of Sieun.

A full page. Crisp red ink.

A perfect score. 100.

Your stomach twists.

Of course.

Of course he did.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t smirk or even blink. He just takes the paper, places it neatly on the corner of his desk, and moves on like it’s no big deal. Like being flawless is just routine.

You look away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek.

Jealousy isn’t quite the right word. It’s more like… admiration mixed with frustration. You don’t want to be him, but you want to be near him. Want him to see you. Acknowledge you. Just once.

The teacher finally reaches your row.

You brace yourself.

And then,

“y/n. 61.”

…

You blink.

Sixty-what?

You take the paper with frozen fingers, eyes scanning the red marks. You did… that badly?

Suho leans over, peering at your score. His face splits into a grin so wide, you want to smack it off. “Ohhhh, damn. That’s tragic.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs. “Don’t speak to me.”

“Sixty-one? From the girl who color-codes her notes?”

“At least I didn’t fail,” you shoot back, flipping over his paper.

32.

You stare at it. Then stare at him.

He looks smug.

You burst out laughing.

“I knew you were stupid,” you manage between wheezes. “But this is a new record.”

He throws a pencil at you. “Betrayal in my own home.”

“This isn’t your home. This is a battlefield and you just died.” You stick your tongue up at him and throw up the middle finger just as the teacher turns around.

No one pays attention when you two go back to your silly banter, hitting each other with the now rolled up exam paper.

And you don’t see it, not right away, but he does glance.

Sieun.

A brief, subtle glance over his shoulder. No emotion, no expression. Just a quick flick of his eyes in your direction, as if cataloguing your laughter, the way your shoulders shake, the brightness of your grin.

Then he turns back around.

Not a word. Not a sound.

Just that single glance.

And for some reason?

Your heart skips.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The school bell rings with its usual shrill tone, sharp and final. The moment it does, chairs scrape against the floor and chatter explodes through the classroom like a shaken soda can. Students flood the hallway in clusters, some rushing for cram school, others heading to convenience stores or the bus stop. You take your time packing up, partly because you’re still mourning your exam score, partly because your stomach is doing backflips over what you’re about to do.

Suho’s long gone, he practically sprinted out as soon as the final bell rang, muttering something about street food and a nap.

Coward.

You, on the other hand, have a plan.

Well… "plan" might be generous. It’s more like a vague, impulsive idea wrapped in the thin tissue paper of hope.

You zip up your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and make your way out of class, your heart thudding just a little too hard.

You spot him a few meters ahead. Sieun. Walking alone, as always, head slightly bowed, backpack hanging neat and square on his shoulders. The hallway crowds shift and part around him like he’s not even there, like his existence doesn’t need space or sound. He moves like he’s got somewhere to be, even if it’s just home.

You follow.

Casually, of course.

Not like a creep.

You keep a few steps behind, pretending to scroll through your phone, eyes flicking up now and then to track his outline as he exits through the school gates.

The sun’s dipped low now, casting everything in that soft, honey-colored light that makes even cracked pavement look cinematic. Spring’s in the air, cool, but not cold, the breeze gentle against your skin. The sounds of traffic and distant conversations float through the open air.

He walks in a straight line, deliberate and quiet, like everything he does. There’s a certain rhythm to his movements, shoulders squared, steps even, gaze fixed ahead. You don’t think he’s noticed you.

Until he suddenly stops.

You freeze, nearly tripping over your own feet.

He turns around, slowly.

Your heart lurches into your throat.

You quickly look to the side, pretending to admire a particularly interesting patch of sidewalk cracks. Casual. Totally natural. Nothing weird here.

His gaze lingers for a second longer than it needs to, blank, unreadable.

Then, just like that, he turns back and continues walking.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Okay. That could’ve gone worse.

You pick up your pace just a bit. It’s not far now, you know he usually takes this route down past the old bookstore, then cuts across the quieter residential area. You’ve seen him do it before. Not that you were watching on purpose. That one time was purely coincidence. Probably.

After another few seconds, you decide to just do it. No more stalling.

You break into a few quick steps until you’re walking beside him, not too close, not too far. Just enough to feel the difference in your breathing. Just enough to hear the slight swish of his backpack straps when he walks.

He slows down a fraction. Looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

You stop right in front of him.

He stops too.

The breeze rustles your hair, brushing it into your face. You tuck it behind your ear, suddenly very aware of how loud your heartbeat is.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stares.

His face is neutral. Impassive. A little tired around the eyes.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the straps of your bag. You clear your throat.

“Um.”

Still nothing.

You press on. “So… I kinda sucked on the exam.”

Silence.

You glance up at him. He blinks. Slowly.

“I mean, I usually do okay, but this time I just…” You trail off, swallowing. “Anyway. I was wondering if...maybe, you could, I don’t know. Help me study? A little?”

He stares.

You smile, trying not to let it wobble. “I’m not asking for, like, full-time tutoring or anything. Just… a couple sessions. One? One session? A single hour of your genius brain?”

Still no response.

You shift your bag again. “I’ll pay you,” you add quickly. “With snacks. Or drinks. Or loyalty. Whatever currency you prefer.”

He blinks again.

Finally, after what feels like a century, he speaks. “…Why me?” His deep voice almost sends you into a coma.

You blink. “Why… you?”

He nods once. “You have other friends. Why me?”

You exhale a soft laugh, surprised. “Well, yeah, I do. But none of them got a hundred on the exam. You’re kind of the smartest person I know.”

He looks like he wants to deny it, but doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “You don’t even like me.”

Your brows shoot up. “Wait, what? Who told you that?”

He tilts his head, voice low. “Isn’t that what people like Suho always say? That you ‘pine’ for me?” His tone is unreadable. Not mocking, exactly. Just… dry.

Damn Suho, always getting in your way regardless of his presence.

You flush instantly. “That’s not--I don’t--okay, first of all, Suho’s an idiot.”

“Mm.”

“And second of all--” You pause. “Wait. You actually knew about that?”

He shrugs. “Everyone does.”

You stare at him, mortified. “That’s so embarrassing.”

He says nothing.

“Like, deeply, deeply embarrassing.”

Still nothing.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, fine, yes. I have a crush on you. Had. Had a crush. Past tense. Ancient history. Practically prehistoric.”

“…Right.”

You squint at him. “Are you mocking me?”

He shrugs again.

You exhale, deflating slightly. “Look. Can we just skip the awkward and go straight to the part where you say yes?”

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly, almost too quiet to hear, he says, “Fine.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait, really?”

He nods.

“Just like that?”

“…Don’t make me regret it.”

You grin. “Never.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The library is tucked into the corner of an older street, nestled between a stationery shop and a run-down tea house that’s been closed for as long as you can remember. The sign is a little faded, the glass door sticks when you pull it open, and the smell inside is a mix of paper, dust, and old wood polish. It’s not the kind of place most students bother with, too quiet, too slow, too analog in a world of glowing screens and digital flashcards.

But for some reason, it feels just right.

He holds the door open for you, wordless as ever. You step inside with a murmur of thanks, trying not to show how fast your heart is beating.

The place is nearly empty, just one older woman sitting at a table near the window, a stack of romance novels beside her, and a student asleep over his textbook in the far corner. The air is still, padded and soft, every sound muffled by the thick carpet and the shelves rising around you like wooden sentinels.

Sieun leads the way, moving with his usual precision. Not too fast, not too slow. Just a steady, even pace that seems immune to nerves or second-guessing. You wonder what that’s like.

You follow him to a back table, one of the smaller ones, pressed against a wall of korean history texts and outdated encyclopedias. The light overhead is warm, casting a soft halo on the table’s scratched surface.

You take a seat, pulling out your notebook. He sits opposite you, already unpacking a textbook and a pencil case so neat and minimal it could’ve come straight out of a study vlog.

You try to act casual, flipping open your notes. “So… where do we start?”

He glances up, then reaches for your exam paper, the one you reluctantly brought with you in your bag.

“Your structure’s fine,” he says, scanning it. “You lose points on clarity. You rush your conclusions. You don’t support your arguments.”

You blink. “Wow, okay. Go easy on me.”

“I am.”

You squint. “That was you being gentle?”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching, just a fraction. If you weren’t looking so closely, you might’ve missed it.

You grin to yourself. Progress.

He flips the exam to a specific paragraph and pushes it toward you. “Rewrite this. Just the ending.”

You oblige, biting your pen and focusing on the sentence. But your eyes keep drifting, over the paper, to his hands. Long fingers, pale knuckles, one thumbnail slightly chipped. His handwriting is ridiculously clean. You watch the way he taps his pencil against the page, once, twice, and then stops when you look up again.

“Are you going to do it,” he asks without looking up, “or are you going to keep staring at me like that?”

You freeze.

“…Huh?”

“You’ve been sighing every five minutes,” he says, voice flat but not unkind. “And leaning on your palm like we’re filming a drama.”

You jolt upright, yanking your hand away from your cheek. “Oh my god.”

His eyes flick up to you now. His expression is unreadable, but you swear his ears are a little red.

You sink slightly into your seat. “I wasn’t sighing that much.”

He doesn’t reply.

“…Okay, maybe I was. But I wasn’t daydreaming. I was just, resting my face.”

He looks back down at your exam. “Whatever you say.”

You groan, slumping back in your chair. “You’re so mean.”

“You asked me to help you.”

“I didn’t think tutoring came with constructive criticism.”

Another twitch of his mouth. That almost-smile again.

You let yourself smile too, just a little. There’s something weirdly comforting about his bluntness. Like it cuts through the chaos in your head. No fake politeness, no performance. Just him.

“Alright, fine,” you mutter, pulling your notebook closer. “Keep violating me. But only if it helps.”

He hands you another worksheet. “It does.”

You glare at him, but take it anyway.

The next half hour is quieter. More focused. He’s a good teacher, in his own awkward way, clear, patient, methodical. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t roll his eyes when you ask dumb questions. Sometimes he pauses too long, searching for the right word, and you realize how carefully he chooses what to say, even if it’s just about sentence structure.

You steal glances when he’s not looking.

The way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he’s reading. The subtle crease between his brows when he’s thinking. The way he taps his fingers on the table in quiet, rhythmic patterns.

You realize, in that moment, that you really, really like him.

And not just because he’s smart or pretty or mysterious. But because of this. This quiet version of him. The one who sits across from you and treats you like someone worth teaching. The one who doesn't flinch when you ask dumb questions. The one who, though he pretends not to notice, does see you.

“You’re staring again.”

You jump, snapping back to reality. “I’m not!”

“You sighed.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You also smiled for no reason.”

You cross your arms. “Are you secretly a detective or something? How do you notice everything?”

He pauses. Then shrugs. “You’re easy to read.”

Your stomach flips.

“That’s rude,” you say.

“It’s not,” he replies. “You just… wear everything on your face.”

You blink.

He’s still looking at you, finally really looking, and for a moment, the space between you feels heavier. Like something unsaid is hovering in the air, thick and electric.

You don’t know what to say.

So you look away. Down at your paper. Up at the clock.

“Oh my god, it’s dark out.”

He glances at the window. He nods.

You both pack your things, slower than necessary. The library’s even emptier now. The romance novel lady is gone. So is the sleeping student. The silence is somehow louder, now that it’s just the two of you.

You walk out side by side, the door creaking behind you. The air is colder now, the sky a soft navy blue, stars barely visible through the haze of city lights. Street lamps flicker on, painting the sidewalk gold and orange.

You walk together in silence.

It’s not awkward, though.

It’s... comfortable.

Every few steps, your hands almost brush. But not quite.

You’re nearing your street when you slow down, then stop completely.

He pauses too.

You turn to face him, gripping the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

“Thanks,” you say. “For today.”

He nods once. “It was fine.”

You laugh softly. “That’s your version of a compliment, huh?”

He looks at you, then away. Shrugs. “You improved.”

“Coming from you, that’s practically a declaration of love.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

So, naturally, your brain does something stupid.

Your heart’s racing. Your hands are sweaty. Your legs are jelly. But still, you lean forward, and before you can even think about how insane this is...

You press a quick, soft kiss to his lips.

Just a second. Barely more than a breath.

His lips are cold from the night air, and you can feel the faint, startled inhale he takes, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.

You realize what you just did.

You squeal, a sound that escapes before you can stop it, and stumble back like you’ve been electrocuted.

“I--oh my god--I didn’t mean--I mean I did, but not like that--I mean I didn’t plan it, it just--”

You’re already running.

“BYE,” you yell over your shoulder, clutching your backpack like it’s shielding you from divine judgment.

You don't look back.

You don't dare.

But if you had…

You might’ve seen him standing there, hand half-raised, eyes wide.

And the faintest, smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

a/n: huh.

#weak hero class #weak hero class smut #sieun #yeon sieun #ahn suho #oh beomseok #park jihoon #kdrama #fluff #romance #school #rivals #smut #weak hero class one #weak hero class two #sirensslament

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motorsportbarbie13 · 5 months ago

Text

Aftermath - Chapter 2

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make nothing into something for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

warnings: this chapter contains language and descriptions that illustrate abuse (mental and emotional). lando is abusive, full stop but like many survivors of abuse, it takes reader a bit to claw herself out of this. as a survivor of abuse myself, I am doing my best to give this story line the most respect and care that i can. please don't engage with my work if you find any of the topics triggering. my sincerest apologies for not putting this in the warnings at first. lando is, once again, an absolute asshole in this. sorry bubs. swearing. i'd also like to point out that this is a character i am writing, i in no way am insinuating or implying the real lando is like this in any way. pairing: max verstappen x leclercsister!reader word count: 4k

Chapter 1 Master List

“You didn’t have to walk me home, you know. It’s only a few blocks.” You tell Max as you press into his side, shivering against the cold breeze of the Monaco night. It had been warm when you left the apartment earlier that evening but now the air held a chill that had you wishing you had taken Carles up on his offer to drive you back home.

Around you, the city buzzes, a hive of activity on a Friday night but the extent of your world consists of only you and Max.

“Of course I did. It’s late and cold and there was no way you were walking home alone.”

“Max, we live in Monaco, I’m perfectly safe.” You joke but secretly, you’re glad Max had offered to walk you home.

You’d never admit it but you liked being around him, his demeanor had always been calming to you and tonight, your nerves were frayed more than usual. It was probably thanks to the whispers you had heard at the gallery, asking not so quietly where Lando was as you walked around and spoke to the guests. He had never showed up and while you were disappointed he hadn’t showed, you weren’t quite surprised either. There had been something in his tone when you left that evening that had anxiety curling your gut before you even stepped out of the apartment. You hated to even think it, but you somewhat suspected he had never planned on showing up to the show at all that night but you wouldn’t ever put a voice to those thoughts.

“Fine then.” Max huffs, but there’s no venom in his voice. “Maybe I just wanted to spend some extra time with you, okay? I feel like we never see each other anymore.” Max lets the unsaid end of that sentence hang in the air: ‘Because you’re with Lando now.’

Your heart aches at the truth of his words. A lot of your friendships had taken a hit over the last three years. You hadn’t meant for it to happen, but your circle had shrunk significantly since you had started dating Lando and it shocked you how you never had realized it until now. It had started small, with Lando saying he just wanted to spend the weekend only with you while he had a rare weekend off and then slowly morphed into him only wanting to spend time with his friends so if you wanted to see him you had to spend what little time you got with him with his friends as well. Slowly, your friends stopped calling and inviting you places because the answer was always the same: ‘sorry, Lando has plans this weekend and I’m going to tag along with him!’ Or just a straight up ‘no, not this time.’

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, biting your lip as guilt creeps up your neck. “It’s been a rough year.”

Max hates the regret that courses through him. He shouldn’t make you feel like this, shouldn’t voice his opinion of what he sees happening in front of him. He can’t help the frustration that bubbles to the surface when you talk like that though. He knows exactly where it comes from and it kills Max knowing that there is one person solely responsible for dimming that sparkle you’ve always had.

Max stops in the middle of the sidewalk, causing a few tourists to shout in surprise when they have to dodge the Dutchman’s tall frame. A frown finds itself onto his face as he looks down at you. Your heart stutters to a stop, you’ve seen this look before and it has the hairs on the back of your neck prickling.

“I hate when you do that.” He can’t help himself, he’s kept his peace for far too long but the fact that Lando missed tonights show has been burning a hole in his chest all night and the embers were about to flare to life.

Panic squeezes at your chest. Around you, people are shooting glances your way as you both stand in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. You only have a few moments before someone notices it is you and Max Verstappen and start taking pictures. Pictures that will inevitably show up on some gossip instagram account and cause you more trouble than they’re worth.

“Do what?” Despite your desire to not be seen arguing with Max, you can’t help the question that slips out.

“When you apologize for things that aren’t your fault. Anyone with eyes can see who the problem is in your relationship and it’s not you, Dovie.” Max’s words come out more harsher than they intend and he knows he’s approaching a line that probably shouldn’t be crossed tonight.

You can’t bring your eyes up to meet Max’s heated gaze but you can feel him looking at you. Those blue eyes you used to think you could get lost in when you were younger. Before everything changed. Before you met Lando and he swept you right off your feet.

“Charles told me about the apartment.” Max confesses. Maybe if you know you have others supporting your decision to leave, it’ll make it easier. He hopes that his support would mean something to you.

Your stomach plummets to your toes, cheeks burning red with shame. “Charles should keep his big mouth shut.” You bite out, fists working themselves into a ball at your sides.

Max’s eyes narrow at your outburst. There was the fire that you’d been missing. Something in Max heaves a sigh of relief, you’re still in there. You’re on the cusp of getting that fire back and Max can almost see you reach for it deep in the pit of your belly. You’re so close to the edge and Max knows you well enough to know when to back off.

“I’m sorry.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I won’t press. I just wanted you to know that I miss you.”

Max momentarily wonders if he’s gone too far when he sees tears well up in your eyes. His heart squeezes at the thought of being the one to make you cry.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” You sob, no longer caring who sees you or what could possibly make it back to Lando. “I know you’re friends with him and I shouldn’t put you in the middle of our mess.”

Max’s brows knit together in confusion. The fact that you would question his loyalty to you over Lando simply baffles him. “I’ve been in your life longer than I’ve known Lando and you’ll be in my life long after he’s gone.” Max lets that last sentence hang in the air, the prophecy of his words clinging to your skin.

“Max.” You whisper, floored by the fierceness of his tone and the sincerity of his words.

Panic claws at him. He’s gone too far, revealed too much. He can’t do that with you now, not when you’re already so fragile. You don’t need that from him and he knows it. Back off, something in him orders and alarm bells clang to life.

“All I’m saying is,” Max keeps his tone deliberately light. “If you need a friend to talk to, I’m here. Always.”

You nod, appreciating how he backed off when he saw you panicking.

Max takes your elbow before turning you around, pointing you in the direction of your apartment. “Come on, let’s get you home, okay?”

As Max walks you the rest of the way home, Lando is still set up in his gaming room playing Tarkov with Max on his stream. As they begin another raid, Lando notices Max’s stream start to pick up at a much faster pace than it’s been running all evening. He’s been streaming for hours now, since before you left the apartment and while he knows the opening should be wrapping up right about now, he has a hard time caring. Those things are always so boring and he never understands the art, even if it is nice to be photographed out with you and your brothers.

“What is this link everyone’s spamming chat? You all know if you start spamming, we’re going to mute you.” Max asks, frustration evident in his voice.

Lando glances over at the chat screen on his second monitor and sees his name flying by along with what looks like an instagram link. He knows he shouldn’t click on dodgy links but curiosity gets the best of him because at the same time the chat starts to explode, so do his notifications from Instagram. “The fuck?” He mumbles, ignoring Max who is reading the chat as they come in.

“First Verstappen steals your championship, now he’s stealing your girl? Chat, what the fuck are you all on about?”

Lando can feel the heat rising in his face and he’s instantly thankful that he’s got his video off. He mutes himself quickly too before texting Max, who is desperately trying to regain control of the chat. The link finally opens and Lando nearly drops his phone. He’s been tagged in a series of photos that show you and Max walking out of the gallery together, then you two stopped in the middle of the sidewalk embracing with you clearly looking upset, and then a final one showing you two walking away together.

Anger flares bright and sharp in his chest as he looks at the photos. You’re making him look like a fool, galavanting around town with the likes of Max Verstappen late at night, especially after all he went thorough with Max last season. What the fuck were you thinking?

“Alright, chat I think that’s going to be the end of the stream tonight. This is why we can’t have nice things!”

Max ends the stream without a second thought, knowing that Lando is going to be incandescent with rage after seeing those photos and reading all the comments.

f1.gossip.source posted

f1.gossip.source First he steals the championship, now it looks like Max Verstappen is making a play for @/lando's girl. Uh ooooooh... user9928 I mean, she looked pretty upset in the other pictures I saw leaving the gallery. Lando didn't show to support her so... user298 paddock bunnies gonna bunny >>>user223 she's literally known Max almost her entire life??? user110 this isn't a thing...her and Max have been friends for YEARS. Leave the poor girl alone user1008 lando's loss, she's amazing. user918 idk but if my girl got caught getting a kiss from another guy, I'd go scorched earth >>>user028 SERIOUSLY I am floored by the people defending her??? Like??? >>>user928 maybe if Lando showed up for his girlfriend, Max wouldn't have had to step in and comfort her...?

As Lando struggles to come to grips with what he just saw, you and Max are standing in the lobby of your apartment as you desperately search for your keys. “Fuck, I think I forgot my keys upstairs.”

“Just give Lando a call, I’m sure he’s still up.”

You shrug, cheeks heating. “He sometimes gets tunnel vision when he’s streaming and forgets to check his phone.” You admit, not wanting to go more into detail because you know how bad it’ll sound if you have to tell Max that sometimes Lando will completely ignore you while he’s streaming. What you also don’t tell him is that this has happened to you before and all three times, you’d had to spend the night at either Jade or Charles’ house because he had been on stream so late you had nearly fallen asleep in the hallway.

Max levels a glare at you, unable to believe what you’re saying. “Well, lets both go up then and maybe we can get his attention by knocking.”

Anxiety ripples through you as Max starts off towards the elevators, giving you no other choice but to follow him. It’s a quiet ride up to your floor as you fidget with the hem of your shirt, unable to even attempt to make small talk with Max. You know the facade of your entire relationship is about to be lifted right in front of one of your oldest friends and you don’t quite know how to make it stop.

When you raise your hand to knock, your heart hammers in your chest so wildly you momentarily worry Max is going to be concerned for your health. Much to your surprise, it only takes a few short moments for the door to swing open so fast you nearly stumble back.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Lando spits when his eyes land on Max. The venom in his voice is so shocking you need to take a step away, unintentionally stepping closer to Max, which seems to set Lando off even more. Rage flares in his eyes at your proximity to his on-track rival.

“That’s a wild way to say ‘hey man, thanks for walking my girlfriend home in the dark because I couldn’t be bothered to show up to her art show’ but you’re welcome.” Max grits out, taking one step closer to you as if he might need to get between you and Lando.

Tension hangs thick between the three of you as Lando seethes where he stands in the door.

“Max, it’s okay.” You whisper, shame lighting a painful spark of fire deep in your chest. This was going to get out of control so quickly.

“No, it’s not and you know it.” Max turns back to Lando now, eyes blazing with a level of anger that is miles more intense than the look Lando is giving you. “And why the fuck are you coming at her so hot? All I did was walk her home.”

Lando scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Because this was just posted by almost a dozen gossip accounts and was being spammed all over Fewtrell’s chat while we were streaming.”

You take the phone Lando is brandishing in your face and go pale. The carousel of photos in the new post are pretty damning, you have to admit but you would have thought that your boyfriend of all people would know better than to blindly believe a series of grainy photos above trusting his own girlfriend.

“Lando…” You sooth, arm reaching out to touch his elbow. You wince when he pulls away from you. “You of all people should know how those things are twisted. Max was just walking me home and we were talking, that’s it.”

“But why was he hugging you?” He shows you the third picture of Max hugging you after you had started crying out on the street. You had to admit you were kind of impressed with how fast those photos got out, but it was Monaco after all and you hand’t exactly been discreet when you were upset with Max.

“Because she was upset you didn’t show up for her. Again!” Max shouts and you flinch.

The words slice a fresh wound across your heart. The fact that Max knew that this wasn’t the first time upsets you more than you think it should. You’re not entirely sure why Max’s opinion of you matters so much but you’re not quite willing to examine those feelings yet.

Lando’s glare swings away from you and back onto Max. “Because I’ve been to a million of them and they’re all the same. Same pretentious people pretending they have taste. Once you’ve been to one you’ve been to them all.”

The words that come out of your boyfriend’s mouth have you audibly gasping, hand flying to your throat. “Lando.” You whisper, pain and shock coursing through your voice.

You swear you feel a brush of fingertips on the small of your back but the touch is so light and so quick you think you’ve imagined it.

Something flickers behind your boyfriend’s eyes then and it’s almost like he realizes he’s gone a step too far. His shoulders sag and he shakes his head. “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry baby.” Lando reaches for you and before you can step away, he pulls you into his chest. He doesn’t miss the way you stiffen in his embrace though and neither does Max. “Please come inside and we can talk about it alone, okay?” He whispers, glaring at Max, clearly dismissing him.

The way his arms used to feel around you was comforting, you’d seek his affection when you were anxious or upset and he would always take care of you but somewhere along the line, the affection you craved stopped being handed out so easily. Now, you craved it but only because if he was touching you it meant he wasn’t mad at you and maybe this time it would be different. Every time he showed you this kind of affection you hoped that this would be the time he would change.

It never was.

“Thank you for walking me home, Max. I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

Worry lines crease the spot between his brows as he frowns. Everything in his body is screaming to put up a fight and not let you go inside with Lando. He knows if Charles were here and had just witnessed what he had, there was no way Lando would be leaving this building in anything other than a body bag but he wasn’t Charles and he didn’t have any entitlement to you. He wanted to fight but you weren’t his to fight for.

“Call me if you need anything, okay Dovie?”

Lando’s arms tighten around you at the nickname. He hates it and Max knows it. “She won’t need to, I’ve got her.”

“You sure about that, mate?” Max asks, one brow tipping up in question.

Without waiting for a reply, Max turns on his heel and walks towards the elevator. In his pocket, his fingers curl around his phone because the moment he gets out of the building he knows exactly who he’s going to be calling: Charles.

As soon as Max leaves and your behind closed doors, the mask slips again.

“What the fuck were you thinking, walking home with Max fucking Verstappen? And hugging him?” Lando is pacing the floor of your living room as you stand there, helpless to say anything against his raging.

It’s usually like this when he gets angry with you and you’ve gotten good at being quiet while he rages. You have to let him work out all the anger and eventually you know he’ll calm down and apologizes for losing his temper. You’ve seen this before and you know exactly what to do, how to humor the angry beast that has surfaced once again.

“Lando, it wasn’t like that and you know it.” You fight to keep the exasperation out of your voice, knowing that would just set him off even more. “I was alone, my brothers were going in the opposite direction, and Max offered. That’s it! It was completely innocent.” Despite yourself, you try to reason with him.

“You should have just gone home with your brothers then instead of putting yourself in that position.” He snaps and you glare at him.

“You would have rather me not slept here at home tonight than take an offer from a friend to walk me home? All because you didn’t follow through with what you said you’d do?”

You know you’re pushing him and Lando doesn’t like to be pushed. Your conversation with Charles two weeks ago flickers through your mind. How you deserve better and it strikes you then that everyone but you can see it. Everyone around you, everyone that loves you can see how bad he is for you, how poorly he treats you and how much you’ve changed since you started dating him.

You supposed that if you had changed for the better, maybe everyone who loved you wouldn’t have anything to say. Don’t people change for the people they love all the time? You were sure they did but you weren’t sure you liked the change you saw in yourself anymore. You couldn’t fight it, this change that felt like you were wearing shoes that were three sizes too small for your feet. Like you had outgrown yourself in a way that wasn’t okay and you somehow needed to find your way back to who you were before Lando. Before he broke you.

“And avoid you causing social media chaos that I’m going to be dealing with for weeks now?” Lando sneers, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down his nose at you. “Yeah, absolutely.”

You laugh, cold and bitter, as you shake your head. “Thats real nice Lan, real nice.”

“I’m just saying. Now the rumor mills are going to start up again. Whenever you’re at a race, people will be watching to see if you’re with Max again. Or maybe next time it’ll be Lewis. Or maybe you want to go a bit younger? Get a ‘friendly escort home’ from one of the rookies? I’m sure Franco would love to try his hand with you. My girlfriend, the paddock bunny being passed around.”

The ache in your chest grows as he chooses his words carefully, barbed and sharp as glass, so they hit their intending target, cutting through you like butter and causing mortal damage.

“You don’t have to be so mean.” You whisper. “I’m sorry that the pictures hurt your feelings and were taken out of context but you don’t have to be so mean.”

Tears threaten to spill and you will them to stop, knowing that will only fuel Lando’s fire. He loves when he upsets you like this, when he gets to tell you what a drama queen you are. Just like your brother, he would say, always whining and crying on the radio about how Carlos wasn’t being a team player and letting him win when he didn’t deserve it.

“If I’m not the one to give you a reality check, then who will? Your entire family has coddled you for your entire life and you think you deserve some level of respect that you haven’t earned. If you deserved that kind of respect, you would have gone home with your brothers or walked home alone. People who deserve respect don’t put their relationships in jeopardy because they’re afraid to be alone at night.”

“Put our relationship in jeopardy?” You laugh again, rolling your eyes at the audacity of what Lando is saying. “Lan, you really are being a bit over dramatic here, don’t you think? I’m sure the PR department at McLaren will take care of this by the next race, no big deal.”

Lando laughs, dark and bitter as he takes a step towards you. You have to fight the urge not to flinch when he gets closer to you. Deep down, you know he’d never raise a hand to you but it’s hard to remember that when he gets in your face like this. “Now you expect McLaren to clean up your mess?” He hisses. “God, you really are a spoiled little girl, aren’t you?”

“I’m just trying to find a solution to the problem that I seem to have caused.” You snap back, courage flaring in your chest as you stand up a little straighter. Max’s words from earlier play back in your head: ‘anyone with eyes can see who the problem is in your relationship’. “What if I come to the next race? If the two of us turn up in the paddock together, that will help quiet the rumors, don’t you think?”

Lando narrows his eyes, “So you can get more attention from Max? Absolutely not. I’ll have McLaren handle this, okay? Just forget about it.”

You want to scream at his solution because it was the same exact thing you had literally just suggested and been laughed at. But that was the way Lando was. If it wasn’t his idea, it was the worst thing you could have suggested. As long as it was his idea though, it was brilliant and the perfect solution to everything that was wrong. You should have anticipated this coming but you knew it was useless to fight with him.

All at once, your body is overcome with this total wash of exhaustion. Total mental and physical exhaustion grips at your throat and you sway on your feet. “I’m going to go to bed.” You choke you. “In the guest room.” You tack on before turning on your heel and walking away from the fight like you do every time. Lando always gets the last word and as he stands there alone in the living room he feels like he’s won this one. He’ll have to call Sophie in the morning to get her to start working on damage control but for now? For now, he’s sure you realize your mistakes and you won’t put a toe out of line like that for a long time.

Little does he know that all he’d done tonight was push you past your breaking point.

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queenvidal · 6 months ago

Text

The Golden Rose Of Rome

Emperor Geta x Reader

Chapter 1: Thorns

Chapter Summary: The Emperor is not used to being denied. He'll come to find even the most beautiful flowers carry thrones. Drawing his intrigue is dangerous and no prickle will stop him.

Wordcount: 4k.

A/N: Written inclusively, no race mentioned or implied.

Chapter Index: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2/ Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

Masterlist

The air of the Imperial Palaces is buzzing with laughter and music. Expensive wine is flowing freely between Rome's Elite, a parade of wealth and charm where every guest is competing for attention in the glittering spectacle. From their golden dais, the twin emperors oversee the festivities, though each is engrossed in his own way.

Caracalla lounges lazily in his gilded seat, the lack of enthusiasm evident. He is barely paying attention, too focused on his beloved monkey that is sitting on the armrest. While taking long, careless sips of wine he occasionally fed Dundus with grapes.

Geta on the other hand is sitting upright but his face is mirroring the boredom of his brother, his dark eyes observing the crowd with mild interest.

These elaborate displays of power and wealth had quickly lost their appeal and soon became tiresome rituals of their rule. Necessary evils, as even Emperors have to maintain appearances.

Caracalla throws a grape in the air, watching Dundus catch it mid-air. His eyes momentarily move towards the crowd before returning back to his monkey. With a sigh, he breaks the silence, gesturing toward a group of dancers performing in the center of the hall. “Do you ever wonder why we bother with all this? I’d wager most of them don’t even remember why we are holding these festivities.”

Geta glances at his brother, with a hint of humor in his voice he asks, “Do you?” Caracalla narrows his eyes at the teasing but keeps silent, his attention back to the monkey.

“It’s necessary,” Geta continues, his eyes resuming to oversee the guests. “The spectacle reminds them of our power.”

“Power,” Caracalla echoes with a grimace. “If they were truly loyal, we wouldn’t need to remind them at all. Loyalty bought with wine and music isn’t loyalty. It’s theater.”

“Perhaps,” Geta shrugs his shoulders. “But the people thrive on theater. It keeps them entertained and compliant.”

Caracalla sighs, swirling his goblet, “We should have asked Macrinus to send some of his gladiators.”

Geta tilts his head, amusement coloring his features. “We can’t have people die at every festive occasion, brother.”

Caracalla’s grin turns wicked as he strokes Dundus’s fur, “Says who?”

That elicits a faint chuckle from his brother. Geta reaches for a new goblet of wine, with his lips curved into a half smile. “The night’s still young, Caracalla. Let’s see what this evening brings before you write it off entirely.”

As if on cue, the grand doors of the atrium swing open, catching both brothers’ attention. A new set of guests enters the hall. Another senator with his family, but something about them is different, their arrival causes a subtle shift in the room. Heads turn and hushed whispers travel through the crowd.

“More senators,” Caracalla releases a tired breath, his attention already elsewhere.

Geta is about to dismiss them as well but then the senator steps aside, revealing two young women trailing behind him. Geta straights in his chair lightly, his attention sharpening.

The elder of the two wears a pale bluish almost lavender colored dress that shimmers in the light of the chandeliers. Her hair is pinned up, exposing her neck and shoulders. An air of quiet confidence surrounds her as she walks, her head held high as she speaks with her father. The younger one, in a soft, rose-colored gown, clings to her sister’s arm. Her movements try to mimic the elder’s, though she lacks the sisters' confidence. They exchange a few words with their father before he drifts off with their brother, leaving the two to stand at the entrance.

Caracalla notices Geta’s interest and raises an eyebrow. “Something worth noting?” But Geta doesn’t reply right away. Caracalla follows his brother’s line of sight, observing the young women briefly before turning back to Dundus. “They’re pretty, I’ll give them that. But half the women here are pretty.”

“True,” Geta murmurs softly.

Caracalla has to smirk, to him they look like every other noble daughter. “Careful, Geta. You seem interested. Should I have them sent up?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geta scoffs at his brother, before leaning back in his chair, his eyes moving over the crowd again.

Caracalla chuckles softly, tossing another grape to Dundus. “The night’s young, indeed.”

The air smells like flowers and honey. Your eyes dart between the crowd, as you take a deep breath, trying to steel your nerves. The practiced mask of composure quickly slips into place. With a pet of your sister's hand on your arm, you smile at her, “Shall we?”

Sabina nods, giving you a faint smile of her own. Her calm exterior is just an act and you know that. You can feel the unease radiating from her. The court is a beautiful prison, a place where every glance and every word carries meaning. Tonight, the eyes of friends and foes will be on you. A dance you’ve learned long ago but it's still new to your little sister.

With Sabina’s hand securely around your arm, you lead her through the hall, exchanging brief pleasantries with the various nobles and acquaintances you encounter. The conversations are fleeting and filled with hollow friendliness. Not wishing to spend the night with unhonest smiles alone, you two continue moving through the crowd.

When a servant approaches with trays of wine, you take two cups, handing one to Sabina with a quiet instruction. “Drink slowly. It keeps your hands occupied.”

Sabina accepts her cup, taking a quick sip. “It’s impressive how you do it.”

You cast her a small reassuring smile, petting her hand on your arm. “All practice, Sabi. Trust me, soon it’ll come as naturally to you as it does to me.”

She shakes her head softly, moving forward through the guests. “No, it’s not that. When you do it, it looks simple. Like you were born for this.”

With your eyes on the nobles around you, you say, “Thank you for the compliment, but I am born into this and so are you. Soon enough, you’ll handle it with ease. Just watch Marcus and me.”

Sabina nods silently, her steps quickening to match your pace as you lead her further into the hall. You come to stand before one of today's entertainments, beautiful exotic dancers. Their bodies move like water as they glide across the floor in a swirl of colors. As you two watch them, servants continue to offer delicacies, exotic fruits, pastries filled with honey, roasted meats sliced finely. You sample a bit of everything, savoring the fleeting pleasure of it.

As you take a small piece of a fruit you haven't heard from before, you nod subtly toward a woman standing near a pillar. "See Lady Amagus, the one in green? She’ll divorce her husband soon. He fathered a bastard with her youngest sister.”

Sabina’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth, momentarily forgetting to conceal her reaction. The shock fades quickly again. "By Jupiter... the humiliation."

You nod, your gaze following the woman. "I can’t imagine it. But she’s holding herself with outstanding grace despite it."

The two of you continue your way through the crowd, gossiping quietly as you walk. Eventually you stop near the archways leading to one of the many palace gardens. The fresh cool evening air is a welcome gift. You turn your back to the arches, enjoying the air brushing over your shoulders, your little sister quickly following suit.

Sabina leans in, her voice lowered as she speaks. “I’ve heard Julia Meranius will marry into House Heras. Not the son, but the father. Lady Heras just died and they’re already making wedding plans.”

You shake your head, your jaw tightening in disgust. "Tasteless. Makes you wonder if her illness was more than just a coincidence.” Sabina glares at you but you just shrug your shoulders. “Unfortunate, no less.”

The music changes and you allow yourself to breathe, savoring the cooling breeze that drifts through the heated hall. Unfortunately, the peace is short-lived, as from the corner of your eye, you catch Sabina’s gaze wandering, drifting upward to the side, to the golden dais.

The Emperors.

“Stop it.” You admonish her quietly, the calm mask on your face intact despite the warning in your tone. “It’s unwise to draw their notice.”

Sabina startles slightly, her eyes snapping back to the crowd immediately. “They look-” “Don’t.” You cut her off with a sharper edge, casting her a quick warning glare.

Your sister exhales softly, her lips pressing into a thin line as she lifts her cup, sipping in silence.

Shortly after your arrival, you’ve stolen a quick glance at them yourself, when moving through the crowd. You know what she was going to say.

That the twin emperors might as well be statues - cold, motionless, carved from arrogance itself. They can’t even bring themselves to feign interest in the spectacle before them.

You glance at Sabina, ensuring her focus remains elsewhere while your own thoughts betray you. War, death and bloodshed are known to be your ruler's true passions and it seems neither music nor wine can compare. True to their title, the mad twins. A name only uttered in the smallest of whispers in the darkest of Rome's corners.

With a slight shake of your head, you try to banish these traitorous thoughts. You’re not here to dwell on politics, that is reserved for your brother and father. You are here to enjoy the evening.

Sabinas' sudden firm grip on your arm quickly demands your attention. She leans closer to you. “Senator Domitianus just arrived.”

You take another slow sip of your wine, eyes flicking over to where the elderly senator stands. “Pay him no mind. He’s toothless. A few years left to live and even fewer alliances to call his own. In a few months, he’ll be nothing more than a whisper in the wind."

Sabina smiles faintly, her fingers tightening just slightly around your arm. It’s comforting in a way, this quiet understanding between you two. “Hold your head up high, Sabina. He will be soon forgotten, while we are still standing despite his efforts. We are proud and everyone shall see it.”

Up on the golden dais, the emperors still watch the growing crowd. Dundus is squeaking happily, performing tricks for his master, much to his delight.

Geta rolls his eyes, annoyed by the loud, little creature. Resting his head on his hand, he suppresses a sigh. This night really does feel endless, the music and chatter blending into a monotonous hum. His eyes wander over the dancers without much interest. He watches their performance for a moment, before a flicker of blue in his periphery catches his attention. At once his gaze shifts again, landing on the sisters he noticed earlier tonight.

The older sister stands out, not only in her appearance but in her demeanor. The woman in blue carries herself with effortless elegance, a composure that sets her apart from the peacocks who parade themselves before him and his brother. Unlike the other women in the hall, she seems unconcerned with drawing attention to herself, oozing quiet confidence as though she has nothing to prove.

“What do you think of them?” Geta asks, his voice low as he turns to his brother, though his gaze never leaves the sisters. “They seem out of place.”

Caracalla glances over at them, his face twisting into a smirk. “Which one caught your attention, the proud dove or the trembling chick?”

Geta’s lips twitch slightly but he didn’t look away. “The one in blue. There is something about her.”

“That so? And what would that be?” Caracalla asks, his eyes landing on the girls briefly again before looking back at the monkey. “She’s just some noble’s daughter, here to remind us that her family still exists. Probably hoping to secure a good match for herself or the skittish one by her side. And if you’re not careful, she’ll think you’re interested.”

As if sensing their eyes on her, the woman in blue turns her head slowly, her eyes sweeping the room until they nearly meet Geta’s. But before their gazes can lock, a familiar figure strides into the hall, stealing the emperor's attention.

“Fabius Verrinus.” Geta observes quietly, looking at his brother with a knowing grin. He straightens in lazy anticipation. “Finally, some entertainment.”

The brothers share a look of amusement. Senator Verrinus is infamous, known for his sharp mind and even sharper tongue. A man of the kind that thrives on attention and over the time the emperors have become eager spectators.

“Let’s see who he targets tonight,” Caracalla says, leaning forward with rekindled interest.

Verrinus exchanges a few words with a fellow senator when his gaze finds the two sisters. He pauses mid-sentence, his lips curving into a predatory smile. Geta's brows knit together, it seems the sisters haven’t only captured his interest.

The senator excuses himself, making his way towards the two women in purposeful strides. By the looks of it, the elder one notices him first, her posture tensing lightly in anticipation.

Verrinus' voice breaks though the music, loud enough to draw attention of the close by nobles. “Ah, the daughters of House Cassius! A vision, as always.”

The crowd parts slightly as he approaches the sisters. Fabius' voice is laced with honey but his smile fails to reach his eyes. “I must say it's quite surprising to see you in attendance tonight. I’ve heard your family is facing hard times. I heard your father struggles to keep his trading routes safe. Perhaps he should take notes from more capable men.”

His words are calculated, insults cloaked in feigned civility. The younger girl stiffens visibly, her wide eyes darting nervously between her sister and Fabius.

Caracalla chuckles quietly from his seat, leaning in to watch the exchange. “The little one looks like she’s about to cry.”

Geta ignores him, his eyes focused on the elder one. She is completely unmoved by Verrinus' words.

With a small step, she positions herself between the man and her sister, regarding the senator with a calm expression. “It is said that true nobility lies in enduring challenges with grace, my lord. Perhaps that is why my father commands respect, while others must resort to empty words to make themselves feel important.”

Geta arches an eyebrow, surprise evident in his face. Her boldness gains even more attention, subtle murmurs carry through the crowd of onlookers.

Verrinus' smile falters for a brief moment, his eyes narrowing at her. “Lady Y/N, surely you’ve heard about the rumors that your father-”

“Rumors,” she interrupts him, her tone smooth but direct. “Are like smoke, Senator. They may cloud the air for a time, but they vanish quickly when met with light. Only fools grasp at shadows in their search for relevance. It’s truly a blessing to know my family is above such things.”

The crowd’s whispers grow louder, encouraged by her eloquent retort. Verrinus opens his mouth to respond but before he can so much as utter a word, she silences him with a brilliant smile. “If you’ll excuse us, Senator. My sister and I would rather enjoy the tranquility of the garden than linger in such smoke.”

Without waiting for a response, she takes her sister’s arm and guides her through the archway to the garden, leaving Verrinus to stew in the bitter humiliation.

Caracalla bursts into laughter, clapping his hands once. “Oh, she’s good! Did you see his face? Like a fish gasping for air.”

Geta huffs a laugh, his gaze shifting briefly to his brother, then back to the archway where the sisters disappeared. Caracalla leans back, clapping his hands again. “That was entertaining. What did he say her name was?”

Geta gestures to a nearby squire. “The woman in blue, who is she?”

The squire bows deeply before answering. “That is Lady Y/N Cassius, Your Majesty. The oldest daughter of Senator Gaius Cassius. Their grandfather was a merchant who built the family’s fortune. Senator Cassius expanded their influence further before securing a seat in the Senate.”

“Merchants elevated to Patricians,” Caracalla sneers, his earlier respect dimming by the family's status. “Hardly remarkable.”

With his eyes lingeing on the archway to the gardens, Geta points out, “Remarkable enough to silence Verrinus,”

The squire explains further, “House Cassius faced challenges of late, but they are still highly respected by many.”

“Respected,” Geta repeats, deep in thought. “Yes, I see why.” He dismisses the squire with a wave of his hand. Leaning back slowly in his seat again, his expression turns unreadable.

He was no stranger to the name Cassius, the family isn’t unfamiliar but the woman herself is. Geta realizes now that he’s never truly encountered that woman before tonight. That in itself feels like a peculiar oversight on his part. How had he overlooked someone like her, surely he would have noticed her before tonight.

Caracalla's mind is already distracted again as he leans against the armrest, his little Dundus sitting on his shoulder. “You see that one over there?” He gestured idly toward a group of noblewomen, his voice dripping with indifference. “She’s been staring at me for the last hour. Desperate for attention, like the rest of them.”

Geta doesn't reply, his focus still drawn toward the garden. Verrinus' still standing off to the side, his face still flushed from embarrassment or rage, likely a combination of both. The man’s pride is clearly wounded and yet Geta feels no pity nor amusement. There is only a quiet, growing curiosity about the woman who had so effortlessly dismantled the most vicious man of the city.

“Are you even listening, brother?” Caracalla asks, tossing a grape towards him.

“Hm?” Geta responds absently.

Caracalla frowns at him, “Brooding about the girls, are you? Don’t waste your time.”

Geta’s expression remains impassive as he keeps silent, his mind still working. Their father is a senator and by the looks of it, his eldest daughter has more wit than half the Senate combined.

Eventually his eyes shortly move back to his brother before returning to the archways, “If her father’s political acumen matches her wit, House Cassius might prove useful.”

Caracalla laughs, loud enough to make a few nearby guests glance their way. “You always think in terms of politics, brother. Sometimes a woman is just a woman.”

“Sometimes, yes,” Geta agrees quietly. “But not this one.”

Caracalla laughs again, even louder this time. “And what of it? Haven’t you seen that little sister? That girl looked like a frightened fawn. I’ll take her, she seems easy to break. You can have the sharp-tongued one.”

Geta rolls his eyes, his tone dry. “How magnanimous of you.”

Caracalla only grins. “Her tongue will be the death of her. Verrinus won’t forget this. A shame, really. She’d make an entertaining court jester.”

“Or a useful ally,” Geta muses, swirling his wine thoughtfully.

“So? Are you going to sit there brooding all night, or are you going to follow her?” Caracalla teases lightly before tossing a grape into his mouth. “You look like a dog sniffing after a bone.”

“Unlike you, brother,” Geta finally tears his gaze away to meet Caracalla’s amused expression, “I don’t make a habit of chasing every pretty face. And I certainly don’t declare my intentions aloud in the presence of the entire court.”

Caracalla laughs, unbothered by the bait. “Oh, come now, Geta. Admit it - you’re intrigued. The noble merchant’s daughter, standing tall amidst the wolves. It’s practically a tale out of one of those tragic love poems you pretend not to enjoy.”

Geta ignores the jab about poetry, but his curiosity is undeniable. Caracalla's eyes met him again. “But don’t let it distract you from the reality of who we are.”

“And what’s that?” Geta asks, his annoyance clear in his tone.

“Gods,” Caracalla states simply, flashing a sharp grin. “And gods don’t chase mortal girls, no matter how clever they are.”

Geta drains his goblet, setting it down with a decisive clink. Rising from his seat, he adjusts the folds of his imperial robe.

“Oh, so you are going after her,” Caracalla drawls, leaning back with a smug grin. “Be careful, Geta. That rose seems to have thorns.”

Geta doesn’t spare his brother another glance, as he descends the dais. “I’d rather deal with thorns than another evening listening to you.”

The moon is rising behind the horizon, casting its brilliant silver glow across the sprawling opulent gardens of the imperial palace.

You dare to take a deep breath, trying to calm your rapidly beating heart. Verrinus is such a coward. Instead of searching the confrontation he so clearly wished for with your father he chose the assumed easier opponent.

A mistake, clearly. Your father was a good teacher and you an even better student. Still, the confrontation was nerve racking and unnecessary. The rivalry between your two families shouldn't be so open on display.

“That was impressive.” Your little sister beams at you, awe reflecting in her eyes. “He was stunned into silence.”

You two come to stand in front of a marble fountain. You lean against the cool stone lightly, before addressing your concerns. “Father will have a wonderful time in the Forum next time.”

Sabina looks at you with a small smile, petting your shoulder. “But what else could we have done? Ignore him? Surly Father will understand.”

Of course he will but that doesn’t make it any easier. Verrinus is a man who holds grudges. Father will not be thrilled. This will have consequences.

“On another note,” Sabina’s smile grows, “Did mother tell you about her recent encounter with Verrinus' ex-wife?”

Getas' feet take him slowly through the garden, following where the sisters had disappeared earlier. The feast is still lively, the music and laughter echoing in the distance but the Emperor doesn’t take notice. His eyes are set onto the two figures in the middle of the garden.

His pace slows down as he watches the sisters. The younger one is grinning brightly, gesturing wildly as she tells a story. The older one, Y/N as he has learned, listens attentively. The soft blue seems more lavender now, shimmering in the pale light. Her face, shining with a genuine smile, looks like a painting brought to life. Beautiful.

She seems to notice eyes on her, her head turning towards him. In an instant the smile is gone, replaced by the expression of careful composure he came to admire earlier tonight.

“Lady Y/N,” Geta greets, his voice smooth but edged with curiosity. “A word?”

You dip into a respectful curtsy, your heart taking on speed again. Sabina quickly follows suit, though her gaze carefully darts around, as though searching for potential onlookers.

“Your Majesty,” you greet him back, tone carefully measured despite the storm in your chest. “I hope you are enjoying your feast.”

“I was,” Geta lies, his expression unreadable. “But I couldn’t help but notice you earlier. Not many would dare speak to Verrinus in such a way. You have a sharp tongue, though you wield it well. It’s rare to see such grace under pressure.”

Your heart keeps pounding violently in your chest, fearing guests might taking note of this exchange. With a tight smile on your lips, you reply, “Your Majesty is too kind.”

Geta steps closer, his attention fully on the woman in front of him. “And now I find myself wondering why I have not seen you before tonight.”

“You have, Your Majesty,” you dare to correct him carefully, “I am a rare attendant to the court but we were introduced at the Colosseum some years ago, though I wouldn’t expect you to remember. There are many faces demanding your attention. It would be understandable if mine was forgotten.”

Geta’s brow arches, the response only deepening his curiosity. “I assure you, Lady Y/N, your face is not one I would forget.”

His tone is almost playful but there is a weight behind his words that makes you feel even more on edge. “I am honored by your kindness, Your Majesty, but it is likely true. After all, I am one of many.”

Sabinas' eyes move toward a group of men lingering near the garden entrance, Fabius Verrinus among them. She subtly touches your wrist, a silent warning.

Your expression hardened ever so slightly, as you caught the men in the corner of your eye as well. Quickly you return your focus back to the Emperor. “I am honored to have spoken to you, Augustus, but I don’t want to keep you from the feast for too long. Surely you have more pressing matters than to concern yourself with a mere daughter of House Cassius.”

Geta’s eyes narrow subtly. Why does he get the feeling she is trying to leave? At the realization, his voice hardens, “I decide what matters concern me, Lady Y/N. And at this moment, you do.”

Your sister shifts nervously and you place a reassuring hand on her arm. “I am flattered by your attention, but surely it is misplaced.” You attempt a soft laugh. “I doubt I am deserving of it.”

Getas' jaw clenches faintly, “I disagree. You’ve spoken of the arena, do you attend often?”

“Always.” You tell him, a genuine small smile cracking through your mask. “I have never missed a game since my father became senator. I find the games to be fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” The Emperor repeats, intrigued. “Most noblewomen I know prefer the banquets to the arena. Why do you favor the games?”

You hesitate, sensing the weight of his curiosity. “The arena is a place of stories, of triumphs and tragedies. It shows the strength and spirit of Rome and it reminds us of the cost of greatness.”

Slowly Sabina takes your arm, applying soft pressure. A few nobles decided to take a stroll in the garde as well, although they are out of earshot, their discreet glances don't escape the young Cassius.

Your back straightens instinctively. “The hour grows late and I fear we’ve already taken too much of your time, Augustus. With your permission, my sister and I will return to the palace to find our father.”

“You seem eager to leave.” Geta observes, his voice calm but with an edge of suspicion. He steps forward, blocking her path slowly, a silent challenge. He watches her for any crumb of reaction, anything that might shatter her controlled composure.

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” You sling your arm around your sisters, offering a casual smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But my sister tires easily. It would be remiss of me not to see her safely back to our father.”

Sabina is about to open her mouth to speak, ready to elaborate on the excuse but you subtly squeeze her arm, silencing her before she can undo your carefully chosen words.

Geta’s jaw tightens as he considers the women, his piercing gaze flickering between the two. That little one didn’t look the least bit tired only a few moments ago. A very poor excuse, one Geta recognizes for what it is: a dismissal.

He is the emperor. He does not get dismissed.

Hot frustration blooms in Geta’s chest at her defiance. He considers insisting her to stay, forcing her to remain in his presence, but something about her makes him hesitate.

He has the power to make her yield, to bend her will with a single order. Yet, for now, he lets it go. With a controlled breath, he eventually steps aside, allowing them to pass. “Good night, Lady Cassius.”

The two sisters bow down again in unison, wishing him a good night as well, before walking towards the palace.

The moment you move past him, your grip on your sister’s arm tightens like a vice. With swift, elaborate steps, you steer her back towards the archways. She is about to look back over her shoulder but you tug her forward.

“Move,” you almost bark under your breath, the pressure of the night’s interactions finally catching up to you.

Sabina, despite it, leans in closer, her voice teasingly soft, “He’s handsome.”

With slightly hurried steps, you return to the Atrium, your grip is unrelenting, “I’ve noticed.”

Geta stands still, rooted in place with his mood souring as he watches the women leave. The bitter taste of rejection lingering on his tongue. All the women in the atrium would fall over themselves for his attention, desperate for any scrap of it, but not her.

She evadied him at every turn, so politely and as elegantly, it wasn’t just frustrating - this was fascinating. For a brief, aching moment, Geta is consumed by the thought. But then it shifts into something darker, something sharper. He knows he will see her again. And when he does, he’ll make sure she won't slip through his grasp again so easily.

614 notes · View notes

mercurial-chuckles · 7 months ago

Note

Steve Rogers x reader??

HIS FIORE - PART 4 (Final)

Summary: Steve smexy Rogers moves into the neighborhood, and one evening, he catches you sneaking into the building opposite his through the fire escape. He watches curiously, slightly amused and, quite frankly, amazed by you. Guess what he does next? He writes a note, signs it with his middle name, Grant, and slips it under your door. How will you discover that Grant is none other than Captain America? Series Warnings: Language | Eventual smut | Mature content (minors DNI) | Steve's naughty thoughts | Steve in-love Rogers | Steve possessive jealous Rogers | Drunk Steve (adorable, hot mess) | Neighbors | Secret identity | Steve watching the reader from a distance (slightly stalker-ish…ish) | No Peggy in my canon divergent universe | A smidge of angst | Overloaded fluff | Happy happy ending

A/N: Finally finished writing this! Originally, I wrote two parts as connected prompts for Steve Rogers Bingo Round 3, but I've decided to revamp the entire piece. Also, I'm going to try sticking to a schedule--wish me luck! 😉 Banner credits: Me | Photo credits: The internet | Divider credits: @buck-star (Sydney, thanks a trillion ❤️) This part is also an entry to SMUT-BER FEST! Thank you, Ro, for sending in the ASK. You have no idea how much I appreciate you! Thank you! I'm sorry for the super delay. @ronearoundblindly I hope you enjoy reading it.

Also, Smutty September Fest has transgressed into SMUT-BER FEST! Am I complaining? Not at all. So, all my darling hoes, if your muse is musing and you want to submit your story/stories, please feel free to do so. Late submissions are more than welcome! Be wild; have fun!

Note: Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work! Check out my other works: Masterlist This part is Unedited! I will edit it as soon as I can!

His Fiore Series Masterlist

Indulge Away!

The evening was peaceful until it wasn't.

Jake and Hannah, your friends from college, were in town for a wedding. They surprised you in the afternoon, dropping by your office, and you all but squealed. It had been ages since you saw them. The last time you visited them in Seattle was after they had their second son, Erik, three years ago.

You had taken the afternoon off. The three of you went to grab lunch, and you invited them over to your place, where you talked for hours, reminiscing about the good old days. When you first met Jake and Hannah, it was in sophomore year of Material Science class. You three teamed up for a project. They had been dating each other since the first year of college. You three became quick friends and often kept in touch. They invited you to their wedding, which was right after graduation. They've been happily married for nearly a decade and have two wonderful boys.

As the evening settled in, you asked to cook dinner, but they disagreed, wishing to go out. You had suggested the Italian restaurant down on Benton Ave. You often order takeouts from there, and the food was quite delicious. Hannah asked you to join them, but you politely declined knowing they could spend some alone time in the city without the kids.

Jake called in to reserve a table for them earlier when you said they were usually busy on Fridays, and they were getting ready to leave when you heard the loud, insistent knock at the door.

You frowned, casting a glance at the time. It was too early for Steve to return. He said he had training going on.

The knock came again, more aggressive this time. You rushed over to the door, pulling it open slowly.

Steve stood there in his tight blue undershirt and khakis. His usual immaculate appearance was slightly messy. His short hair was tousled, and his face was flushed like he had just run a marathon. Knowing him, he might have.

You gulped.

Panic sparked in you as you quickly glanced over your shoulder, spotting Jake adjust the small duffel bag while Hannah was in the restroom. Without hesitation, you stepped forward and tried to edge the door shut, shielding Steve from view.

It was just to protect him, his identity. If Jake or Hannah caught even a glimpse of Captain America standing at your door, it would mean a lot of explanation and complications for him.

Steve frowned at you, leaning closer with one hand on the wall beside you; he framed you in the small space. He smelled so good. You instinctively inched back, trying to shield yourself from the overwhelming effect his presence had on your senses.

You looked up at him. "Steve," you started. "Not the right time, I have…"

But he cut you off abruptly, scoffing. "Yeah, I know." His voice was louder than usual, slightly slurred. He jabbed his long, pointed finger behind you. "There was... a guy," he gritted, "On your... your balcony."

That was when you saw the hazy look in his eyes.

"Are you okay? You look…drunk," you subtly sniffed him, he wasn't reeking of alcohol. And you also knew he couldn't get drunk. Confused, you stared at him to say something.

Oh, fuck. Did Captain America do drugs? Were there… super-soldier serum-resistant drugs?

"Everything okay there?" Jake's voice called out, and before you could respond, Steve was pushing the door open to your living room.

You stood motionless, appalled.

What the hell was Steve doing?

"Jake, have you seen this bookshelf? We…" Hannah's voice trailed off as she suddenly stopped in her tracks and took in the scene.

Panic surged in your chest.

Damage control. Damage control.

If Jake and Hannah were as oblivious as Terry, you could tell them Steve was your gym instructor who lived next door. Yeah, that might work. You squared your shoulders, preparing to sell the lie with all the confidence you could muster.

Thud.

"Holy shit!" Hannah low-key squeaked, her phone slipping from her hands and hitting the carpeted floor.

You winced. Well, so much for that beautiful plan. Now you couldn't sell the idea that Steve was your non-existent gym instructor. It seemed not everyone was as oblivious as you or Terry. Good for them. Not so good for you, though.

But again, it was Steve's fault. Who were you kidding? Those muscles and that that face without those glasses, or a hat would be a dead giveaway any day.

You stood by the door, racking your brain to deal with the situation better, more effectively, while Steve stood pressed by your side now, sending heat through your entire body.

"No fucking way. You are…" Jake started, amazed, and you thought of Steve's potential reaction. You expected he would give them a shy, friendly smile, scratching his neck, entirely too modest, and saying, 'Hi, Steven Grant Rogers.' Or something along those lines.

But your mind couldn't comprehend Steve taking two long strides toward Jake, towering over the 5'11" man, pinning him down with a stare, and rasping, "Captain America. I live next door."

You gaped. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Oh, he just kept digging the hole deeper. You slapped a palm over your eyes, and shook your head, confused and shocked.

"Holy shit," Hannah repeated, amazed.

"Umm…right…yeah," you chuckled awkwardly, taking a step closer, leaning onto the small cabinet by the main door for some support.

"Steve," you started, clearing your throat, deciding to introduce your two flabbergasted friends now that he gave a dramatic, albeit arrogant, introduction. "This is Jake and his wife, Hannah, they are my college friends," you managed to say with much more semblance of control than you expected.

"Ah…wow…umm…hey there, Steve…Captain, it's an honor," Jake sputtered. Hannah stood there shell-shocked.

Steve tilted his head and looked at you, the frown transforming into confusion. Then, his eyes widened in slow motion. "Oh." He opened his mouth to say something, one hand on his hip, while he pointed a finger at you and then at Jake and moved to Hannah.

"Right…" he let out a garbled chuckle that sounded more like a snort. Steve cleared his throat, scratching above his eyebrow, and then licked his lips. You could see the pink coating his cheek.

"'S great to meet you," he muttered, nodding at Jake and Hannah.

You looked at Steve, confused. You haven't seen this side of Steve, not in the few months of knowing him as Grant, your note-sharing next-door neighbor, nor after he revealed himself.

What followed was absolute pin-drop silence and a lot of staring.

"I...uh, yeah," you started, breaking the silence, flustered, trying to keep your composure.

Jake, bless him, quickly gathered his composure and Hannah's hand and picked up the duffel bag and the fallen phone, "Yeah, we should get going. We have the…" he frowned, staring outside, most likely racking his brain for a word.

"Yeah, the reservation," you helped, your own stomach flipping uneasily. Jake nodded, grateful for the input.

And when they were at the door, you followed them outside, leaving Steve standing in your living room. When they looked at you, shocked out of wits. "I'll explain later," you pleaded, feeling a headache forming. "Please just keep it confidential," you requested.

After quick hugs, you bid bye and walked back to your living room to deal with the Captain fine-ass America, no, scratch that. It was Captain fine-ass-most-likely-high America alright.

Steve stood, hands both on his hips, rigidly jutting out all the muscles and veins, and your brain tremored in frustration for more than one reason.

You strode towards him, confused.

"Are you drunk? Did you do drugs? I thought you couldn't get high," you blabbered at him.

"I am," he chuckled, solemnly nodding and grinning at you charmingly. "Asgardian Mead, Thor gifted."

Thor? Oh, the burly godman Thor?

"Thor? As in God of Thunder?" you asked, keeping your thirsty description to yourself.

"Yeah, got real high real fast, 's good stuff," Steve shrugged, and you could see him sway on his legs momentarily, "I think I should sit down," he told you, and before you knew it, he was on the floor, his back to the couch.

"Oh, fuck! Are you ok?" you gasped, kneeling before him. He shifted his large form and tried to straighten up, one leg spreading beside you while he folded his other leg, and he leaned forward, grasping your right hand in his large one and caressing the inside of your palm with his thumb. You choked on your breath at the pleasure shooting down your spine.

He nodded thoughtfully. When he looked up at you from under those perfect, down-right criminal, long eyelashes, not breaking his gaze, you felt your insides churn.

No. No. Distance. You need distance.

"I'll get you some water," you told him, breaking the silence. He blinked, letting your hand go reluctantly.

You took a moment to yourself as you scrambled away to fill the empty bottle. You could feel his sharp gaze scorching your form.

The past few days had been great. Spending time with Steve felt wholesome, and you really had come close, and this time, it wasn't merely through notes. You both spent insurmountable time together, cooking, eating and talking, lots and lots of talking.

Though you'd been trying to get a grip on your feelings for him, things were much simpler to handle when your mind was not buffering or your heart racing out of your chest. While your heart did its thing, spending more time with him had your mind in better control. You were finally able to grasp that Captain America, the living legend, was a simple man who was too sassy and stubborn for his own good. And he was willingly spending time with you. And that he was a sinfully gorgeous, walking green flag of a man.

Now that very man was sitting on your living room floor, likely out of his rocker, and high on burly man's mead.

When a few drops of water spilled on you, overflowing from the water, you shut off the valve and walked back to him, handing him the bottle. He eyed the bottle briefly before taking it and gulping down a few sips.

"What's going on?" you asked.

He looked up at you with a shy almost guilty-looking grin and pulled you closer, his grip firm on your forearm, and you landed ungracefully half on him and half on the floor, and despite his state, he steadied you.

Dear mother of sweet Duckburg! Those thighs felt rigid.

"Steve," you squealed, pushing yourself off him and moving away hastily, but his grip on you was unwavering. So, you settled for sitting closer and not straddling on his lap.

Even though he was sitting on the floor, slouched against the couch, and you knelt before him, Steve's broad frame still towered over you. The mere size difference was sending your mind unholy signals.

Nope. Don't go there. Don't you fucking go there!

"What the hell's going on?" You asked again, voicing your desperation and frustration.

"I saw him on your balcony. And I didn't... I didn't like it." Steve snickered, throwing a glance towards your balcony.

"Wh…what?"

"I thought you were going on a date with him," he finally said, more like hissed.

"You got drunk on some Thunder god's mead because you thought I was going on a date?" you asked, incredulous.

Steve winced, shutting his eyes and nodded.

Your breath hitched. An overwhelming warmth bloomed in your chest, making you gulp, leaning more of your weight on one arm that was not held in a super soldier grip.

"Steve..." You didn't know what to say, your mind reeling. You pulled your hand free, and thankfully, he let you.

"I heard him talking about dinner reservations. I thought…" He trailed off, staring at the floor. "When I heard... I heard him," he muttered again, "And I thought, 'Why isn't it me?'"

You froze. "What?"

"I wanted it to be me," Steve bit out angrily, his sharp jaw clenching as his gaze turned distant. A hint of sadness lingered in his half-lidded blue eyes. Your heart skipped a beat.

Why was your rational brain not working? Oh, for god's sake, this was not Quantum Gravity. Steve was hinting at being jealous. He liked you, right?

You felt butterflies swarming your entire body. Warm, hungry butterflies, heating you up.

You scoffed at the absurdity of the situation. "Why?" You asked though you were grasping the why. "You're not making any sense," you said, trying to dismiss it as drunken rambling, but your heart wasn't listening.

No. Don't say it, Steve. No.

"I like you, like a whole lot," he murmured, pushing himself off the back of the couch and leaning closer to you. The heat of his breath on your cheek, his intoxicating smell captured your senses and pushed them into overdrive.

"No, 'S not true…" he whispered, his lips ghosting your cheek. He shook his head, chuckling, making you shudder at the sensation, and you stared at him in confusion.

What's not true? Was he making fun of you? Was this a prank? Your entire face heated up. Steve leaned even closer, his lips grazing your ear, and you bit your lip, your breaths coming out shallow. He cradled your jaw with his large palm and whispered the words you'd thought you'd never hear in any possible reality. "I love you." And he kissed your cheek, gently. The way he set your heart ablaze with that simple touch of his lips on your skin was unbelievable.

"Steve," you whispered, appalled and slightly worried, but he cut you off with a slight shake of his head.

How can you trust any of what he was saying? He was drunk.

You moved out of his grasp, beyond breathless, searching his eyes, your heart racing as you stared at him in disbelief.

"Your happy place…the one you told me about when I had that really bad nightmare. I want to be there with you, just you and me, I want to hold you close while we watch the rain together in our cozy home," he continued softly. Your insides twisted, and you sat there, wide-eyed, clinging to every word he spoke.

"I'll even learn to make the perfect coffee for you," he added with a small, dreamy smile. The vulnerability in his voice tugged painfully at your heart, and your eyes blurred with unshed tears.

"No, stop," you cried, unable to take any of this. What if tomorrow comes, and it will all shatter?

"But… it's the truth, doll. I love you, and I never felt anything like this in my long, painful existence," he said with conviction, wrapping your heart with more of his words.

You shook your head, unable to control your emotions, your tears flowing furiously.

"I'm sorry…I didn't want to make you cry," he soothed, wiping away your angry, helpless tears. His eyes blurred, sighing heavily, exhausted.

"Give me a chance, sweetheart, and I will prove to you how perfect we are."

You were only human, and when a man you had feelings for confessed to you, you couldn't help but break down before him. He gathered you in his arms, pulling you into his lap effortlessly, securely, and held you as you cried into his shoulder.

You didn't dare hug him back; you couldn't because you were scared to hope. Your arms stayed beside you as he soothed you so gently.

No. NO. Don't you dare believe all this? He was not really in his senses right now. What he drank was not even like human alcohol. Maybe it made you see things you didn't want to or say things you didn't intend to.

"You're sleeping this off." You muttered, clambering out of his hold. You cleared your throat, and composed yourself, "We'll talk about this later."

Steve nodded, a frown marring his perfect face. He managed to stand up and got onto your couch with little guidance. He flopped face-first onto it, legs hanging outside, mumbling incoherent words into the cushion.

You stared at the giant man, reeling from the shock of his confession. You stood there for a long moment, bewildered. Gathering some strength, you went to your bedroom and brought the blanket for him. You flung it over him carefully, tucking the blanket.

Eyes shut, Steve reached for your hand and gently grasped your shivering palm into his fist. You awkwardly crouched over him and tried to pull away, but he stubbornly held on. You saw the faint smile on his smushed face on the pillow. Sighing, you settled on the floor before the couch, letting him hold you and consume your thoughts.

"'S nice." He mumbled, getting comfortable and drifted off to sleep, his breathing slow and steady.

You freed your palm from his grip after almost an hour. You picked up the water bottle on the floor and downed it whole. You could use some mead right about now. Maybe not Asgardian, perhaps the human version.

A wave of shock coursed through you as the whole thing came rushing to you. Emotions still running high, you collapsed onto the chair beside the couch.

You felt happiness bubbling in your chest, thrashing in waves as your mind processed. You thought he was just being a good friend, but could you hope; hope that what he said was all true? If you were being honest, you knew how you felt. He was everything you ever wanted. Could you love him wholly? Captain America…Grant…Steve?

You had been trying so damn hard to make sense of your feelings, hoping, praying, that they would become a simple celebrity crush after he revealed he was Captain America. Denying the feelings was easier to save yourself from heartbreak, but now he throws this whole thing at you.

Maybe it was your fault. When he pushed that note underneath your door the first time, you should have knocked on his door instead of grinning like a fool and weaving into starting the whole note-sharing.

You looked at his sleepy form, his lips slightly parted as he slept peacefully, completely erasing peace from your life. You wanted to smack his stupidly perfect face.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you adjusted the blanket over him, which slipped off when he moved around.

"I'll be here in the morning," you whispered softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

And for the first time that night, when you laid your head on the pillow, as chaotic as it was, you allowed yourself to hope.

Steve woke up with a pounding headache. He hadn't been this drunk in a lifetime. It took him a few minutes to open his eyes, and he groaned in pain, sitting up on the soft couch. Not just soft, it smelled like you, soothing his senses a bit. Why did it smell like you in his apartment? Why did he smell like you? He wondered, dazed, and then he looked at the blanket.

He frantically looked around, confused, and the memories of the previous night came thrashing, jumbled.

Steve winced in disdain as he remembered the guy, the mead. Then…

"Son of a bitch," he paled as things shuffled in his head from last night, he confessed to you, and a small memory vividly stood out in his mind: "We'll talk about this later." You said with a tear-stricken face.

Shit. What had he done? He'd ruined it. Didn't he? Of course, she doesn't feel the same, he thought bitterly. Why can't he seem to understand the definition of patience with you?

His gut twisted with guilt, embarrassment, and anger at himself, at his lack of control. You were asleep in your room. He hastily got up, held the blanket close to him one last time, and left before you could see him.

The frustration of it all formed a storm in his chest.

When you woke up, Steve was long gone, and all you found was a perfectly folded blanket and a note:

Thank you for letting me stay. I'll see you around. – Steve.

And your heart did break reading the note. Of course, he didn't mean what he said. It was just the mead talking. You felt stupid for hoping.

For the first time ever, you despised the weekend. You couldn't simply face him or his presence, even if it was separated by a wall.

So, you did the only thing you could think of, get out and stay out as long as possible. You roamed through the city, weaving in and out of touristy spots, hoping for the noise of the crowd to temporarily drown out the tumultuous thoughts.

You checked your phone now and then, half-expecting it to ping with a message from Steve. Maybe he had an important mission or something that needed his attention, which would delay the inevitable conversation.

But the phone remained silent. No text. No call.

You wandered through the streets, walking aimlessly, letting the hum of the city distract you from the ache inside. But eventually, the noise inside you won, and the crowd wasn't helping you anymore.

When you finally parked your car in front of the building at 12:30 am, to your utter shock, you found Steve trudging up the steps to the apartment entrance. His body was stiff, and you could see the bruises and the blood. Your gaze caught his, and your eyes widened in shock. He seemed to not expect to see you.

And he was hurt badly. Shit. He was really on a mission.

"Steve?" you called, hurrying out of your car, forgetting about the whole ordeal while all you could think about was him being hurt. You briskly crossed the small road, calling out his name, but he didn't stop walking.

"Steve, wait!"

But hurt Steve Rogers was faster than you as you saw the elevator display show 5 by the time you reached the elevator doors.

"Why the hell are these so fast?" You muttered, the irony of your statement not lost on you. Just a few days ago, you cursed the same elevator for being too slow. You pressed the button again and again and again, annoyed at the elevator and him.

Once you reached your floor, you didn't hesitate to march to his apartment, heart pounding. You didn't know if it was frustration, concern, or a mix that fueled your actions.

You were just living your simple life before he decided to wreck it. You were doing just fine, dealing with your affection for him before he confessed.

His face was a blend of exhaustion and irritation when he opened the door after your incessant knocking.

He stood in his white undershirt, bloodied and bruised, and your heart tugged with concern.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice clipped.

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. "I…what? You're hurt, for one. Why the hell are you not at the hospital?"

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I'm fine." Then, in a quiet voice, he whispered, "Why do you care, neighbor?" His petulance was gnawing at your nerves, irking you and the question struck you harder than you expected, and your breath hitched.

"Steve," you said, your voice barely audible. "You are hurt." You stared at him, bewildered and angry.

He was hurt. How could he expect you not to?

Something shifted in his expression, exhaustion, maybe. Whatever it was, it broke the dam between you, and the words you'd been waiting to say spilled out.

"What is wrong with you?" you snapped, throwing your hands up.

Fuck him and his attitude.

"You come to my apartment, drunk on some stupid mead, confess your feelings, leave me with a cryptic note, and then fucking vanish for the whole day! Do you not remember anything, neighbor?"

Steve's brows furrowed his expression hard. "Of course, I remember," he shot back. "I poured my damn heart out, made you cry, and it…it hurts."

The sheer audacity made your jaw drop. Your breath hitched. What? Your frown deepened, and the anger consumed you more.

Pointing a finger at him, "Hurts?” Your voice rose, incredulous. "Captain Rogers, you were drunk off your ass! You scared both my friends half to death, confessed out of nowhere, and then you expect me to what? Tell you how much I love you? I waited, Steve! I waited for you to come to your senses so we could talk like fucking adults!" you gritted the words out, feeling satisfied to throw it all on his face.

He stared at you, his confusion palpable, but his tone stayed defensive. "Wait a second! You were the one who said, 'We'll talk later,' like it didn't mean a damn thing!"

"That's because you were fucking out of it, slurring your words!" you yelled back, your face heating, neck straining to have to look up.

The two of you stood there, breathless, glaring at each other until realization struck Steve like a bolt. His posture stiffened, his blue eyes widening as if seeing the entire situation in a new light.

"Hold on a damn second," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, his voice quieter but no less intense. "You don't hate me?"

"What?" you exclaimed, exasperation lacing your voice. "Where did you even get that from? And, why else would I be here, chasing you down after you practically ghosted me if I hated your dumbass?"

"And... you just said you…" His words faltered as his gaze locked onto yours.

The silence fell between you. You blinked, realization hitting you with equal force.

I poured my heart to you, and you dismissed me! Steve's words came like lightning.

"Oh, God," you murmured, your face flaming. "So, you do umm...whatever you said, you meant it?" You asked.

Steve froze, his eyes wide, but then his face softened into the most breathtaking grin you'd ever seen.

The tension broke like a snapped string, and Steve let out a low, almost disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. "I thought you didn't feel the same," he muttered, his voice thick.

You stared at him, the sheer misunderstanding making you want to scream. "And I thought you regretted it!"

He stepped closer, "The only thing I regret," he murmured, his eyes burning into yours, "Is touching that damn Asgardian mead. I swear I'm never going near that stuff again."

A soft laugh bubbled out of you without volition. He wrapped an arm around your waist, hissing, and your focus shifted to his bruises. "Steve…" you sighed, heart racing while you felt a huge weight lift off of you.

His lips curved into a soft, tender smile as he leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours, careful to avoid the gash on the left side of his face. His voice was low, filled with warmth. "For the record, I don't remember everything I said to you last night, but drunk or not... I love you."

Your breath hitched, but your hands found their way to his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt. "Damnit, Steve!" you grumbled softly, affectionately, tears blurring your eyes.

His grin turned boyish as he pulled you into his living room before shutting the door just as the distant sound of Mrs. Reindell's door squeaked open.

Before he could take another step towards you, you pointed to the couch with a stern look. "We'll talk, but first, sit there. You're bleeding."

Steve raised a brow at your tone, his lips twitching in amusement, but he complied, sinking onto the couch. You noticed the tension on his shoulders and how his body sagged as if he was barely holding himself together.

"Where's your first aid kit?" you asked, scanning the room.

"I'll get it," he offered, starting to rise.

"Oh, no, you don't," you interrupted, placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back down. "Sit your ass down and stay. Now tell me where it is."

He chuckled lowly, clearly enjoying your bossiness far too much. "Third shelf, left side, linen closet."

You gave him one more warning look before heading down the hall. His apartment was neat. Too neat. Everything had its place, down to the neatly folded towels in the linen closet. You grabbed the first aid kit and returned, noticing Steve watching you with an amused expression.

"What's so funny?" you asked, settling on the coffee table and setting the kit beside you. "Nothing," he said, leaning back against the couch, that maddening little smile still in place.

You chuckled, pulling out antiseptic wipes and gauze. "Take your shirt off. I need to see the damage." Steve didn't say a word except for the slight tilt of his lips. You froze for half a second before narrowing your eyes.

He grinned but obeyed, pulling his shirt over his head with ease. As much as you'd steeled yourself, the sight of him shirtless hit you like a truck. Muscles corded his chest and arms, marred only by the bruises and scrapes from wherever he got those from. You bit your lip without thinking, but when his gaze flicked to your face, you quickly composed yourself, focusing on the task.

Steve was enjoying this far too much.

"What happened?" You started cleaning the wound on his chest, and then the gash on his face, your touch gentle.

He tilted his head to give you better access, his lips quirking into a soft smile. "Hazard of the job."

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't care for yourself. Why are you not at the hospital? Does your insurance not cover tomfoolery?" you muttered, moving to inspect his arms.

"Smartass," Steve chuckled, shaking his head. You giggled.

"You're really not denying the lack of tomfoolery then?" You pointed, your fingers brushed over the bruises as you worked, but just as you went to recheck one of the wounds you'd cleaned, you realized it was already healing.

You blinked, looking up at him in surprise. Steve shrugged, his smile turning a little sheepish. "Serum."

You frowned, "That doesn't discount you for not taking care of yourself, Steve," you retorted, shaking your head.

"Is it hurting anywhere else?" you asked, your eyes scanning him for more injuries. It was both strange and fascinating to watch the cuts and bruises fade before your eyes, his enhanced healing working its magic. Steve shook his head, silently watching with that intense look.

You packed up the first aid kit and stood to return it to its place, and Steve followed close behind you, his presence warm and steady.

You paused, your hand resting on the linen closet door as you put away the kit.

When you turned, he stood so close, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes burned you, waiting. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you thick with tension.

"I do love you if that didn't register in your super soldier brain," you said with a small smile.

Steve looked away, shaking his head. "You drive me crazy," he rasped, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His bare chest rose and fell in heavy breaths. He shut his eyes, and the way his jaw ticked told you he was restraining.

Your own heart picked up.

When his eyes finally met yours, their heat was enough to steal the air from your lungs. It wasn't just a look; it was seeking permission and a promise, and you realized you'd gladly surrender to him.

He closed the distance in a single stride, crowding you against the wall beside the closet door. The solid surface met your back as his left hand planted firmly above your head.

He leaned in, his movements deliberate and intense, the tip of his nose grazing the side of your cheek. The contact was featherlight, but it sent a shiver down your spine, leaving you trembling beneath him. Your face and ears heated up, and you were sure you were blushing.

His rich and warm scent enveloped you, anchoring you to the moment simultaneously unraveling your composure.

Steve moved his right hand, his thumb traced your chin, and your lips parted, eyes closing shut. His palm cradled your jaw whole with a tenderness that contrasted with the sheer intensity radiating from him.

"You're so gorgeous, doll," he murmured, the words laced with such honesty you could cry.

Your breath hitched as your eyes met his darkened blues, turbulent and reverent. The weight of his gaze held you captive, your heart pounding in your chest.

Instinctively, you reached out, your hand hovering over the expanse of his chest, avoiding the gradually healing bruises. The heat of his skin radiated against your fingertips, the light dusting of chest hair teasing the expanse of your palm.

He caught your wrist in his larger hand, his grip firm yet gentle. The sheer size of his palm dwarfed your entire forearm, his thumb brushing slow circles over the delicate skin of your wrist, drawing a whimper from you. Then, carefully, he guided your hand to rest fully against his chest, pressing it over his heart.

"Feel that?" he whispered, his voice low and rough, placing a butterfly kiss on your forehead, before tilting his head to rest his forehead against yours. Underneath the warmth of his muscular chest, his heartbeat thundered beneath your palm, erratic and unguarded.

"You do that to me." He murmured, his lips hovered so close to yours that you could feel the warmth of his breath, his words stirring the air between you. Your mouth went dry, and you licked your lips, and his gaze moved to them.

His nose flared as he mimicked you, licking his own lips. Before you could lean in, he was moving. His lips touched yours gently first, and he let out a groan, fueling you with such intensity, burning you with a simple touch.

You really did that to him. That thought unraveled you, and you eagerly moved onto your tiptoes, hands finding purchase in his soft blonde locks. His hands moved to the side of your waist, and he pulled you closer and straightened up, lifting you off the ground, holding you by his one arm wrapped around your waist, and he ran the other hand down the back of your thigh, and you wound your legs around him. Your body pressed into his delectably.

He took your mouth into another kiss, a low rumble reverberating from his chest as he pinned you to the wall, one arm carding through your hair as he held you firm.

"You taste so good," he murmured, breaking the kiss momentarily before kissing you again passionately. Steve's tactile pants couldn't hide his arousal as he hardened against your stomach.

Your pussy fluttered, and you moaned into his mouth, breathless and completely needy, addicted to everything that was him.

The way he nipped your lips and pushed his tongue against you felt unreal. You never had a kiss that good. Never.

Steve pulled apart slightly, allowing you both to breathe. His breath came out in spurts, heating up your skin, and you searched his gaze expectantly, the hazy and happy grin on his face etched in your core memory.

"Steve," you whispered, rubbing your thumb against his lower lip, and he shivered.

"Not done with you," he rasped, his hand lifting you up to keep you at the level to his mouth and he kissed you with more vigor and fuck, you were completely drenched.

You both parted from the kiss again, breathless, and he leaned into your neck, nipping the skin at your throat and your head fell back, arching, giving him access while your legs tightened around him. Steve placed a few wet kisses along the expanse of your neck before adjusting you in his arms, his one hand winding around your back and rubbing the side of your boob while his other hand moved to hold your ass as he squeezed it tightly, surprising you, and you felt his hardness against your clothed pussy.

"Holy shit!" Your cry synced with his loud grunt when he rocked against you. His forehead rested against yours, "Eyes on me," he demanded, and you obeyed.

"Will you let me love you? Every inch of you?" He asked softly, reverently, and when you nodded, reciprocating with a roll of your hips, his jaw clenched, teeth gritting as he thrust against you with a bit more force, and you were reaching your high. Oh, god!

"Words, please," it was really funny how he could be sweet and sinful all at once. "Yes…but don't fucking stop, Steve, I'm so close," you confessed unashamed, unbothered, breath hitching as he rocked you onto him. Your pussy clenched around nothing, and the friction felt just perfect.

"That mouth," he chuckled darkly, lowering his head into the crook of your neck as he nipped your skin. You moaned.

Steve moved up, looking at you for a beat long when he thrusted with a bit more force and saw your lips part, letting out a breathless cry. He groaned, taking your lower lip between his lips and sucking on it gently, and his grip around your ass tightened as he rolled his hips. You felt the heat of his touch, and the pleasure consumed you all at once. You cried out loudly, body arching as you gripped his shoulders.

Steve didn't slow down, though, "God, your smell…" He grunted and sped up, thrusting incessantly. His hands grazed your hardened nipples over your bra and squeezed. Your pussy clenched at the new sensation he was evoking while still dry-humping against you. Not so dry because you were sure you were soaking through your leggings.

His hand moved to cup your ass again, squeezing tightly, and you shivered, succumbing to another orgasm, falling into his arms, whispering, crying his name.

"Fucking perfect…" he cursed, breath hitched as he nipped your jaw and moved to ear. "I love you," he whispered, placing a kiss on your earlobe, his sharp nose caressing down your neck, his mouth placing kisses down the path, and you trembled in his arms.

His hand moved to your tit, and he squeezed gently at first, and when you moaned lewdly, he palmed it with a bit more pressure, repeating the same on the other one.

You had no idea when he carried you to the bedroom and placed you gently on the neatly made bed, and you leaned on your elbows, moving back to make space for him on the Queen bed. He switched on the table lamp by the bed, and that was when you saw the dark blue mark on the lower part of his back that you had missed earlier.

"Steve," you called out in concern. Shit! What were you doing? He was hurt and still healing.

"Wait…" you started, unable to formulate a bloody sentence because you were fucking buzzed from the orgasmic high, and Steve stiffened, his muscles clenched visibly as he turned to you, looking worried.

"Did I hurt you?" He asked you in a soft, concerned voice.

"No…" you smacked yourself. "No…no…no…that was absolutely best," you chuckled. Steve relaxed his stance, moving closer.

Your gaze dropped to his body. "You're hurt, we should…maybe stop… some medicine…" you were cut off. Steve quickly climbed onto the bed, straddling your thighs and taking your lips into another deep, languid kiss, consuming your doubts and thoughts. You let yourself fall back on the mattress, letting your weight settle completely.

Steve broke the kiss to murmur against your lips, "Right now, I need you more than anything else. My bruises will heal soon, I promise," he whispered, leaning down to kiss you again tenderly, and your idea to wait it out evaporated from your brain when his heated kisses sizzled your skin.

"Can I remove these?" he asked, nuzzling your throat, his fingers dipped on the side of your pants just at your hip bone. Steve's touch felt hot on your skin, and not enough; they were so close to your pussy.

"Please," you begged, and you helped him remove your pants along with your panties. And when he dragged them down, you removed your shirt.

When you moved to remove your bra, his hands stopped you, and he turned you onto your stomach before pressing his palm on your back, "So soft," he whispered, moving forward to place a tiny kiss on your shoulder and trying to undo the clasp, but he wasn't able to get it out.

When you looked over your shoulder, watching him struggle, you giggled. The dexterous Captain America was struggling with a bra strap. He rolled his eyes and plucked it again. It tore away to your utter shock, "Sorry," he said, removing the bra and simultaneously turning you onto your back.

"Are you, though?" you asked shyly as he pulled your bra completely,

leaving you completely naked for him. The coolness of the room suddenly hits you, sending goosebumps all over your body. Your nipples hardened even more.

Steve sat back on his knees, straddling your thighs, and he let out a groan lazily, watching every inch of your skin.

"No, I'm not, far from it," he winked, dazed in lustful haze.

Steve splayed his large palm on your upper left thigh and squeezed it, making you clench in need.

"So pretty, like a painting," he whispered, taking your hand and kissing the inside of your palm, and you whimpered as his fingers caressed your wet folds. His thumb circled the nub. "Steve," you cried.

"Yes?" He asked, looking up at you, so fucking innocently, searching.

"Stop teasing," you moaned, earning a whimper from him when your own hand reached down to caress him over his pants. Steve let out a growl, moaning loudly, his head thrown back as he cupped your pussy firmly, and your grip on him tightened involuntarily, and you moaned in delight, your legs wiggling. You moved to sit, effectively pushing him slightly.

"You're overdressed," you said urgently, needy hands moving to his pants.

"Am I?" he chuckled, voice raspy, he moved to hold your tit, squeezing your waist and you moaned.

Steve moved to take your lips in a searing kiss. Quickly moving into a plank position, he efficiently removed his pants without breaking the kiss, discarding his pants with a single hand.

That was pussy flutteringly impressive.

You pulled apart from the kiss and dragged down his boxers, and Steve kicked them away and the sight of him completely naked made you moan, and you trembled beneath him; his sheer strength made you gasp.

Fucking Adonis!

Steve looked at you, expectant and unsure.

"You're so beautiful," you told him in awe, eyes trailing the length of him. He grinned at you happily.

You wanted to touch him, taste him, take him in your mouth, feel him fall apart.

He was girthy, long and beautiful. "Can I?" you asked, and he nodded, slightly shy at the first touch, "Son of a bitch," he cursed falling over you. He quickly steadied himself. Your small hand wrapped near the tip as you pumped, smearing his precum and rubbing it along, and he groaned into your shoulder, sinking his teeth into your skin, not too hard but enough to leave your mind screaming in pleasure.

When you gestured your intentions of getting on your knees, Steve understood, but he shook his head and whispered against your mouth, "Later. I need to feel you, please," he gritted out, and you nodded but didn't stop rubbing him. Steve, however, moved your hand, bringing it back, still holding himself in that plank position.

Fuck, he was so strong. He moved around lithely.

You simply were incapable of saying a word when he rubbed his fingers so delightfully over your folds, evoking pleasure. He pulled your other hand, clutching at the sheet desperately entwined his large fingers with yours, and held it beside your head. He pushed a finger gently, and you cried, voice hitching as he slowly pushed it to his second knuckle. He pumped it inside you, and when you begged him to fill you up, Steve growled.

"So beautiful," he groaned, placing a kiss on your cleavage before kissing the swell of your left boob before he sucked on it.

You waited impatiently as he lined up at your entrance. Steve stilled, though, looking at you with concern. "What's wrong?" you asked. Steve leaned against your forehead, sighing heavily, jaw slightly clenching. "I do not have any protection," he said. It took you a hot moment. Right! Condom.

"Steve…umm… I'm clean, on birth control…if that…I haven't been with anyone in a while if that's…" you felt absolutely stupid blabbering. Quickly composing, you took a deep breath, not focusing on his bare cock against your pussy. You looked up at him, "We don't need to do this now…" but Steve frowned, cutting you off and claiming your lips in a quick kiss.

"No, that's not what I want. If you are okay, I don't mind. I'll pull it out, I promise. I…I haven't been with anyone. My medical is all clear, too," Steve added, his cheeks flushed a little more.

You smiled, nodding, looking up at him.

"Stop me if it's too much," his soft command registered through the haze of desire when he slotted himself at the entrance, pushing the tip inside. Your body went rigid at the feel.

"FUCKING HELL," he yelled, clutching the pillow in a death grip. "You okay?" he managed to say, breathless, the unruly lock of hair falling onto his forehead, making him even more perfect. You nodded, trying to breathe.

"Move…" you mouthed inaudibly, and he pushed a little more. You moved your hands to his pert ass, encouraging him to push in more because, dear god, you were incapable of getting a word out of your mouth.

Thankfully, he was reading every tiny expression on your face, and he rocked a couple of times before fully thrusting inside. He stilled, mouth parted, head thrown back, his eyes shut tightly for a second before he let out a loud groan. Your own eyes pinched close. The sudden intrusion and his mere size felt slightly uncomfortable and overwhelming.

"Too much?" he managed to ask you despite looking like he could rail you onto the mattress. He stilled, waiting.

You took a few steady breaths. "Move," you whispered, and he rocked experimentally a couple of times. And the unease of being so full faded as you clenched around him needily. The pleasant ache in your belly burgeoned, spiraling, building to thrash you into an all-consuming orgasm.

Your head thrashed onto the pillow as you arched, hands moving carefully to clutch his shoulders, avoiding the bruises.

"Sweetheart, can you look at me," he rasped, and your heart tugged at his plea. You mustered your courage and opened your eyes, which were ready to roll into the back of your head. His face contorted in pleasure as his thrusts turned languid, and he leaned down, moving close to your lips.

"Such a good girl," he said, making your breath hitch and your pussy clenched around him tightly. "Nngh fuck," he chuckled.

"Steve," you moaned, winding your hands around him as you pulled him closer. When he searched your eyes with concern, you bit your lip when he stilled.

"I can take it, Captain. You don't have to worry. I'll stop if it's too much. Okay?" you managed to say between heavy breaths. His jaw clenched, his hands moved to the back of your right thigh, tapping, and you wound your legs around him, the angle making you both moan loudly. You tried to twist your foot away from the bruise you remembered on his lower back.

Steve seemed to realize your plight. "Shit, doll, don't worry, just…hold on tight," he grunted, and you did. He moved your wrists above onto the pillow and held them there with his right hand while his left hand moved to fondle your tits.

You moaned when he rolled his hips into you, and he didn't hold back, rutting into you with such force that if he wasn't holding you down, you would have moved up and off the bed.

"Steve…fuck…fuck…," his every thrust hit the spot that had you seeing stars. When he moved his hand away from the tit to your lips, you captured his thumb in your mouth, rolling your tongue and sucking on it, moaning. Steve's breath hitched; his hand tightened on your wrists while he fucked you into the mattress.

The pleasure built inside your tummy, and your lips parted. He moved his finger out of your mouth, and you cried at the sensation.

"Yes, fuck, you're squeezing me so good," he gasped, and your orgasm overtook every fucking sense in your body. Steve's hips stuttered against your hips, and when you looked at him and smiled giddily, he grinned, sitting up on the bed straight and carrying you up with him. You sat in his lap with him still nestled inside you so delectably. The new angle had you clenching on him tightly.

His hands moved to clutch your neck, and he pivoted you closer as he claimed your mouth for another kiss. It was sloppy, rough, and you fucking loved it. You tried to move on his dick, and he moaned into your mouth.

"Perfect for me," he sighed greedily, pulling you in for another kiss and thrusting up into you, and you squealed as he hit your cervix deeper. He stilled, checking on you. "All good," you managed to squeak, and he nodded, thrusting up.

"Fuck fuck fuck… don't stop," you chanted as you felt yourself careen and your orgasm consumed you. His veiny cock dipped into you just right as he moaned lewdly into your ear, not stopping his movement. Steve waited till he saw you blink at him, and just as you came down from your high, he pushed you onto your back, folding your legs at the knees, and pushed them close to your chest and rocked into you. You watched in awe as he flushed red, a sheen of sweat covering his brow, and his beautiful gaze held yours.

"I'm…"

"Let go," you nodded, and his biceps flexed, and he growled your name loudly before he came.

Fuck, that's a lot of cum. Probably a super soldier thing, you thought, moaning in delight as you felt the delicious friction of his cock splaying his cum on your pussy.

He huffed, breathing heavily, his eyes closed, a small smile playing on his lips as he leaned down and placed an open-mouthed kiss, his breath heavy on your mouth. When he came down from his high, he rested his forehead against yours.

"Are you okay?" he asked, blue eyes searching yours, his voice softer, raspier.

You chuckled, the sound light and full of warmth. "Okay is an understatement," you said, grinning.

His lips curved into a smug smile as he kissed your forehead softly.

"And you?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

"I feel like…" He sighed happily, placing a lingering kiss on your neck. "I've died and gone to heaven," he murmured, then laughed softly, falling onto his back, and pulled you onto him, not bothered by the mess you were both making.

"I love you," he said against your lips, his voice low and reverent.

"I love you," you whispered, the words carrying all the affection you felt for him. He chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours, before capturing your lips in another kiss.

Much later, you both lay cuddled after he helped you clean up. Steve put you in his t-shirt while he was in his boxers. He was still hard as a rock, and you had tried to help him out, but he shook his head, saying he needed to hold you close first, and you needed some rest. As the room grew quieter, he spoke softly. "You know, I was so worried I would mess it up."

"Mess it up?" you asked, your curiosity piqued.

"With you… um, sex…" he said, his voice uncertain.

"Sex?" you repeated, resting your chin upon his bare chest. The lights were off, casting the room into a beautiful cozy ambience.

He looked at you, his arms instinctively pulling you closer. "I… I've never done that before…" he admitted, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

"Sex?" you repeated, sitting up slightly and propping yourself on his chest to look at him. Your brows shot up in surprise, the faint glow of the streetlights illuminating your wide-eyed expression. "Wait, that was your first time?"

He gave you a sheepish shrug. "Uh… yeah," he said, avoiding your gaze.

"As in, after thawing?" you asked curiously. He snorted, clearing his throat and throwing you a deadpan look.

"Oh, god, like ever?" Your stunned squeak came out garbled. "Doll," he groaned, smushing his face in the crook of your neck.

You blinked, processing his words before a smile tugged at your lips.

"Hold on." You gestured dramatically but were not able to say anything.

You couldn't hold back the giggle bubbling up in your chest.

"Oh my God, it's an honor to serve under you, Captain!" you teased, your grin downright wicked now.

"Hey!" he cut you off, his hands flying to your waist as he flipped you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. The sudden movement made you squeal, laughter spilling out of you.

"Keep laughing, and I'll show you just how much of a quick learner I am and am bloody efficient," he said, his voice low and playful, the heat in his eyes making your laughter catch in your throat.

Your giggles subsided into breathless chuckles as you reached up to trace his jawline. "I'm not laughing at you," you said softly, though the smile on your lips remained. "I'm just… shocked. I mean, that was incredible. You were incredible."

He relaxed at your words, leaning down to nuzzle your neck. "I was worried…"

"Oh, I noticed," you teased lightly, earning a groan from him. "But honestly? That just makes it even sweeter. And kind of… hot," you admitted, your voice dropping to a whisper.

"Yeah?" he asked, his lips brushing your collarbone now.

"Yeah," you replied, threading your fingers through his hair. "But, uh, just to clarify…" You smirked. "You're not planning on being a one-hit wonder, are you?"

The laughter that rumbled out of him was low and infectious as he leaned back to look at you, his blue eyes sparkling warmly. "My darling Fiore," he murmured, his voice dripping with mischief. "I can do this all day."

There there...HIS FIORE IS DONE! YAYYY!

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acid-ixx · 8 months ago

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update and story excepts

guys i swear if i post chapter 4 sooner for my series: again &. again, soon, will that revive the yandere batfam/dc tag because i swear i've been consuming less content of it both lately and sadly 💔 like it's a bit dead ngl. ill reply to asks once i'm done with ch.4 istg

and yes, i'm back from my short hiatus again to announce this. and it's 3:30am but i dont care teehee. anyways, if i do post a new chapter expect it to be this week and that's final for once, since i've kept all of you guys waiting so long, i'm so sorry :(( i swear it's me trying to gain confidence through my writing and i don't know if i like chapter 4 or not. all i do know is that it's one of the most emotionally draining chapters so expect triple the angst, yippee!

anyways, excepts from the chapter below the line break:

DICK'S THOUGHTS:

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

CONNER'S SCENES:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you."

BATHROOM BREAKDOWN P.T.2 PRIOR TO CLUBBING

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted.the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

(spoilers: expect shit to go down with jason todd with you, and him with the family, and a good 4k words of you flirting with conner before actual shit goes down)

leave comments down below if you do like the direction this story is coming to! otherwise, thank you all for reading my series and supporting it from the start !! <33

#🍨... yael's talking #yandere dc #yandere batfam #guys pls dont attack me if i take too long #i feel so much pressure (from myself) to make this chapter as good or even better than chapter #than chapter 3 #since the third chapter has a whopping 4k likes #and i dont want anything i post to flop #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere batman #yandere conner kent #yandere dick grayson #platonic yandere #soft yandere

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mandalhoerian · 4 months ago

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(2) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Eight years ago, during the worst summer festival of your life, you cross paths with a certain seal for the first time.

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: YES, THIS IS A SERIES! I hope you'll bear with me as I'm not actively editing/proofreading my writing and am going with the flow for the most part. Rafayel will also stay as a seal in the next chapter which centers around how he came to be smitten with the reader, so PLEASE PLEASE HANG TIGHT WE'RE GETTING THERE. I hope you enjoy!!!!

Ah, sweet summer festival. You're fifteen.

The entire archipelago is in motion tonight — a grand spectacle brought to life in the unofficial capital Salverna, which is also where you were born and raised, by throngs of locals with visitors pouring in from the mainland for an evening of festivities. Decorated boats crawl like jeweled beetles across the bay beneath a moonbeam sky, torches flickering like amber blossoms amidst colorful lanterns suspended overhead, painting faces in warm splashes of light. Instruments are tuned to perfect pitch, ready to launch into jigs and reels once revelers spill into dancing rings. Children sprint around bonfires with cheeks flushed by sugar, laughter ringing like silver bells in the breeze. Farther along, games fill the streets — prizes stuffed inside balloons perched precariously atop slender sticks, targets waiting to be pierced by dart tips, bobbing heads eager for coins — competing for attention with the delectable aroma of spiced sausage, roasted meat, skewers, sticky cinnamon treats, and fresh fruit piled high for sampling. Even the night's salty breath tastes like sunshine, and despite everything feeling faintly familiar, somehow still manages to seem entirely fresh.

If only you'd been there from the beginning.

No, you were here. The whole day.

At the docks, which is the farthest away from the main event.

Hauling seafood and chasing down lost tourists like some unpaid festival guide.

The family ferry business consisting of multiple vessels is the only one making direct trips between the mainland and the archipelago. Usually, things run smoothly — your parents know this route like the back of their hands, and during normal weeks, the boats run on a fairly consistent schedule with only the occasional minor detour to accommodate delayed travelers. Renting smaller boats out to tourists helps maintain some steady income for maintenance expenses during quieter months, although the real money comes from transporting passengers year-round.

But big events like this summer festival change everything. The mainland port is overflowing with people packed like sardines in a tin, and everyone scrambles for transport space like sharks smelling blood. It's impossible to accommodate every arrival simultaneously, even though Dad doubled the ferry service to operate nearly nonstop — one boat shuttling incoming guests while its twin carries locals back and forth between islands, and even then it isn't enough. People are forced to wait hours for passage, which inevitably leads to chaos erupting.

And the locals ferry doesn't just transport passengers. It hauls festival supplies — crates of seasonal produce shipped to the islands via mainland distributors, stacks upon stacks of boxes labeled FRAGILE in thick black marker, paper fans for the parade, props for the pageant, a seemingly endless list of necessary items for the vendors, bands, food stands, street performers, the barrels of festival cider rolling onto the deck, stacks of pastries needing careful hands to avoid toppling, baskets of flowers meant for decorating stalls that nearly got crushed in the shuffle — you name it — the list of deliveries keeps growing by the hour. And no one has extra hands to spare to deliver all this cargo to its final destinations.

Well, actually, one person does. Namely, you.

It started small. Mom catching you right as you tried to slip away this morning, asking to help with boarding real quick, and if you could take some packages along the way... It was easy to agree, at first — help a few elderly tourists steady themselves as they stepped from the ferry, answer questions from confused festival-goers trying to navigate between islands, toss a sack or two over your shoulder for the vendor working nearby. But an hour later, you were hauling half a crate uphill when one of the wheels broke loose, scattering fireworks across cobblestones in glittering disarray, leaving you running through town chasing them all down under curious gazes of the locals who saw the explosion...

And the moment the ferry docked, suddenly it was all hands on deck. One trip in, another out. Then, next thing you knew, you were the one handling tickets and guiding stragglers toward their destination, organizing groups, shouting helpful tips about what to avoid and what not to eat so you are not about to have people get sick on board and clean off their vomit, answering questions about local attractions and restaurant specialties, calling out to Dad who drove the ferry like it was child's play, warning the older folks and kids not to fall off because the last thing your family really needs is to be sued by someone stupid falling overboard...

And the entire time, you were in the dress you'd picked out specifically for the occasion. Thinking one more trip, and you could finally join your friends in the festivities...

A whole shift later, there are no celebrations awaiting you. No bonfire parties with the music so loud and joyous you could feel it thrumming through the ground, no crowded bars filled to bursting with cheerful singing and dancing, no raffle stalls offering chances to win souvenirs and free meals for years, no fireworks bursting across the night sky so brilliant they chased away the darkness.

Just you with your dress ruined and ripped because someone couldn't watch where they were going while drunk and collided straight into you and left you soaked in cheap beer, and the hem of it torn apart from you desperately trying to fix your mistake after misplacing the boxes of merch you were supposed to haul, again. Your friends probably already enjoying every aspect of the event, laughing their asses off in pure delight without caring for what you missed or had endured all day, knowing you were supposed to arrive with them to witness the greatest part of the summer celebration together.

With angry tears gathering at the inner corners of your eyes, you let the bags drop onto the dock with a harsh thump, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Maybe you're expecting an argument. Maybe you want to pick a fight because the frustration had been stewing ever since you woke up today and demanded release. Or maybe you hope your father would give you permission to go enjoy your own life, rather than force you to suffer his. But none of those comes to pass. Instead, he merely glances up with a tired look, holding your resentful stare before sighing heavily and scrubbing his face wearily with calloused, wrinkled hands.

“You said it would be quick,” you snap, voice shaking. “You said I could go like hours ago. The day is over!"

You choke back the wobble in your tone, biting harshly into your lower lip, hoping it'll prevent tears from leaking out even though it hardly hurts enough to distract you.

"Look, we're in the middle of peak season..."

"Which means peak profit for our business! Couldn't you have just hired someone extra to fill in?! Why did it have to be me?!"

"No other staff is available on such a short notice, especially during a big event." Dad shrugs weakly in apology, the gesture lacking any defensiveness or remorse. He looks drained, exhausted. And still, his priorities remain firmly fixed elsewhere. "Sorry, honey. Next week I'm hiring additional staff permanently, but for now — just one more hour, okay? You know we don't extend our services after the night falls and that's why—"

“No!” The frustration spills over before you can swallow it down. “It’s never ‘just a little longer.’ It’s always one more trip, one more errand, one more thing! I’m always the one stuck here!”

Dad frowns and straightens his spine slowly like a looming anime villain, wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't raise your tone on me like that, I'm not one of your little friends. This is nothing. When you become captain, you'll have to endure far more work."

"I did everything you ask and suddenly my tone is the issue?!" You gesture wildly at your ruined dress, at the damp stains and torn fabric clinging to your skin. “Look at me! I was supposed to be there with everyone else, and now I can’t even show up like this—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Dad's voice turns sharp, exasperated. “It’s just a dress.”

"And now everyone probably hates me because I've skipped yet another celebration and ghosted them!" you huff and puff like an enraged bull despite his interruption.

"What's going on?" Mom hurries over from the harbor shop, stepping between you and your father before tempers flare even further. She takes in the scene at a glance and sighs deeply — though whether out of disappointment or irritation, you can't tell — carefully setting aside several stacks of receipts. "Are you two seriously bickering about nonsense when you should both be working?"

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m sick of this!” You throw your hands into the cold, humid sea breeze as though casting your complaints upon the tides, unable to keep the tremble from your fingers or the tears from streaking down your face. Hot drops patter against the faded wood planks beneath your feet. "“I work just as hard as you do, I never say no, but the second I want something for myself—"

Mom immediately gets what's going on, and alerts you to lower your voice by pointedly widening her eyes and thinning her lips. The entire dock is witnessing the argument and turning their heads to listen in at this point, but you don't care. Everybody should hear about this injustice.

"Yes, honey, I know," Mom hisses, "And we appreciate how hard you're trying, believe me. But — just one more trip, alright? Your friends will wait a bit longer for you, won’t they? Don't forget this isn't just about you. The archipelago depends on us running our business steadily and reliably."

And there it is. That unspoken expectation, that quiet assumption that you’ll always choose responsibility over what you want. That you’ll always understand.

Your throat tightens, choking back the bitterness burning in the pit of your stomach, and for a long moment, neither you nor your mom break the silence, and her stare remains fixed somewhere above your shoulder. Only Dad says anything, grunting a vague affirmative that tells you nothing more than your mother did; work must come first, whatever personal sacrifice must be made for that to happen.

You step back. “Forget it.”

“Honey—”

“I said forget it!”

You're running hot and cold, the rush of blood in your ears don't let your parents' protests in as you rush into the only place where you can be alone right now, the ticket counter cabin with the "CLOSED" sign on it, slamming the door shut behind you loudly and letting the cool glass barrier isolate you from the rest of reality. It's just you inside. There's a desk, empty paperwork piled neatly at the corner, a cash register. An old computer screen covered by dust. Shelves crammed with stacked-up folders and manuals. A window overlooking the harbor. This is also the place to leave your belongings at before clocking into work, just beside the locker of where the attendant usually leaves theirs.

On a whim, you snatch up your jacket and backpack before fleeing out into the crowd again. It's so easy to lose your parents along the wharf because of the teeming masses.

Your phone is buzzing rapidly in your bag with Dad and Mom both probably threatening to drag you back by your ear, so you take it out and switch to airplane mode before tossing it back in with a grimace. You're not allowed to be out this late without supervision (much less sneaking away from work), but right now, there's not an adult in existence that could compel you to walk willingly back into this mess. Screw it. Being grounded for life isn't any worse than being imprisoned on this stupid island forever anyway, you think, huffing quietly in protest as you stomp down the street. Besides, if worst comes to worst, you can spend some time with Aunt Leen. At least she wouldn't judge.

The festival feels a million miles away. You can’t go there, not in this state, stains everywhere, smelling like fish and sweat and regret, dress ripped apart. So, instead, you end up wandering along the rocky beach near the outer edge of town, in parallel to the protected seal rookery islet offshore and well beyond the boundaries of the town proper. The bright, swirling glow of the firework display across the water glints in the dark, mingling with distant stars and overshadowing the full moon, reflecting off rippling waters like flickering embers dancing across a glossy obsidian surface. The waves roll gently across sand and stone in soothing rhythmic whispers whooshes that pull you onward through the night like invisible ribbons drawing you back into the present.

This was always your favorite place as a child — wild and beautiful. An unclaimed stretch of wilderness stretching beyond the public access point, filled with coves and tide pools that felt like hidden kingdoms tucked away from the rest of the world. Here, among the jagged rocks, washed smooth by centuries of ebbing currents, you sit on one flat boulder, bare feet lapped at by the high tide and shoes by your side, frustrated tears dropping into the sea, staring absently off towards the seal islet floating peacefully in the distance.

You remember trying to swim out there years ago, despite having been strictly forbidden from venturing close to not disturb them. What would it be like, to be out in the open sea instead of tied to this isolated little community? To see something other than the same faces, places, and names repeated ad nauseam for all eternity, as though nothing changed no matter how many seasons passed? What would it take to break free?

"Ugh!" The sound bursts free before you can clamp your jaw shut, a ragged groan against clenched teeth as your palms scrub fiercely across your damp, salty cheeks.

Before you can start ranting into the night like a madman, your turmoil is shattered by a sudden, piercing cry like metal scraping stone ripping through your tangled thoughts. Your head jerks upward, pulse quickening into a painful drum-beat. Something is terribly off. Someone's hurt, panicking—or worse—maybe drowning?

But where?

You blink frantically, scanning the surrounding coastline, but the thick curtain of night refuses to offer clues. So you rely on your ears and follow the keening through the beach, stumbling hastily across damp sand, uneven rocks and slippery seaweed patches alike, nearly slipping on slimy barnacles embedded in the crevices between each massive stone and fighting hard to balance every step, all the while ignoring the scrapes accumulating on your soles from sharp pebbles digging into tender flesh and flaring in protest at every bit of impact.

Then, unmistakably—

A high-pitched, squealing shriek erupts out of the ocean — like the frantic deflating of a balloon twisting violently apart in midair.

Your stomach drops. The sound is frantic, terrified. Unmistakably animal.

And it's coming directly from the water.

At last, you spot the source of the commotion — about fifty feet offshore, just beyond a tangle of blackened driftwood clogging the shallows: Moonlight catches on slick, gray fur, the seal’s body bobbing helplessly, its hysteric movements hampered by the thick snare of a fishing net and heavy with debris, the tangled mess constricts tight, dragging it downward each time it fights to resurface.

Seals can drown. You know that much. You’ve heard Elias muttering to Dad, thick with disgust, after cutting loose yet another pup ensnared by abandoned traps — relics of poachers who refuse to acknowledge sealing was banned around here nearly thirty years ago.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Your mind stutters, paralyzed for a breathless instant. What do I do? What do I do?

There’s no time to think.

You’re moving before reason catches up, scrambling over slick, uneven rocks as brine stings the scrapes blooming across your bare feet. Your pulse slams against your ribs. In one frantic motion, you strip off your windbreaker, fling your bag aside, and plunge into the waves without hesitation. Salt explodes in a cool rush over your skin as you kick off from the seafloor, paddling hard, muscles burning with every stroke.

Next thing you know, your arms are locked tight around the drowning seal, grappling to haul it toward shore as it thrashes wildly, overwrought beyond reason and twisting all it can to land a blow with brutal strength you wouldn't expect from a round and inflexible body like that. Flippers beat against your chest, claws scrape at your arms, and its ragged cries tear through the night like something feral and furious. It doesn’t understand you’re trying to help — it only knows fear.

Somehow, impossibly, you make it.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest as you drag the tangled pup onto the shore, collapsing beside it in a gasping sprawl, limbs weak and trembling. Your lungs gulp down air that tastes like victory, the sweetest breath you've ever taken.

And then—

The seal’s shrieks reach a fevered pitch. It flails vigorously, flinging itself against the unyielding net, snapping, fighting, tearing at the fibers with blind desperation.

That’s when you see it.

The moon-desaturated dark liquid pooling beneath its body, sinking into the wet sand in sluggish tendrils.

Blood.

"No! Stop that, stop!"

You scramble upright, stomach at your throat, hands grabbing frantically at the writhing seal to keep it from thrashing itself into worse injury.

"Hey, hey — settle down! Stop moving — please! You're making it worse!"

It doesn’t listen. It fights harder.

Panic and instinct are what fuels its every move, and the more you hold on, the more fiercely it resists, wails cutting straight to the center of your chest, high and desperate, feeding your own fear in a vicious cycle. Its pulse is hammering beneath your hands, a wild, terrified beating of a bird's wings matching your own as its breaths come fast, erratic, interrupted by harsh snorts and shuddering yelps. The pup is almost one singular muscle beneath your grip, trembling and taut with the primal need to flee.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," you chant, the words spilling out in a frantic loop, cracking under the weight of utter desperation of not knowing what to do even as you're repeating you're there to helo. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just let me help — please — fuck, what do I do — ow!"

Pain explodes up your right forearm before the scream even leaves your throat.

Teeth. Deep. Sinking into muscle like fire.

Your body jolts with the instinct to yank away, but you don’t. You can’t. One wrong move and you’ll scare it even more, maybe make it clamp down harder. Tears blur your vision, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bite your own molars together, forcing yourself to go still.

And then — so does the seal.

The aggressive lashing out ceases, replaced by eerie, frozen silence. Its nostrils flare against your skin, warm breath feathering across the bite, making the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your pulse pounds between your teeth, the sting of the wound dulling under the weight of something more pressing — its eyes.

Two inky pools, round and bottomless, reflecting your fractured likeness like tiny mirrors.

"Please," you whisper, shaky, but soft. "I just want to help. You're safe. I won’t hurt you."

The grip on your arm doesn't tighten. Doesn't loosen. The only thing left between you is the weight of your words and the fragile, fragile stillness.

"Let me go," you murmur, swallowing hard. "And we’ll fix this. Okay?"

There's a pause, a single, terrifying moment suspended in time. Then, the seal's jaws relax, and he releases his painful grip on your throbbing arm, and as quickly as the assault began, it ends. Blood rushes forth in a thin rivulet down your wrist and between your fingers. It doesn't really hurt, not compared to the dull ache in the rest of your exhausted body, and the relief that washes over you is so profound that you're momentarily dizzy from it. And yet... The fact that the seal has calmed down means everything.

"It's okay, it’s okay, don't worry about it," you say hurriedly, intended for yourself more than anything so you wouldn't freak out about it. "You were scared, that's all. It's not your fault."

But the pup isn’t looking at the net.

Its gaze is locked onto your arm, the blood pooling at the wound, round, ink-dark eyes impossibly wider, focused in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting, impossible second, it feels like he understands. Like he knows what he did. Awe prickles through you, pushing aside the pain, the exhaustion, everything.

Seals are intelligent — you’ve always known that — but this is so magical to experience how emotionally aware they are.

"Hey. Hey, I’m fine, buddy," you insist. "Look at me, look. I'm good, it’s just a scratch. Let's focus on getting that net off, yeah? Can't have you swimming away in that state. You’ll drown."

As you lean in to inspect, the pup shies away initially, clearly wary and distrustful, but eventually allows you to examine the tangled mess of knots and lines ensnaring his sleek, streamlined figure. The heavy, dense debris he's wrapped in like a blanket is making it impossible to unravel anything, and the more you try to remove it, the tighter the bindings grow. Your injured arm is growing numb, which is probably not a good sign, but there's no time to dwell on that now.

Frustrated and increasingly anxious, you search frantically for something in your backpack to use as scissors or a knife, but the jerky movements make the pup tense up, its tail slapping nervously in the sand, and you have to take several calming breaths to prevent scaring him further.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be gentler," you promise in a rush. "Just bear with me, okay?"

All you can find is your nail clippers, but they'll have to suffice. With painstaking care, you snip away at the individual strands binding the pup's limbs together, pausing every few moments to reassure him that everything is alright, that it will survive and go back to the rookery islet. Its fur is wet and matted with blood beneath the ropes, and the sight sends a fresh surge of anger through your veins at the thought of whoever abandoned such a careless trap in the ocean.

"Almost got it, buddy, almost, you're doing great," you sniffle, working steadily to free its front flippers. They're the most delicate and prone to injuries, according to Elias. "One last cut and..."

With a soft pop, the final strand gives way and the net falls loose, the release of pressure causing the seal to scramble sideways and flop awkwardly onto his belly in a clumsy roll. It lies there motionless for a brief second before letting out a piercing, mournful wail that stabs at the pit of your stomach.

You drop your tool and fall to your knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly over its body. You don't dare touch, afraid of hurting it further. In a burst of energy, the pup pushes itself upright, body wiggling and coiling to propel it forward in a frantic dash towards the safety of the sea. You watch helplessly, unable to move or think or react in any way, until it pauses halfway to the shoreline and glances back at you, a low whine emanating from his throat.

"Go on, get out of here," you urge him, waving it onward. "Stay safe and take care of yourself, alright? You've had enough close calls today." A pang of dread hits you, realizing how much danger the pup was already in and how lucky it had been that you happened to be nearby to save it from a terrible fate. But now, all you can do is let it return to its natural environment. "Be free, cutie," you say quietly. "Live well and happy. You deserve better than this."

The pup hesitates, still watching you with those soulful, inscrutable black eyes. Then, in an act that leaves you speechless, it turns and galumphs back to your side, lowering its head and nudging its muzzle against the bleeding gash on your forearm. When it pulls away, his whiskers are slick with red, and a strange sense of gratitude overwhelms you.

"Oh, you angel," you manage, a lump forming in your throat. The urge to viciously pet his head is strong, but this isn’t a cat or a dog. Your arm really might get bitten off from the elbow socket. "Now scram. I'm sure your mama is worried about you."

This time, the seal does as instructed. It slides gracefully down the sandy slope and slips into the waves, vanishing from view in an instant. Only a small trail of blood remains, mingling with the foam and seawater that wash over the shore, evidence of the ordeal endured by this remarkable creature wiped away in an instant by the protective hands of the sea.

The shock of it all, of the stress and adrenaline, finally catches up to you and you collapse backwards in the sand, the pain in your arm flaring once again and only now feeling the cuts on the bottom of your feet.

Shaken to your bones in a way you can’t quite name, your fingers fumble to switch off airplane mode before you even realize what you’re doing. The moment the call connects, you’re babbling into the phone, voice thick with tears, words tangled and frantic. Mom struggles to make sense of you, but it doesn’t take long for her to find you — half an hour later, sprawled on the ground, your windbreaker haphazardly draped over your shoulders, backpack wedged beneath your head. The gash on your arm is wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet, one of your old bandanas knotted tightly around the wound.

If Dad’s ferry hadn’t been stuck in the harbor, he would’ve been here too. No doubt about it.

You get an earful the moment she kneels beside you. Irresponsible. Reckless. Running off without telling anyone. Dad would’ve had a heart attack if things had gone any worse. Yes, yes, yes. You let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, too drained to do anything else. Her hugs and kisses make up plenty for it.

Neither of you bring up the fight. Neither of you need to. Some things are easier left unspoken.

She doesn’t mention the festival, either. But you both know what kind of rumors will be swirling by morning.

For now, you're taken to the local clinic and given a rabies and a tetanus shot, and a lecture from the nurse who treated you, warning you to never approach a wild animal again because the next time, you might not be as lucky.

#love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel fluff #rafayel #lads rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x you #l&ds rafayel x reader #lnds rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #l&ds rafayel #lnds rafayel #lads #lnds #l&ds

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thebigbiwolf · 2 years ago

Text

Spittle - Part 2/2 (Astarion/F!Reader)

Summary: The chocolate seems innocent enough - if you look past the Infernal writing on the wrapper, and with so few pleasures in the wilderness, you all but jump at the chance to sneak yourself a small treat.

Unbeknownst to you, the bar is infused with succubus spittle. Just one square is rumored to contain enough potency to send a mortal into the throes of ecstasy.

This is what happens when you eat half the bar.

Fic Tags: Sex Pollen (kinda), aphrodisiacs, a bit of dom!Astarion, unprotected piv, overstimulation, he talks you through it (iykyk),

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, No use of Y/N, magical influence

Read Part 1: Here

Read on AO3: Here

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Wow. I'll try to make this brief. First of all, I just want to say thank you all so much for your continued support. I know this took me forever to write, but I've been going through a lot of emotional turmoil with school and some health issues with my animals. Your patience means so much to me, and I can only hope this lives up to everyone's expectations! This is my first time writing smut, and ngl I feel a bit like Icarus, so let me know if y'all liked it. Last, but not least, thanks again to my bestie/beta @imaginarydromedary for holding my hand through the shame.

Astarion sits quietly beside the fire, absently picking the dirt from beneath his manicured nails. The night had unfolded like countless others before it: boring, mundane. Uneventful.

Perhaps he should retire early. The Realm According to Bumpo sits patiently atop the desk in his tent, and if he heads to bed now, he could potentially finish a chapter before his watch begins.

He stands, patting the dust off his trousers, just as Shadowheart emerges from your tent. He initially doesn’t pay her any mind - fails to notice the concern etched across her face.

“Astarion.”

He snaps to attention, recognizing the fear in her voice.

Astarion’s stomach sinks when their eyes meet. Shadowheart isn’t normally one to succumb to panic, but she looks as though she’s just stumbled out of a wolf’s den.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. She - I’ve never seen…” Shadowheart pauses, taking a steadying breath. “She’s feverish. She was fine only hours ago. I heard a cry from her tent and feared something was amiss. When I found her, she…” The cleric hesitates, eyes contemplative - as if weighing exactly how much she wants to reveal.

“Out with it, damn it!”

“Is there any chance she’s been poisoned? You two stayed behind, back in the village. Did she come into contact with anything that might have pierced her skin?”

“Poisoned? No, she -” Astarion retraces the events, turning over your brief conversations in his head before landing on the only noteworthy detail he can think of.

He taps a finger on his chin, a thoughtful smile creasing his face. “Unless, of course, the Infernal chocolates didn’t agree with her.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“The chocolate she found at the apothecary. I assumed she hid it away so she could enjoy her little treat, unbothered. There was Infernal text on the wrapper.”

She stares at him with wide eyes, jaw slack with disbelief. “And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

Astarion shrugs, unfazed.

“Where’s Wyll?”

He rolls his eyes. “How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”

“Astarion!”

“Oh, come on. That chocolate must have been at least a decade old. Are you certain this isn’t just some sort of stomach bug?”

The cleric shoves past him, groaning in exasperation. She shoots him a glare and mutters, “I’m certain,” before jogging in the direction of Wyll’s tent.

“Infused with succubus spittle. Just one bite will have you and that special someone rolling around for hours. Consume responsibly."

Astarion giggles boyishly. “An aphrodisiac? How fun.”

Wyll squints as he silently reads the next bit to himself, fingers tracing the text. He turns to Shadowheart, jaw tightening, "How much of this did you say she ingested?"

"I only found half the bar."

Wyll’s expression grows more serious. "This says the recommended serving size is one square… How many squares were left?"

“Oh, gods…” she breathes, "Six."

The three exchange silent, worried glances.

“Could she die from this?” Shadowheart asks, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

Wyll’s lips press into a thin line. In truth, he doesn’t know the answer. He could ask Mizora for guidance, but the devil’s been awfully silent after his recent failures. He isn’t sure she'd be willing to answer him, let alone grant any favors. Still, it may be worth a call.

Just as Wyll’s about to suggest it, Astarion heaves a deep, dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“Alright, I know what we’re all thinking. I’ll take care of this.”

The other two regard each other, thoroughly confused.

“Look," Astarion explains, I may not be well-versed in magic, or magical remedies, for that matter, but now that we know what’s causing this… I think it’s obvious what needs to be done.”

“You’re joking.” Shadowheart laughs, incredulously.

“No,” he continues, “We can’t just sit here and hope for the best. We need to act quickly, and let's just say, this fits into my... skill set.”

“So, you’re going to, what? Have sex with her? You think she’ll be capable of saying anything but yes, given the state she’s in?”

Astarion shoots her a glare. The mere thought that he’d ever so much as suggest doing something like that - bedding you when you’re too weak to reject him - the very idea of it makes him sick.

He isn’t that evil.

“Watch your tongue,” he spits at her, “before I do us all the favor of removing it.”

“Hang on, you two,” Wyll interjects, “Astarion, I think you might have a point. You would know better than anyone whether she’s in a right enough state of mind to… consent to this. You’re closest to her. She trusts you.”

He turns to Shadowheart, “It’s worth a try.”

Astarion notices two things as he pulls back the flap of your tent.

The first is that it is unseasonably warm. Scorching hot, like summer. A stark contrast from the welcoming cool of the early spring night behind him.

And second, that the air in the tent is heavy - heady with the scent of sweat and something else he can’t quite identify. It's clouding his senses, making his head swim. The taste of it settles on his tongue, like salt on the rim of an otherwise very sweet drink.

The moonlight at his back casts a dark shadow over your sleeping form. Astarion hesitates for a moment, taking in the sight of you, vulnerable and oblivious to his presence, feeling too much like a wolf looming over a snared rabbit.

You twitch, grimacing in pain.

He frowns. This wasn’t the way he wanted to go about seducing you. His plan was much more sophisticated: a carafe of wine, a few honeyed words leading to a night of passion, your endless thanks, all culminating in some well-earned release and his assured protection.

A mutual exchange.

But, this?

He’s roused from his thoughts by another grunt, escaping from between your clenched teeth.

Whatever you’re going through, it looks like hell.

Ugh. You know what? Fine. Maybe this isn’t the way he envisioned it, but when has life ever blessed him with a perfect scenario? He’ll offer his… services, and respect whatever answer you give him. If you refuse him now, he can always try again later. Under less perilous circumstances, provided you survive the night.

And if not, well, he's never been one to play the hero, but at least he tried.

He steps further inside, closing the entrance behind him. The moment he seals the tent shut, there is a palpable shift. The space feels infinitely heavier, laden with unnatural energy, reminiscent of anticipation, but just slightly… off.

He breathes, trying to focus on anything but that intoxicating scent. The haze of it is maddening.

The elf sits on his knees beside you, hands resting in his lap.

He clears his throat, hoping the sound would be enough to wake you.

There’s no response.

He whispers your name.

Nothing.

No choice, then.

He drums a finger against your bare arm.

The cleric was right. Your skin is so hot, it borders on scalding.

Finally, you begin to stir.

Again. It happened again.

As soon as you closed your eyes to rest, you saw him - That thing that wore his skin. You felt his hands and mouth as he ravaged you until you fell apart beneath him, above him, wrapped around him, like he was everywhere all at once.

He was demanding as he took pleasure from you. Ravenous. Mocking your cries, your begging.

The hours stretched into what felt like lifetimes, and you’d nearly given up hope, resigning yourself to the idea that this was your new, endless reality.

Until suddenly, you hear a voice that pulls you from the dark recesses of your subconscious-- the very voice being used to torture you

Your name, uttered quietly by Astarion. Just Astarion. No second, more sinister layer beneath it.

Your eyelids flutter, then widen as a chilling realization washes over you.

He’s touching you. The pads of his fingers are both a balm and an irritant, soothing and igniting the flames licking at the corners of your mind.

“You look like you’ve seen better days.” He teases.

You recoil from his touch, sitting upwards and crawling back away from him.

He can’t be here. He, of all people, can’t be here.

And yet, something within you is screeching in delight.

'That’s him, isn’t it? The object of your desires? How fun!’

You swallow. Hard.

“Astarion, I -”

He holds up a hand, silencing you. “I’m aware.”

“Shadowheart informed us of your… predicament,” he continues, “I can’t help but feel partly responsible, seeing as I was there when you found the chocolate -”

“The chocolate? Is that - wait, what?”

Shit. Your head is pounding.

You press your palms against your eyes and groan.

“I’ll spare you the details, but that chocolate was laced with succubus spittle - a highly potent aphrodisiac - and you, my dear, have consumed enough to bring an entire brothel to its knees.”

Your eyes snap open, meeting his own. There isn’t an ounce of humor in his tone. No sign of his usual mischief.

Gods, he’s being fucking serious.

“Now, as amusing as this might be if it were anyone else, I’d prefer it if our party’s leader made it out of this alive, and that leaves us with a choice."

You gaze at him silently, waiting as the candlelight paints his sharp features in warm hues of amber and honey.

'He’s quite handsome. I see why you like him.’

“You can ride this out alone,” Astarion explains, “Shadowheart will return with her best salves and more potions for the fever. We’ll hope this passes quickly, but Wyll’s translation suggests the amount you consumed could leave you in this state for up to a week.”

Your stomach churns. You’re going to be sick.

“And the alternative?” you manage to ask.

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining with your own. Your skin prickles at the contact.

“The alternative is that you let me help you through this. Consider it a repayment, of sorts, for gifting me your blood. I’m somewhat of an expert on… well,” he lets out a humorless laugh, “let’s just say, I’m the best chance you’ve got.”

Maybe it's the blood roaring in your ears, or maybe you’re still dreaming, but it sounds like Astarion is offering to… fuck you?

“I’m sorry, what?”

He groans, visibly frustrated. “Sex, my dear. If the magic is compelling you to have it, I think we should listen.”

‘Handsome and smart.’

You hiss, “Would you please shut up?”

Astarion squints. “What was that?”

“Nothing, sorry.” You clear your throat. “Listen, I - I get what you’re trying to do. I appreciate it, really, but -”

Pain lances through your abdomen, a sharp, icy shard that interrupts your words. You clutch at your side, releasing Astarion’s hand before falling helplessly on your back, twisting in agony.

He inches closer, voice tinged with urgency. “We’re running out of time. If you want my help, it's best to ask now, because as much as I love the idea of you begging for me to bed you, I won’t be comfortable doing this unless you agree to this while you’ve still got your wits about you.”

Tears sting the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision at the edges. He’s right. You don’t think you can endure this alone, and as much as you fucking hate to admit it, the damned succubus magic - that thing - is right.

You do desire him. You’ve wanted him since the moment you met beside the nautiloid. Now here he is, offering to alleviate your suffering.

There’s just one part of his offer that you can’t quite come to terms with.

“I didn’t let you drink from me because I was hoping you’d repay me.” Your voice warbles, wet and stressed, “I can’t have sex with you if it’ll just be part of some ridiculous transaction. Not with anyone, and certainly not with you.”

His expression softens as your words sink in. It’s a confession, of sorts. The kind he’s wholly unfamiliar with. It stuns him almost to the point of speechlessness.

“My apologies. Believe me, it was more of an excuse than anything. I didn’t mean to suggest…” He lets his words trail off, shaking his head. You two can revisit this conversation later, when time isn’t of the essence. “It doesn’t matter. I want to do this. Let me help you.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a shiver up your spine.

It’s clear he means this.

He means every word.

You nod. “Okay.”

Astarion clears his throat, rolling the tension off his shoulders.

“Good. Now that we’ve got that taken care of,” he says as he throws one of his legs over your waist, straddling you, “Why don’t you lie back and let me take care of this, hm?”

His posture is relaxed. Confident. He regards you with hooded eyes and the faintest hint of a smirk. It’s quite the sight, one you’d enjoy significantly more if your body wasn’t busy screaming for his attention.

His deft hands make quick work of the laces of your shirt, and with every string that loosens, your composure unravels further. You squirm, unable to resist the heat that teases your skin and the growing itch beneath it.

As if Astarion can sense your rising panic, he places a cool palm against your burning cheek, his touch both gentle and practiced as he rubs smooth circles at the dip of your temple.

“Relax, dear,” he whispers, both a request and a command. The gentle lilt in his voice masks the underlying authority, but your body obeys all the same, tension releasing from your muscles. “I’ve got you.”

Astarion quickly rids you of the offending fabric, chest and stomach now bared to him. His eyes scan over your form with focused intensity, lips pinched between his teeth, like an artist deciding what to make of their blank canvas.

“Normally, I’d take my time with this,” he admits, “but given the circumstances…” He swiftly undoes the buttons of your trousers before yanking them off along with your smallclothes. One single, fluid motion.

He can’t hide the mild shock that follows when he sees the state of you - dripping wet, red and pulsing with need.

He dips the tip of his finger between your folds. It glides over velvet skin, coating the digit in warm, wet slick. A strangled, pitiful noise escapes from your throat.

For a moment, Astarion’s calculated expression falters, surprised by the rate at which your body opens itself up to him. A glint of hunger lurks beneath the surface.

“This may be easier than I thought.” He says with a smirk, more to himself than to you.

He presses two digits in, slow and intentional. There’s no resistance; A knife through warm butter. You’re dripping down his knuckles, gripping around him like a vice. He slides all the way in until the heel of his palm meets your clit.

“Breathe.”

Not even realizing you’d been holding your breath, you release it with a shutter.

“Very good.” He punctuates his words with the slow drag of his fingers. Long, languid movements. He’s taking his sweet time with you, pulling scandalous little cries from your lips. It’s like he’s toying with you - seeing how long you can hold out before breaking.

It doesn’t take much time at all.

“Astarion -”

“Yes?”

“Please.”

“Please, what? What do you need, darling?” His eyes are fixed on your own, grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. A cat playing with a cornered mouse.

“More. Anything.”

He hums in approval, then wets the pad of his thumb on his tongue before drawing circles exactly where you need. Heat coils at the base of your spine, forming a ball of tension that threatens to snap.

The sheer intensity of it is enough to scare you, caught between the urge to chase the sensation or flee from it. “Astarion, I -”

He ignores your warning as if he hadn’t heard it, plunging his fingers into your heat and curling them - expertly caressing a spot that threatens to shatter you. Your hands fly out, gripping the fabric of his shirt, the sheets beneath you, anything in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.

“Go on, love. Let it out. I’ve got you.”

Your body seizes as your orgasm tears through you, igniting every one of your oversensitive nerves. Back arching off the bedroll, several strangled sounds - almost pained - rip from your throat. The pleasure threatens to tear you apart, but the thick fog of lust occupying your mind begins to subside, offering the slightest bit of clarity as you twitch beneath him.

Astarion grabs you by the jaw, tilting your head this way and that, admiring his handiwork. He's quite pleased with himself, with the mess he's made of you - jaw slack and brows pinched. He coaxes out the aftershocks, watching you squeeze around his fingers.

"There,” he gives you a playful pat on the cheek, "You're looking better already."

"You're - agh - enjoying this too much."

"I never said I wasn't going to enjoy it."

A beat of silence passes between the two of you as he allows you to catch your breath. For a moment, you think the coast is clear - that maybe, this was as far as things had to go. This was what the magic was compelling you to do, or at the very least - it was close enough. You fulfilled its wishes. Surely.

But then he pulls out of you, and the second you feel the vacuum of emptiness where his fingers once were, that voice in your head is screeching like some sort of petulant child. It pouts, waggling its non-existent finger in your direction. The demanding bitch.

Part of you, instinctually, realizes that this is just the beginning - that you’re simply at the edge of the shore watching the tides recede while a devastating wave builds somewhere in the distance.

“What is it? Does it still hurt?” Astarion asks, breaking the silence, and you realize that no, it doesn’t. Not like before, at least.

You shake your head.

“Good. I’d wager that means this is working.” He smiles triumphantly, working the laces of his own clothes, and ridding himself of the final layers between you, revealing an intricate network of muscle beneath. For a man who’d supposedly been starved for the last two centuries, he certainly doesn’t look the part.

Astarion nudges your legs apart with his thigh, then settles between your knees, dragging the head of his cock between your folds. He hums in approval, admiring the sight as he coats himself in your slick. It practically drools out of you.

There’s no resistance when he dips himself into your entrance.

His eyes scan over your face, searching for any discomfort, but all he finds is need.

So, he presses in further.

“Shit, you -”

He hisses, sucking in a sharp breath as he bottoms out, then takes a moment, eyes pinched shut, collecting himself.

He slides out, just an inch or so, before plunging back in, buried as deeply as he can reach. It’s so damn easy, the sinfully wet mess you’ve left all over his cock allowing him to glide in and out, tilting his hips with each thrust.

The stretch of him is perfect, like you were made for this - made to take him. His length rubbing and dragging against your walls acts like a balm, relaxing your body as you swallow and grip him in scorching heat.

He grabs one of your thighs, pressing it into your chest - the new angle allowing him to sink even deeper into your core.

It isn’t long before you’re begging him for more, digging your heels into the curve of his back.

Astarion starts pounding into you - a new, brutal pace spurred on by your encouragement and the wet, filthy slap of his skin against yours. The sounds reverberate off the canvas of your tent, blending with your choked sobs. You just know your companions are going to have something to say about this in the morning, but you honestly can’t bring yourself to care.

The only thing that matters now is the man above you - his nails digging into the flesh of your ass, whispering how good you feel. How well you’re taking him, “Like you were made for this - for me.” His grunts are like music to your ears, drowning out all other thoughts as his chest vibrates against your own.

It’s all too much.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you before you have a chance to warn him, but he feels the way you flutter around his cock and acts on instinct - snaking his fingers between your bodies and rubbing your clit in quick circles.

You throw your head back with a cry, shaking beneath him, and grip him like a vice as you come. The force of it slams into you, hot and devastating, tightening every muscle within its wake. You wind your limbs tightly around the hard planes of Astarion’s body as he rolls his hips into you, slow and deep.

You can feel him twitching inside you, his rhythm suddenly stuttering with each thrust. Something tells you he’d come now, if you’d allow him.

But where?

'Where else?'

The very idea of him not spilling every drop he has inside of you disturbs you nearly to the point of panic, and with that, you finally understand what this damned succubus has been demanding of you this entire time.

“Astarion, please. I need you.”

“Where?” he asks, voice muffled, panting hot and open-mouthed against the swell of your shoulder.

“Inside,” you beg, “Please. Please - It’s alright.”

He shudders, surging up into you one last time with a strangled grunt. Holding onto your hips, he pulses within you, the warmth of his release filling you to the brim, until a thick white ring of come forms at the base of his length. You can’t help but clench around him, moving to match his previous pace and trying desperately to wring as much out of him as you can, until it begins to seep out onto the sheets beneath you.

It isn’t until he stills inside of you that you release your hold on him. The two of you take a minute to collect yourselves, waiting for your heart to settle and listening to Astarion’s ragged breaths.

He lifts his weight off of you with a grunt, settling back on his knees.

“That was - agh,” he shivers as he pulls out of you. You don’t even want to look at the mess.

“I’m going to have to burn these sheets, aren’t I?” you ask, sitting up on your shoulders.

He throws his head back with a genuine, hearty laugh, and cards his fingers through his dampened hair.

This is the most relaxed you think you’ve ever seen him - not a scowl line in sight. He rolls his shoulders, and sighs at the subsequent pop before turning his focus back on you.

“I’ll have you know,” Astarion muses, “I’ve done this more times than I can count— but this, my dear,” he chuckles, “This was one for the books.”

“So, was sleeping with me everything you could have possibly imagined?” It’s an obvious joke, given your tone. An offer to squash any chance of this happening again, should he wish to. An exit.

He hums playfully. “Well, next time I think I’d prefer the subtle influence of wine over a mind-altering aphrodisiac, if it's all the same to you.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Did he just offer to do this again? Well, not exactly, but -

“And how are you feeling?” Astarion asks.

Better, is the honest answer. Slightly confused and deeply embarrassed, but better.

The apologies you’ll have to make after the night’s over seem endless, both to him and to Shadowheart for all the trouble you caused. Not to mention the others, who’ve probably had the sound of your squealing burned into their memories forever. The idea of it is daunting.

“Because if you’re still reeling from any nasty, lingering effects,” he continues, “I’m sure I could be… persuaded to help again.”

Oh.

Hm.

“Well, now that you mention it…”

Tag List (sorry if I missed anyone! I only added you if you explicitly asked to be tagged): @daedriclys @captain039 @sushiumex @sugasweettea @marauders-moon @starlightelegy @ablxssm @the-lake-is-calling

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #astarion acunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion fanfic #astarion x you #spittle

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honeysorwell · 5 months ago

Text

all of it (all of you)

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x fem!Reader

Prompt by anon + Idea for reader's nationality by anon

Synopsis: After more than 10 years with the same hairdresser, Melissa Schemmenti must change salons.

Tag list: (Since this is my first time writing for this character, I thought it best not to tag anyone. So if you want to be tagged just let me know.)

Warning: MELISSA AND Y/N ARE MAaaaD *in Ava's voice*

Words: 4k

Synopsis of the story + Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

Enjoy!

Link on AO3

Chapter 1 - changes

Barbara Howard's friendship had a transformative impact on Melissa Schemmenti's personal life from the beginning.

The religious woman's friendship at the beginning of the redhead's career made the Italian woman rethink a lot about herself. Regardless of their moral differences, how their individual relationships with religion are almost opposite, or even their small disagreements, one thing right at the beginning turned Melissa's world upside down.

The once chaotic and disorganized woman discovered the calming practicality of being hostage to well-established standards with a Christmas gift from her black coworker in her second year working at Abbott Elementary.

A schedule with a small calendar.

The year she received that gift, the redhead was furious with what was left written between the lines.

Disorganization.

After all, Melissa had absolutely everything under control.

She always had.

In her own way.

And Melissa also thought it was stupid to waste precious time that could be spent working by just planning to work, but after a terribly inconsistent semester (with more art, music and physical education teachers leaving Abbott than she can count on one hand), the redhead decided to give it a try.

So, 22 years ago Melissa started to use a schedule and a calendar every year faithfully and never looked back.

As she got older, the certainty of her upcoming appointments and how easy was to change what was needed on that sheet of paper to make better use of her time kept Melissa calm even during all the chaos that continued to live in her head and in her classroom every day. But everything changed when the spaces on pages that were reserved especially for her monthly visits to her family's hairdresser were now blank.

Rationally, the redhead knew that the hairdresser who had taken care of her grandmother's hair for the last twenty years of her life, two of her aunts out of town, washed and cared for her mother's hair every week, and three of her sisters periodically couldn't last long. But Melissa couldn't help but feel fooled and betrayed when Andrea Rossi announced her retirement.

The redhead hadn't been Andrea's client for her entire life, after all, the older hairdresser's regular clients had always been her priority. However, Melissa began to be part of the select group of Schemmenti women helped by Andrea when her former hairdresser (the one who had a Greek accent and many opinions that she hated but didn't discuss because he was her brother-in-law's friend), decided to call her Melinda, even after having her as a client for over three years.

Melinda.

Even though it was seventeen years ago, Barb still remembers the angry redheaded hurricane that entered the teachers’ lounge that week and still manages to make jokes about it whenever she gets the chance.

Monthly visits to the older woman had started with a simple hair color, but unlike her old hairdresser, Andrea had become much more than that for Melissa.

It was a ritual, a moment of care that for a long time brought her joy and confidence. It was talking animatedly with an Italian woman who showed her affection and care, something neither of them would admit out loud but was lacking in the Schemmenti family when it came to recognizing Melissa’s efforts and personal victories.

And now it was over.

“Ragazza (girl), don’t be like that… I’m old now, my hands hurt more than I can handle after a busy weekend,” Andrea tried to justify herself, stroking Melissa’s head with a tender smile as she finished coloring her hair that day, but which did not hide the weight of the decision.

“And what am I gonna do now? Let the grays give me another 30 years in less than 6 months?”

“Don’t be silly! I’ve already transferred all my clients to hairdressers that I trust. You included! So stop it now!”

“I don’t want someone new.” Turning uncertainty into resistance is like armor for the redhead, even though she knows she has no choice, her brain still tries to break the meaning of Andrea’s retirement, “It’s going to mess up my entire schedule, Andrea! Two classes and now with you gone? I almost went crazy with the first semester of the year alone, now I know I’ll as soon as classes start after winter break!”

“I know that, Mel, and I'm really sorry. That’s why I talked to the hairdressers I know, and the best choice for you is Y/N, my last trainee. She’s great, hard-working, very talented and was willing to easily change her own clients’ schedule to see you at the same time I see you every month, she also works just five minutes from here. Ahe is young and kind, you’ll like her.”

“But I don’t know her.” Even though she didn’t admit it, the idea of a stranger touching her hair disturbed Melissa deeply, and the murmur that left her mouth made a point of emphasizing this.

The change came too quickly, and with it, a wave of anxiety took over Melissa's heart. This feeling was temporarily drowned out by her more than exhausting routine. She was the hostess of the Schemmenti family's Thanksgiving dinner, and this, along with the end of the year, drained her ability to think about her other problems. But when the following month arrived along with the return to school after winter break, her colorless hair also started to show again, so Melissa swallowed her pride and went to the salon that Andrea had recommended to her.

Riverfront Roots.

The name was silly, a clear reference to the Delaware River that Melissa preferred not to think about too much as she looked at the large letters printed on the facade of the place. As soon as she entered the new salon, the smell of hair products and the sound of blow dryers buzzing caught her attention. The place was modern and well-decorated, but Melissa couldn't feel completely at ease. The smell was different, the decor was different, the voices were different, and the redhead hated evey single one of these things.

She wasn't so reluctant to little changes in her daily life, but that week was so exhausting. The two classes together made a point of actively getting on her nerves, Gary also changed some of the lemonade brands in the vending machine and none of the new ones lived up to the taste of the old ones. The man made a point of telling the redhead that it wasn't done on purpose, thanks to the end of their relationship, and she genuinely believed him, but even so, such a change in such a tiring week only made the teacher's discomfort that Saturday morning turn into a gratuitous and deep antipathy towards everything. Including the new place.

The woman of Italian descent approached the counter, where a receptionist graced her with a friendly smile.

"Hello, how can I help you today?", was the question that greeted Melissa, with a kindness that, in the redhead's mind, was completely unnecessary.

The teacher hesitated for a moment before answering sharply, ignoring the hello offered to her.

"Schemmenti. Melissa Schemmenti. I have a coloring booked here. A recommendation from Andrea Rossi." While the receptionist checked her information, Melissa looked around, trying to get used to the new habitat, but she barely had time to do so because, in less than thirty seconds, the receptionist escorted Melissa to a chair in front of one of the largest mirrors in the salon.

The chair that was chosen for the redhead was a little isolated from the other people present, who were laughing and talking without worrying about the noise, but if the redhead was being honest with herself, she actually preferred it that way.

“Hello, Melissa. My name is Y/N and it’s wonderful to meet you. I hope you fell welcome and comfortable here with me. Andrea has told me wonderful things about you and I have her notes in my hand to make sure you leave here satisfied.”, a younger woman with a thick accent appeared out of nowhere, vomiting the words at Melissa with a smile and a sweet voice that were already starting to give the redhead a headache.

The speech seemed rehearsed, still genuine, but her voice seemed too practiced to instill comfort in the redhead. And if that wasn't enough, the younger woman was enthusiastically waving a note in her hand like a triumph, making Melissa even more insecure about Y/N's talent than she already was.

The teacher knows she's not an idiot but… This hairdresser wasn't even thirty years old. This Y/N was clearly in her early twenties, with rich hair and a quick smile that probably lit up the room more than those stupid ringlights that surrounded the chairs in that place.

Not to mention that she was beautiful.

Very beautiful.

A part of Melissa, hyper-aware of her own age, felt the bitter taste of envy take over her tongue as she looked at the younger woman's reflection in the mirror in front of her, but another part, even more recklessly, awakened a dormant desire in her mind.

However, even with that spark hidden behind Melissa's eyes, their initial interaction couldn't have been worse.

Y/N seemed excited, first asking Melissa for permission to touch her hair – something the redhead almost said no to, just to see if that smile would die on her lips – but quickly the hairdresser started discussing ideas for Melissa's hair, something that forced the redhead's voice to sound cutting:

"I just want to continue with what I've been doing since my hair roots changed color.", Melissa made sure her voice sounded as sharp as she intended, "Get those ideas out of ya head and just do what Andrea used to."

The lack of niceness caused Y/N to feel strange, but the hairdresser tried to remain calm despite the discomfort.

New clients were always a little insecure, so the Brazilian woman would just prove to the one in front of her that she had talent.

Y/N always had magical hands. When she was still a little girl, on the hot afternoons in her hometown, she would have fun braiding the hair of her school friends. Long locks of hair shiny thanks to the summer sun and strands yellowed by the chemicals of several women in the city often passed through Y/N's hands as if she were an artist molding a sculpture.

Her friends loved the hairstyles she did. At first, they were not at all sophisticated due to her young age, but they were done with so much love and dedication that they always seemed to transform any hair into something unique. For Y/N, it was more than just fun.

It was a passion.

When she reached her teen years, that passion became something more serious. Y/N was not satisfied with just doing the hair of her friends and family. The Brazilian woman wanted to learn, she wanted to master the art of transforming people's hair into something even more special.

That's why when she graduated from high school, Y/N started studying, and within a few months, she was already working professionally at a salon in her city. It didn't take long for her to be recognized for the quality of her work. Her skill with scissors and dye made her quickly stand out among other professionals. She knew what she was doing, she knew how to transform people into more beautiful versions of themselves, she knew what her clients wanted and, most importantly, she knew how to make them feel good.

Little by little, Y/N began to stand out even more and her life began to change.

She knew that her talent could not be limited, and so, when some close friends who had already moved to the United States began to encourage her to try her luck in Philadelphia, Y/N was scared at first. But if the chance to start over in another country meant more opportunities, she couldn't let this pass, even if the exciting idea had the power to scare her. But even though she was frightened, she was soon embarking on a new chapter in her life in a plane.

It was hard to save money for the travel, it was hard to get all the necessary documents to enter the USA legally, it was hard to leave loyal clients behind, and it was even harder to leave her country and its traditions. But the youthfulness of her soul and the hope of a new life embraced her heart and the hairdresser decided to give herself this chance.

Wen she arrived in Philadelphia, Y/N felt, at the same time, small and full of possibilities. The city was big, the competition was powerful, and she was seen as just another foolish immigrant.

But she was determined.

The Brazilian woman knew that her skill could be the key to a promising future. She just didn’t expect that her future would be shaped by Andrea Rossi, an older and more experienced Italian hairdresser who worked at a well-known salon nearby.

The story happened by chance. One of Andrea’s regular clients mentioned that her son had gotten a haircut from a really new Brazilian hairdresser.

“It was something very different… Like those stupid things we see on TikTok, but it was exactly what James wanted, and we had never found anyone willing to do it. What this young woman did perfectly and without thinking twice, and my son loved it!”, the woman commented in admiration before giving the older woman an idea, “You should meet her!”

Andrea was curious and, figuring she had nothing to lose, asked for more information about the Brazilian woman. The client was enthusiastic and told the Italian one everything she knew and, even though she was skeptical, Andrea let her curiosity get the best of her and decided to see it for herself.

The next day, she went to the salon where Y/N was working and, observing closely, immediately noticed the young woman’s skill. The Brazilian woman had the touch of someone who knew what she was doing, an eye for beauty trends, and the needs of her clients, but she also had more than that.

Y/N had a natural connection with people, a charisma that, combined with her smile and strong accent, made any client feel at ease, and Andrea saw that.

So the Italian woman wasted no time. She called Y/N for a chat at the end of her shift and, soon, took her on as her last pupil before announcing her retirement.

Normally, hearing Andrea Rissi's name made Y/N happy. All the advice, recommendations, affection, and wisdom shared by the older woman were a pleasant memory for the Brazilian woman.

But there, while she tried in vain to be nice to what was Andrea's transfer, having her work compared to the older woman's began to annoy her.

First, the owner of those pretty green eyes began to verbalize her dissatisfaction with the work tools Y/N used, telling her how much she preferred Andrea's work tools, which were always on display for her clients to see. Then the redhead started rolling her eyes at Y/N's coworkers, who, since they had no clients, were chatting spiritedly while planning to get their nails done at the end of the day, muttering how much she would appreciate some peace and quiet.

But the first sign Y/N gave that she was definitely not the type of person who would just ignore or shrink from Melissa's bad mood was when the redhead made a point of directly comparing her work to Andrea's before Y/N even started dyeing her hair.

"Andrea never parted my hair like that. You'll leave my hair full of spots, kid!"

Trying to preserve the good mood she had woken up in that morning, the hairdresser chose to be sneaky and ironic. Y/N looked around theatrically and curiously, as if she was searching for something important, and Melissa, unable to contain her fear and confusion, made her voice present.

“What are ya?”

“Nothing. Just looking for Andrea Rossi since you want to talk about her so badly.”

Receiving only silence as an answer, and thinking that the unhappy attitude of that client was over, the hairdresser continues her journey. Y/N measures the dye with all the care in the world, making sure to double-check on the scale in front of her that the weight is correct when compared to what Andrea gave her over the phone before applying the dye accurately, fearing giving Melissa another reason to complain. The Brazilian woman divides Melissa’s hair locks with the focus of a professional with much more experience, doing everything she can to not lose a single blonde hair, and when she goes to wash it, she does so with a gentleness that surprises Melissa.

But the teacher doesn’t want to admit it, so she continues to stare sullenly at the mirror, even while Y/N gently untangles her wet hair.

When the redhead’s hair is nice and completely ready to be dried, Y/N looks at her hair curiously before turning once more to Melissa’s reflection in the mirror.

“I usually do this before dyeing, but what do you think about maybe cutting a few inches? The ends are starting to lose their shape.”

“I don’t want to cut anything.”, the words are said low enough for no one but the hairdresser to hear but Y/N, but with a hint of anger that surprised the young woman, “And stop talking, your voice is too annoying for the kind of mediocre work ya deliver, kid.”

It was insensitive. Even to Melissa.

The redhead knows that Andrea would never send her to a bad hairdresser. She knows she is being harsh and critical to someone who gave her no reason to do so, but before she realizes it the words have already escaped her mouth.

But the teacher simply has no idea what was coming.

The hairdresser’s eyes widened, large pupils full of rage meeting the teacher’s gaze through the mirror, shocked by the words said by Melissa. And, before Melissa's mind can even work on instigating any remorseful reflexes, Y/N grabs a large chunk of hair from the redhead's bangs and takes a pair of scissors out of her pocket with her free hand, quickly placing them right on Melissa's forehead, exactly where her hair grows, like a more than concrete threat.

“Listen to me Philadelphia's beauty, I don't know what kind of hairdresser you expected when Andrea transferred you to me but as long as you sit in my chair you will respect my work and listen to my fucking suggestions.”, it is said as a whisper, but the hairdresser's anger and her thick accent along with the slight pull she gives the redhead's hair make the whole interaction sound indescribably scary, even to Melissa, “I've been nothing but polite and respectful to you, but I'm starting to regret accepting someone so unfortunate in my char that they think they can criticize my work without even knowing me.”

There, locking eyes with Y/N in the salon mirror, Melissa understood how much she had crossed the line.

Melissa took a deep breath, filled with adrenaline at the thought of losing the top part of her hair, before nodding her head, causing Y/N to put down the scissors and let go of her bangs as she returned to work normally.

And then silence.

Dead silence.

The silence between the two women was so thick that it seemed to fill every corner of the room, making the sound of the dryer and the conversations around them sound muffled and filling the air with a corrosive feeling.

The scene from minutes ago was still boiling in Melissa's mind, repeating itself like a scratched record. Now, as if Melissa had finally come to her senses, the redhead wanted to disappear. She wanted to jump out of the chair and run away from the mirror which reflected her own guilt and shame. But she couldn't. Her anxiety combined with the idea of leaving now, before the end of her service (something that could be even more disrespectful than her words), did a magnificent job holding her body in place, like an invisible chain that kept her feet on the floor and her mouth gagged.

With her fingers drumming on her apron-covered leg as the Brazilian woman prepared to style her hair, the teacher wanted to believe that it hadn't been so bad, that maybe Y/N had already forgotten what was said. But she knew that wasn't true. The weight of the moment still hung between them, thick and uncomfortable.

Y/N doesn't cut her hair or even mention the idea once again. The hairdresser just dries her red hair perfectly, but now with a serious gaze and a hurt look on her face. The Brazilian woman vehemently ignores Melissa's green eyes throughout the entire process, and the teacher stupidly decides too late that she prefers the incessant smile that remained on the hairdresser's lips minutes ago.

Melissa thought about apologizing, but the idea of speaking made her breathing quick and shallow, along with the fear of seeming too desperate.

It was then that her eyes fell on the small ceramic jar in the corner of the counter next to her chair. It was decorated with hand-painted flowers and had, in crooked but legible letters, the words: "Tips for Y/N" next to a QR code. Even with the virtual possibility of compensation, the jar was open and with a significant amount of dollars, coins, and two lollipops, which Melissa just knew had been left there by a child.

And so, an idea formed, hesitant but clear in the teacher's mind.

A good tip seemed perfect, silent, indirect, but still meaningful. As the minutes passed, anxiety whispered again in Melissa's mind, wondering if Y/N would believe that she was doing this because of the guilt she felt at that very moment and not because of the regret that was now eating her mind. But the alternative of doing nothing was simply unbearable for Melissa.

The redhead knew she couldn't leave without at least trying, even if in her own way, to make amends.

When Y/N finished applying a light-smelling oil to the teacher's hair and walked away, silently letting her know that her work was done, Melissa tried to meet the hairdresser's eyes and give her a small smile through the reflection in the mirror, which she knew would be nervous, but which could give her an idea of what was going on in Y/N's head.

But Y/N didn't look up at Melissa.

When Melissa got up from the salon chair, her racing heart didn't stop her from taking two generous bills from her wallet — much more than she would give for just an appointment to dye her hair— and walking over to the pot. Her fingers were shaking slightly, but before anything could be done, she was interrupted:

“I don’t want your tip.” Before the two hundred dollars could enter the ceramic pot with the Brazilian’s name written on it, Y/N placed her own hand over the top to the object, successfully blocking Melissa from doing what she intended.

“M'kay. Now you’re being ridiculous!”

With those words, the hairdresser's eyes finally focus on the green ones again, still filled with an anger that Melissa rarely sees in people who have a disagreement with her (too used to the regretful and submissive ones) and the redhead was shocked by this when Y/N actively chooses to ignore her accusation by saying:

"I'm willing to give you the exact coloring mixture that Andrea developed for your hair so you can find a hairdresser who is like the silent imitation of Andrea that you are looking for.", and before the redhead even has a chance to answer her with an apology that would apparently be necessary, the hairdresser quickly collects everything that was used in the teacher's service and directs Melissa a few more words before walking away without looking back, "Call the salon when you want the measurements and the receptionist will share them with you with pleasure. Have a good rest of your day."

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