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crazziforazzi · 1 day ago

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Fighting for the love (of the game) -Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Nobody gets me like you

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Trope: Second chance

A/N: Okay, I promise it's mostly going to be uphill from now on. At least that is the plan. :)

Word Count: 6.1k words

Masterlist

Paige POV:

Paige hadn’t stopped smirking since she stepped away from Azzi at the facility.

She couldn’t help it, her face just kept slipping back into that same crooked little grin every time her brain reminded her: Azzi’s riding with you tonight.

Azzi had sent her address. Texted it to her. The first message since the one she’d replied to after day one of training camp. It wasn’t much, just a simple address and a “Let me know when you’re here”, but to Paige, it meant everything.

She could’ve cried from happiness. But that wouldn’t exactly be a very nonchalant final boss move. So instead, she called her stylist, Brittany, in full panic mode.

Brittany answered like usual, unbothered, sipping something green from a Mason jar, "What’s up Paigey? You don’t need me until next week," she said, squinting at the screen. "Did you finally agree to the panel fit—"

"I need an outfit now."

There was a pause. A long one. Brittany tilted her head, narrowed her eyes. "Okay… dramatic much. What’s the emergency? What are we doing?"

"I need to look good. Not red carpet good, not photo op good. Good-good."

Brittany blinked, then slowly set her drink down. "...Is this a date?"

"No," Paige said way too fast. Then added, "Kind of. Not really. It’s dinner. With the team. But Azzi’s gonna be there. And I’m picking her up. She agreed to drive with me."

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Brittany leaned closer to the screen and gave her the most painfully smug look Paige had ever seen.

"You should’ve led with that, dumbass."

Ten minutes later, Paige had already rejected three outfit ideas, one too try-hard, one too tight, one that made her look like a teenage boy from 2010.

"No," she groaned, tossing a hoodie aside. "I don’t want her to think I’m trying too hard."

Brittany rolled her eyes dramatically. "You are trying too hard. That’s the whole point. You fumbled. She owes you nothing. And now she’s giving you fifteen uninterrupted minutes of car time to remind her why she liked your dumb face in the first place. So yes, we’re trying."

Paige flopped onto her bed. "Can’t I just be… effortless?"

"You can’t even spell effortless right now."

Paige gave her the finger. Brittany just grinned wider.

Eventually, they landed on the perfect look: a black crop top under a loose white button-down, baggy ripped jeans, crisp white sneakers, and high socks. Casual enough to play it cool, but undeniably hot.

She added a few accessories but kept it simple, and slicked her hair back into a messy bun.

"You know what you look like?" Brittany said, holding her phone up for one final once-over. "You look like someone who is ready to woo her girl all over again. Now spray the perfume. The one she likes."

Paige hesitated. "Isn’t that too much?"

"Spray. The. Perfume. Bueckers."

The scent hit instantly, tugging something in her chest loose. Fresh citrus, warm spice, and that deep, rugged wood that always seemed to sink into her skin and linger long after the night ended. This wasn’t some generic cologne Paige tossed on casually, she used it intentionally every single time. It was the one Azzi went absolutely feral over.

Azzi never responded to anything the way she responded to this scent and that reaction was always immediate, almost instinctual. Paige only wore it when she wanted to see Azzi lose that calm, composed look in less than a minute.

One whiff and her girl was tugging Paige closer by the belt loops, whispering threats and promises against her neck. One night, Paige hadn’t even made it past the hallway in their building before Azzi had her pinned to the wall. "I swear you wear this one on purpose, you want me to go crazy for you," her voice had been wrecked, teasing but already half gone with need, and Paige had just nodded because of course she had. She always knew exactly what she was doing when she put it on.

Paige had other scents, nicer ones maybe, ones she wore to events and media days. But she saved this one for when she wanted Azzi to lose that calm control and feel it all. She pulled out this one whenever she needed to remind Azzi of exactly how far gone they both could get for each other, and how there had never really been anyone else who could pull that reaction from them.

And tonight, that’s exactly what she needed. She needed Azzi to breathe it in and remember, not just how it used to be, but how it still could be.

She capped the bottle slowly, fingers shaking just a little. If Azzi opened that door, Paige was going to walk through it and make sure she never forgot how it felt to want her. How it felt to have her.

She left her apartment in Playa del Rey early, building in enough of a buffer to account for the usual LA chaos. But of course, today of all days, the roads were clear.

The universe was clearly mocking her.

She pulled up in front of Azzi’s building with fifteen minutes to spare. There was no way she was going to knock early. She wasn’t that desperate. So she stayed in the car, shifted in her seat, and tried to pretend she wasn’t overthinking everything. Her hand hovered for a moment, then dropped into her lap with a sigh.

After two minutes of trying to stare out the window like a chill, detached human being, she gave up and unlocked her phone.

The initial wave of reactions had been exactly what she’d expected: chaotic. The usual sports accounts had their think pieces ready within hours. Fans she’d never met acted like they knew her personally, like they knew her motives. Some welcomed her to LA with open arms. Others... not so much. Words like “washed” and “overrated” kept popping up. One too many people accused her of chasing clout, of using LA to stay relevant. She’d seen enough to know the algorithm would eat her alive if she stuck around.

So she deleted the app. That had worked, until tonight.

Because now, sitting outside Azzi’s apartment with time to kill and way too many nerves crawling under her skin, the curiosity won. She unlocked her phone, redownloaded Instagram, and went straight to the Sparks profile. There it was.

Posted 32 minutes ago by @la_sparks:

🎥 PAZZI IS BACK 🔥

From USA U-16 ➡️ to UConn NCAA Champions ➡️ and now ready to build a legacy with us.

This is only the beginning.

#WNBA #TrainingCamp #SparksSeason

She tapped the reel.

The music kicked in first. It was a bit too cinematic, a slow build with sharp beats. It was a clean, rapid-cut montage from training camp earlier that day. Paige feeding Azzi the ball, Azzi catching it in rhythm, rising, releasing and bucket.

A few seconds later, Paige appeared again, driving hard to the rim, kicking it back out, and Azzi drilling another three. There was a shot of them jogging back on defense together, their movements perfectly in sync. Another clip showed them breaking into easy laughter after some drill, Paige bumping her shoulder into Azzi’s, Azzi tossing her a smirk in return.

There was a high five that was followed with a slow motion of eye contact between them. A look that, if you knew what to look for, said more than any caption ever could.

She watched it once. Then again. Then two more times after that. By the fourth watch, she wasn’t really focused on the basketball anymore.

It was the way Azzi looked at her after a made shot. Her smile always stretched just a little wider when Paige was the one passing her the ball.They moved around each other on the court intuitively like it was muscle memory.

They looked like them again.

Relief washed over Paige seeing that. The basketball was always supposed to be the easy part, but even she had been scared that too much had changed, that the distance and the silence and the heartbreak had stretched too far across the court.

But watching that look in Azzi’s eye, Paige knew. The game was still theirs.

Whatever else was broken between them, this part wasn’t and she hoped it could be enough to rebuild the rest.

And then, even though she knew it was a terrible idea, Paige scrolled down. She opened the comments.

@wbbqueens: okay sorry but this energy is not platonic

@underratedrookies: no because look at the LOOKS they give each other like please we’ve been watching this since 2017 😭

@azzipaigesluts: didn’t she not go to ANY UConn games last season? and Azzi didn’t even visit Dallas once… I thought they were done??

@uconns4life: @azzipaigesluts no cause now I’m not sure they did… they weren’t at each other’s games but THIS? nah they’re still in it

@sportswithkay: everyone SHUT UP pazzi are canon again

Paige let the phone fall into her lap and leaned her head back against the seat, eyes closing.

People had always seen it, the way she and Azzi moved together on the court, the way they looked at each other when they thought no one else was paying attention. That unspoken tether between them had always been visible, even when they tried to play it cool. And now, after no appearances at each other’s games, no comments or likes on posts, there they were side by side in a video reel, smiling and syncing up like nothing had ever broken.

Of course the fans would notice and they would start connecting the dots. It was never going to be just their story, it had always belonged, at least in part, to everyone watching. It was another layer they’d have to reckon with, how to be them again in a world that already had a version of their story. A version that didn’t quite match where they were now.

Her phone buzzed softly in her hand, dragging her out of her spiral.

AZZI 06.12 p.m. Ready when you are.

After sending off the I’m here text, Paige stepped out of the car and leaned casually against the hood or at least, that was the goal. She’d spent five minutes before leaving her apartment rehearsing this exact posture in the mirror, trying to nail that effortlessly cool, unbothered look. It felt decent in the bathroom but not so much here in action.

She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. Tapped her fingers against her jeans before catching herself and forcing them still. Took a deep breath that didn’t calm her down at all.

Two full minutes passed before she heard the door open with a soft click.

She immediately looked up and froze.

Azzi stepped onto the curb like something out of a slowed-down highlight reel. She wore baggy, washed-out jeans that sat perfectly on her hips, paired with a cropped black top that Paige immediately, viscerally recognized. It hugged her curves in all the ways Paige remembered without even trying. Her braids weren’t tied back tonight, just loose and soft around her shoulders, catching the last traces of sunlight like it had been planned that way.

Paige could feel her brain short-circuit. Her jaw might’ve dropped a little. Maybe a lot.

It wasn’t fair to look that beautiful.

If they were still together, Paige would’ve already closed the distance. She would’ve reached for her hand, leaned in, whispered something about being late just to see that eye roll she loved so much. And Azzi would have played along, pretending to be annoyed, but smiling against Paige’s lips the second they were out of view.

But that wasn’t where they were anymore.

They weren’t dating. They weren’t even close to being back together. And teammates, no matter how much history they had between them, definitely didn’t get to press each other against apartment walls just because one of them happened to show up looking like that on a regular Thursday night.

Azzi cleared her throat softly.

The subtle little cue she always used when Paige started zoning out in film sessions or team meetings. It was unmistakable, a gentle nudge back to reality, and it worked instantly.

Paige blinked, suddenly aware that Azzi had crossed the distance between them without her even noticing.

"Oh, shit. Sorry," Paige muttered, hand flying up to the back of her neck. Her skin felt hot already, the flush creeping in fast. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Azzi said, her voice quiet but kind. She stood there like she hadn’t just completely short-circuited Paige’s entire nervous system.

The silence that followed was… loaded. Paige’s instinct was to close the space between them, to reach out, to wrap Azzi in her arms and pretend for just a second that nothing had changed. That they were still them.

But Azzi didn’t move and as much as it hurt, Paige knew she couldn’t be the one to reach first. Not this time.

So instead, Paige circled around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Here you go,” she said, keeping it light. No princess or a playful wink this time. She figured she'd earn that back later, maybe if Azzi smiled at her first.

Azzi gave a small nod, eyes unreadable, and slid into the seat without a word.

Paige got in on the driver’s side and pulled up Julie’s address on her phone. Seven minutes away. Seven whole minutes of sitting next to Azzi in a car that suddenly felt way smaller than usual.

She started the engine, adjusted the mirror, then immediately regretted breathing because Azzi’s perfume hit her like a memory she wasn’t ready for. Vanilla and something citrusy, whatever new scent Azzi had switched to recently. Of course it smelled amazing and clearly messed with her brain.

The silence settled in fast. It wasn’t awful, just… noticeable. The kind where both people are thinking too much.

She wanted to say something, anything, to make the air feel normal again. A dumb joke, maybe. A story from practice. Something light and easy. But every sentence that floated to the top of her brain felt off. She didn’t want to fake ease, not with Azzi. And she definitely didn’t want to risk breaking the fragile calm they’d managed to settle into by steering too deep too fast.

Out of the corner of her eye, Paige caught Azzi typing on her phone. Quick, focused. The kind of fast-tapping rhythm that meant it wasn’t just idle scrolling. Paige’s eyes flicked toward it instinctively before she yanked them back to the road. She couldn’t see the screen. She told herself she didn’t want to. But that wasn’t entirely true. Because of course she wanted to know who Azzi was texting. What had her locked in like that. Was it someone else? A group chat? Was it about her?

Stop. You're spiraling again. Chill.

She drummed her fingers against the wheel. Opened her mouth.

“So… did you—” Nope. Not that.

She exhaled through her nose, gave up, and reached for the screen. Paige decided to let the music step in where her words had failed. Soft R&B eased into the car, mellow and slow, the kind of playlist she put on when she didn’t want to think too hard. A little Drake, a little Giveon, the perfect background music for driving.

Then the next song started

SZA. Nobody Gets Me.

The moment the first chords hit, it was like a punch straight to Paige’s chest. Her hand froze mid-motion, suspended above the stereo. She could’ve skipped it. Should’ve. But her fingers just hovered there, unmoving, while the opening notes wrapped around her

Across the car, Azzi didn’t react right away, but Paige saw it. That subtle shift and the way her fingers stopped moving, phone paused mid-text, her whole posture tightening just slightly.

Like the song cracked something wide open inside both of them.

"It's too lateI don't wanna lose what's left of you…"

God, this fucking song.

Paige had gone out of her way to avoid it for months. Blocked it from every playlist, skipped it without thinking whenever it came on shuffle, even unhearted it on Spotify so it wouldn’t show up at all. Pretended it wasn’t their song. Pretended it didn’t still hollow her out every time.

Out of all the songs that had scored their years together, this was the one that never faded. Azzi would play it on quiet Sunday mornings, when they were still curled up in bed, Paige tucked under Azzi’s arm, her cheek resting against the soft rhythm of her chest as sunlight filtered lazily through their bedroom blinds.

Paige used to hum it in the background of everything, brushing her teeth, flipping pancakes, waiting by the door while Azzi tied her shoes for practice. Paige had even once sung, completely off-key, half-laughing, into the collar of Azzi’s hoodie while they slow danced in their cramped college bedroom, bare feet in old boxers.

And now it was playing in this small car, in this tense silence, like a ghost neither of them were ready for. It filled the space between them like it never left.

Paige’s chest tightened, her breath catching somewhere between memory and ache. She didn’t need this right now. Not when she was trying so hard to hold it together.

But suddenly, she was back in that dim dorm room, two years ago, on the night she forgot the SZA ticket drop. Gino had kept her at the gym late, drilling her on footwork and three-dribble pull-ups for what felt like forever. Her phone sat untouched in the locker while the entire arena sold out in minutes.

By the time she saw the notifications, every seat was gone.

She’d tried to brush it off, act like it wasn’t a big deal, but Azzi had known. Paige had sulked the entire night, curled up in an oversized hoodie on the floor, half-heartedly playing Call of Duty with KK online, barely speaking, jaw clenched around disappointment.

And Azzi, of course, had fixed it.

She had walked in with that familiar smirk, like she already had a plan. Without a word, she had taken the controller from Paige’s hand, plucked the headset off her head, and leaned into the mic.

“Hey KK? She’s logging off, because she’s about to fall in love with me all over again.”

Paige had spluttered, ready to throw out a halfhearted protest, but Azzi didn’t give her the chance. She just grinned wider and held out a plain white envelope, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Paige blinked, still recovering from the sudden whiplash of affection. “What is this?”

Azzi gave a small shrug, trying to play it cool, but her smile was already threatening to break into something smug. “Just something to fix your attitude.”

Inside: two front-section tickets to see SZA in Hartford.

Paige stared at them like she didn’t quite trust they were real. “How—how the hell did you pull this off?”

Azzi beamed, full dimple, proud of herself and completely unbothered. “Mack has a friend who owed her a favor. I pulled a few strings. I wasn’t about to let my girl miss her favorite artist. Especially not when she is playing in Connecticut.”

And Paige had launched herself into her arms, almost knocking them both over. She picked Azzi up like she weighed nothing, kissed her like she was something out of a dream, spun her in a circle until they were both laughing too hard to breathe. That night, she laid her down on their bed and spent hours thanking her in every way she knew how. Azzi had murmured against her shoulder, smiling into her skin, “You’re welcome, baby,” and Paige had thought at that moment, This is what your forever person is supposed to feel like.

The concert had been magic. Paige still remembered how the lights bathed the arena in violet and gold during Nobody Gets Me, how the crowd fell quiet in that sacred, aching way fans do when a song hits a little too close to home.

Azzi had stood beside her, arm snug around her waist, the side of her body pressed close. Paige had turned then, gaze locked on Azzi’s profile, and sang the second verse directly into her ear. It was soft, a little shaky, but full of everything she felt. Azzi hadn’t looked away. Her eyes had shimmered, not from the lights, but from tears she didn’t bother to blink back. Her thumb had rubbed slow, steady circles against Paige’s hip. Holding her there, taking everything in.

“Nobody gets me like you…”

Now that same song was playing in Paige’s rental car, and Azzi was sitting right beside her, silent and unreadable. The distance between them was only a few inches but emotionally, it still felt like a crack they hadn’t figured out how to cross yet.

But maybe… maybe this was the start.

Paige tried to keep her eyes on the road, to act like the lyrics weren’t crawling up her spine, but everything around her started to blur. Her chest tightened with each passing verse, ribs pulling taut like she couldn’t quite expand them enough to breathe properly.

“How am I supposed to let you go?Only like myself when I'm with you…”

It hit hard. Too hard.

She hadn't cried since draft night, not even when her trade went through. But this, this stupid, perfect, devastating song, cracked her.

The lyrics hadn’t changed, but they felt different now. What used to be comforting and something wrapped in the warmth of love, now felt raw and weighted down by everything they hadn’t said out loud.

Her jaw clenched. Her grip on the wheel went white-knuckle. She bit down hard, trying to keep the emotions locked somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable. But when the last chorus faded out and that final, echoing line dissolved into silence, the air inside the car collapsed with it.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.

It wasn’t supposed to come out. She hadn’t meant to say anything. But the word cracked the stillness like glass.

Azzi didn’t say anything, but Paige felt the shift beside her again, the barely-there motion of someone who remembered and understood what Paige was feeling. Like she remembered every second the same way as Paige did.

The car slowed to a stop in front of Julie’s building. Paige threw it into park with more force than necessary and let her head fall back against the seat. She tilted her face toward the ceiling like the sky might offer her the answers.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe past the lump clawing at her throat. Hold it together. You’re fine. Just breathe.

But it was too late. The tears were already there. Soft and silent. Barely a handful, but enough to sting her eyes and send a hollow ache through her chest.

Then, without warning, she felt it.

A touch, soft and featherlight, the brush of skin against her cheek. Paige flinched, not out of fear, but recognition.

Azzi.

Her knuckles were gentle as they swept a tear away. Then another. It wasn’t rushed and did not feel pitying. It was gently and caring, the kind of touch that only comes from knowing someone at their most vulnerable.

Paige leaned into it instinctively, her body moving before her mind caught up. Eyes still closed, letting herself feel it. Letting herself remember.

This was how Azzi had always comforted her. Not with speeches or platitudes but with this. A hand on her face, a thumb at the edge of her cheekbone as if Paige’s sadness wasn’t something to fix, it was something to be held. For a moment, Paige let herself be held by Azzi again.

But the second stretched too long and then it broke. Azzi pulled her hand back.

The warmth vanished like it had never been there, and when Paige opened her eyes again, Azzi had turned back toward her window. Her phone was in her hand, thumb moving quickly over the screen. Back to the silence.

But in the reflection of the glass, Paige could still see her face. Her jaw was clenched, her brows drawn together, her lashes blinking faster than normal.

Paige’s breath caught in her throat. She’s not okay either.

This wasn’t just her grief to carry. It wasn’t only Paige sitting there, aching for everything they had been. Azzi was right beside her, lost in the same memories, caught in the same wreckage. She could feel it beneath the silence, Azzi was holding it in, just like she was. And somehow, that made it both harder to bear and strangely easier to breathe. A shared ache.

Paige drew in a breath and then another. Deep and shaky, as if she was bracing for something to hit or maybe just trying to keep her chest from splitting apart.

And before she could second-guess herself, she whispered it.

"Azzi."

Just her name and nothing more, but it landed in the space between them like something sacred. It was half prayer, half apology, and fully everything Paige hadn’t had the courage to say until now.

Azzi turned to her, slow and intentional, and met Paige’s eyes. And in that moment, everything that had been hidden was suddenly visible.

Her eyes were rimmed red. They were glossy and wet. Her face was still composed, but barely, like she was holding herself together with the last bit of thread she had. Paige’s breath caught in her throat.

She almost looked away. Almost shoved it all back down like she always had. But then, out of nowhere, she heard Geno’s voice in her head, clear and unyielding, like it used to be after a tough loss.

She still looks for you in every room. You still know how to fight.

And for once, Paige didn’t flinch from the truth, she didn’t hide. She sat up straighter. Her voice came out rough, raw around the edges, but real.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Azzi didn’t move. Paige pressed on, the words tumbling out, half-confession, half-desperate plea.

"I should have told you I was drowning," she continued, each word heavier than the last. "I should have asked for help. Instead I just… pulled away and shut you out. Like losing you was easier than admitting I was scared and losing myself."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Her pulse pounded in her ears, she could hear herself breathing and feel the sting behind her eyes.

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. But she didn’t look away either.

Her face was still unreadable, that same guarded calm she wore when she didn’t trust the world not to hurt her. But then Paige saw how Azzi’s jaw trembled, her eyes squeezed shut for a beat too long, like it was the only way to keep the tears from falling. Her lips parted with a soft, unsteady breath.

And then, finally, she spoke. Just two words. But they landed like a wave crashing through the silence.

“I know.”

It nearly broke Paige in half.

Because Azzi knew and maybe she always had. Maybe even back then, through all the missteps and silence, she'd seen Paige drowning and didn’t know how to reach her.

They didn’t reach for each other, but the space between them shifted. Something unspoken passed through it. Not forgiveness, not yet, but a shared willingness to try.

They sat like that for a while, side by side, the air still fragile, but no longer suffocating. They weren’t avoiding the silence now, they were breathing through it. Both of them blinking too fast, both of them still shaky.

But neither of them looked away.

And for the first time in nine months, it didn’t feel like they were pretending to be strangers.It felt like a beginning of something new. They were learning how to be brave again.

Azzi POV:

As soon as she stepped out of the building, Azzi’s eyes locked on Paige, leaning against the hood of her rental like she wasn’t obviously waiting. She looked casual, legs crossed, head dipped, pretending to scroll through her phone, but Azzi knew better. Knew every tell in that body.

God, she looked good. Stupidly good.

The white button-down open just enough to tease the crop top beneath, her arms folded in that lazy, confident way that drove Azzi crazy. She hated how her stomach flipped the moment Paige looked up and froze.

Paige definitely noticed her too, Azzi saw the shift in her jaw and the way her eyes darted across Azzi’s body like she was trying to devour her on the spot.

Good, you should suffer a little too.

They didn’t say much at first, just a soft exchange of "hey"s, eyes dodging contact after a few seconds each time. Paige opened the door for her without a teasing nickname or gesture like she used to. Azzi missed it.

They both slid into the car and as soon as the doors closed, Azzi smelled it.

That fucking cologne.

Azzi blinked hard, the scent wrapping around her like always. This was the one that always made her want to crawl into Paige’s lap and forget the rest of the world. Paige had only used it for rare nights, anniversaries, birthdays, that weekend in New Orleans when they didn’t leave the hotel room until Sunday night. Azzi knew that Paige only wore it when she was trying to make Azzi feral.

She barely had her seatbelt on before she was yanking out her phone, thumbs flying:

azzi: Tell me why she had the AUDACITY to wear THE parfume. azzi: You all know which one. dorka: 👀 caroline: 😭Oh she’s playing dirty kayla: Is it working tho azzi: …I’m gonna combust.

She locked her phone and dropped it into her lap, already too warm. Paige didn’t say anything, but Azzi caught the sideways glance, just once, careful and quick. She tapped her foot. Focused on the street signs. Reminded herself: this is just a ride to team dinner. Just teammates doing normal things.

And then the next song started.

Nobody Gets Me by SZA.

Her fingers twitched.

She didn’t look at Paige, didn’t have to. She could feel her reaction like static in the air. Paige had gone completely quiet, her soft humming had stopped and the tapping on the wheel halted. All that was left was her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and the tiniest shudder in her breath.

Azzi turned her face slightly toward the window.This song had so much of their history.

They had memories of it in every room they shared at UConn. Sunday mornings in bed, tangled under flannel sheets with no reason to leave. Paige humming the lyrics into Azzi’s collarbone after games. And that concert.

God.

Paige had sulked for days about missing the ticket sale. Azzi had pretended not to care until she could get her hands on two. When she handed over the envelope, Paige had looked at her like she hung the moon. And during the show Paige had turned to her and sang it, all completely off-key but her eyes were full of love and Azzi still wasn’t sure she’d ever feel so adored again.

But this time it didn’t feel nostalgic, it felt like heartbreak. Azzi blinked fast, staring out the window like it might anchor her. She didn’t trust herself not to say something she would regret later.

"Fuck."

That’s when Azzi looked. Paige’s shoulders had risen, her hands death-gripping the wheel. Here eyes were closed and her lips pressed tight like she was trying to keep it together.

Azzi acted without thinking.

Her hand reached out and, almost of its own accord, her knuckles brushed Paige’s cheek. She gently wiped away the tears that had slipped out. Exactly as she always had, especially during Paige’s darkest moments post-surgery, when the only thing that calmed her was being held without words.

And Paige leaned into it. Just the smallest bit, like her body remembered too.

By the time Azzi pulled her hand back, her own chest was tight. She turned back to the window, phone in her lap, fingers trembling against the screen.

She tried to ground herself by counting the trees outside. And still, her throat burned and her eyes stung. That old ache started to bloom again, curling up from her ribs and into her chest. She blinked hard at her reflection in the passenger side window. Get it together.

She thought Paige would stay silent and let the moment pass. That was always how it went these days, closeness flickering in and out like a glitch in the system. One of them always retreating before it got too real.

Azzi herself asked for it, so she could not blame Paige for not crossing that line, even if she wanted her to. But then she heard it.

"Azzi."

So soft she almost didn’t catch it, but her body definitely did.

She turned, slowly, like if she moved too fast, the moment might vanish. When her eyes met Paige’s, red-rimmed, glassy, wide with everything she wasn’t saying, her own chest stuttered.

Azzi knew that look.

She had seen it in bedrooms and locker rooms and hotel hallways at 2 a.m. She’d seen it after buzzer beaters and injuries and fights and birthdays and reunions. It was the look Paige wore when everything was raw and unguardedl.

It was the look she wore when she couldn’t pretend anymore. Azzi felt her stomach flip. Her grip on the phone tightened.

Azzi held her gaze.

"I’m sorry," Paige said. Her voice cracked like something brittle inside her had finally broken. "I’m so fucking sorry, Azzi."

Azzi didn’t move, didn’t even breath.

Paige was clearly speaking out of her heart, she wasn’t reading a script. She wasn’t trying to make it sound perfect or clean. She was just saying how she felt, messy and raw.

Azzi had to close her eyes.

She didn’t want to cry, not here and now. She had been doing so well holding it together all week. But that confession cracked something in her chest, it was the thing she’d waited to hear. The piece that had been missing this whole time. Not an excuse or a fix, just… the truth.

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t turn away. She stayed facing Paige. And when she opened her eyes again, Paige was still looking at her like she didn’t know what to do with herself. Like she’d just ripped her whole chest open and handed Azzi the pieces.

So Azzi gave her what little she could.

"I know," she whispered.

It came out steadier than she expected. It wasn’t angry or bitter, just honest. Because deep down she did know, even when she didn’t want to.

She had known Paige was struggling. Had tried to help, had offered to carry the weight with her, but Paige had always wanted to be the strong one. And in the end, she’d isolated herself so deeply that Azzi couldn’t reach her anymore, doesn’t matter how hard she tried.

Azzi had spent so long trying to resent her, trying to convince herself that Paige didn’t care anymore, but that had never felt true.

The quiet that followed should’ve been unbearable, but it wasn’t. It was heavy, yes, but not suffocating.

The apology was out now, and somehow, that made breathing easier. Azzi still felt wrecked by it, but less alone in it, Paige was right there with her.

Azzi kept her eyes open now, really looking at her. Paige wasn’t hiding anymore. She was shaking and vulnerable and so much like the girl she had fallen in love with years ago. There was no wall between them at that moment. Just two people trying to breathe through what they broke.

Azzi let her body relax slowly. Her thumb eased off the death grip she had on her phone. She let herself take in Paige without pretending, not the version from UConn, or the Paige from Dallas that gutted her, but the one sitting beside her right now.

The one present and trying.

Because Azzi knew that sometimes, when the wounds are still open, showing up is the bravest thing two people can do.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #azzi fudd fic #paige bueckers fic

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formulafanfics13 · 3 days ago

Text

Brother Knows Best - AL & CL16 🔥✨

masterlist

She's never been alone with Charles before. Not really. She knows him, obviously. Everyone does. Arthur talks about him like he's a god, fast, ruthless, perfect. You'd met him once or twice before, maybe at karting things or birthday dinners, always waving shyly and saying "Hi, I'm a friend of Arthur's," before going quiet. And Charles would always smile. Nod. Look at you just a little too long.

Tonight you're at Arthur's apartment. Monaco summer heat, windows open, drinks half-finished. You hadn't meant to stay this late. But Charles came over. And now you're still here. You're sitting on Arthur's couch in an oversized hoodie, bare legs pulled up, trying to ignore how hard your heart is beating. Arthur's next to you, too close. Charles is across from you in the armchair, legs spread wide, watching you like he already knows what you taste like.

"You've never had a boyfriend?" he asks, like it's a casual question.

You shake your head. "No."

Charles tilts his head. "Never?"

Arthur shifts beside you. "She's... shy."

Charles's eyes darken. "And a virgin?"

Arthur swallows. "Yeah."

"Fuck."

You blink.

Charles is smiling now. But not a nice smile. Not a safe one. "She ever been kissed?"

Arthur shakes his head.

Charles groans. "You've been keeping her to yourself, haven't you?"

Arthur doesn't answer.

Charles leans forward. "What about it, baby?" he asks you directly now. "You ever thought about what it'd be like?"

Your mouth goes dry. "I-"

"You ever think about Arthur?" Charles purrs. "Or... me?"

Arthur clears his throat. "Charles-"

"No, no," Charles says. "Let her answer."

You look at Arthur, wide-eyed. "I trust you."

Arthur's breath catches.

"I'd do anything you told me to."

That's all it takes. Arthur kisses you first. Soft. Hesitant. Like he's scared to break you. But Charles watches with a smirk, arms folded. "You kiss her like you're scared of her."

Arthur kisses you harder. Your first kiss. Your first everything. Arthur's hands are shaking, cupping your face, guiding your mouth open like he's dreamed about this a hundred times. And when you whimper into it, Charles exhales sharply.

"She's already dripping," he mutters, standing. "Jesus Christ."

Arthur pauses, breathless. "She's never done anything, Charles."

"I know." Charles walks over. Crouches next to you on the couch. "She let you kiss her."

Arthur nods.

"She'll let you fuck her too."

You flinch. Arthur freezes. But Charles touches your chin and turns your face to his. His eyes are deadly. "You want us to show you what it's like, don't you?"

You nod.

"You want your first time to be unforgettable?"

"Yes," you whisper.

Arthur's voice is hoarse. "We'll be gentle-"

"No," Charles says. "We won't."

They strip you slowly. Charles pulls your hoodie off, eyes locked on your tits. Arthur slides your shorts down, fingers brushing your thighs.

You're trembling.

Charles kisses your throat. "Still want this?"

You nod.

Arthur presses his forehead to yours. "You're sure?"

"I'm yours," you whisper. "Both of you."

Charles groans. "Fuck, that's hot."

Arthur eats you out first. Careful. Desperate. Like he's waited years for this moment. He spreads your legs and groans when he sees how wet you are.

"You're soaked," he pants. "You want my cock this bad?"

Charles watches from the edge of the bed. Stroking himself. "You're going to ruin her," he says.

Arthur smiles into your cunt. "She wants to be ruined."

Your first orgasm hits fast. Violent. Arthur's tongue, Charles's voice, your name between their teeth.

You sob. Arthur kisses your trembling thighs. Charles stands behind you. "It's time."

They take you together. Arthur lies back. Pulls you into his lap. "Sit on me," he whispers. "Let me take it slow."

You straddle him. Nervous. His cock presses at your entrance and you gasp.

Charles stands in front of you, holding your jaw. "Look at me while my little brother takes your virginity," he murmurs.

Arthur pushes in.It hurts. You cry out. Arthur stills. "You're okay," he whispers. "You're so tight. But you're okay."

Charles leans down. Kisses your cheek. "Breathe through it, baby. That's it."

You sink fully onto Arthur's cock. You scream.

Arthur sobs your name. "She's perfect-fucking perfect-"

And then Charles moves behind you. He spits on your ass. Slips his fingers in. Prepares you. You can barely speak. Arthur's cock is so deep you feel dizzy. And now Charles is pressing at your other hole.

"Don't," Arthur says. "She's not ready."

"She said she'd do anything," Charles says. "Didn't you, baby?"

You nod. And Charles pushes in. Slow. Brutal.

You're full. Too full. Both brothers inside you. One in your pussy. One in your ass. You cry. They moan. You break.

"You're ours now," Charles growls, fucking you harder.

Arthur is kissing your neck, eyes glassy. "She's coming again-"

You come. Screaming. Charles follows. Filling you. Arthur comes seconds later. Whimpering your name like a prayer.

They don't let you move. Charles pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thighs. Arthur holds you close, stroking your back.

"She's ruined," Charles mutters. "No one else will ever fuck her like that."

Arthur smiles. "No one else gets to."

She wakes up an hour later, sticky thighs pressed together, her whole body warm and aching in that glorious way that only comes after being thoroughly, brutally fucked. Her head's resting against Arthur's chest. His hoodie is covering her bare skin. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the subtle clink of glass on wood.

And Charles. Sitting on the velvet chair across from the bed. Shirtless. Legs wide. Smiling like he never stopped. "You're awake," he says.

Arthur shifts beneath her. "Hey, baby. You okay?"

She nods slowly, blinking the haze away. "I feel..." She exhales. "Full."

Charles chuckles darkly. "You were full."

Arthur groans. "Don't start."

"No, no," Charles says. "This is important." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She's still new to everything. Still figuring out what she likes. Wouldn't it be cruel if we just left her here... uneducated?"

Arthur frowns. "Charles-"

"She trusts us," he says simply. "We owe it to her."

You look between them. Body thrumming, pulse climbing again. "What do you mean?"

Charles smiles. "I mean we teach you," he says softly. "Show you toys. Show you kinks. Help you explore. You've never even touched yourself properly, have you?"

You shake your head. "Not really..."

Arthur kisses your forehead. "We'll go slow," he promises.

"And we'll stop if you say no," Charles adds. "But I don't think you will."

Your heart stutters. "Okay," you whisper. "Teach me."

They don't rush. Not at first. Charles lays out a sleek black box from his suitcase, velvet-lined, glittering with cold metal and silicone. Vibrators. Plugs. Clamps. A soft blindfold. A satin ribbon. You stare.

Arthur kisses your cheek. "We'll start easy."

You're laid out on the bed again, naked, wrists tied softly with the ribbon above your head. Arthur is kneeling beside you, kissing your ribs, your tummy, your thighs. Charles is at your feet, holding a slender pink vibrator. "This'll feel good," he murmurs, turning it on. It hums low and deadly.

He presses it to your clit. You scream.

Arthur holds your hips down. "Shh, baby. Let it happen."

The pleasure is blinding. You buck against the ribbon, moaning, whimpering, crying.

Charles watches your face. "You ever squirt before?"

"I-I don't-" And then it hits you. Your orgasm rips through you like a live wire, white-hot, blinding, your cunt pulsing as you gush across the sheets.

Arthur groans. "Holy fuck-"

Charles turns the toy off. Smirks. "You're going to be addicted to this."

They keep going. Next, Charles slides a small plug into your ass, soft, well-lubed, teasing. You gasp. Arthur kisses your hands, whispering praises while Charles toys with your cunt again. Then come the clamps. "Sensitive?" Charles asks, brushing your nipples with ice.

You nod. "Good."

They snap on hard. You cry out. Arthur whispers, "Color?"

You sob, "Green."

Charles smiles. "Good girl."

She's barely awake. Tied loosely to the headboard with satin ribbons, eyes glazed, legs parted, the sheets beneath her soaked through with sweat, cum, and tears. Her chest is flushed, her nipples are red and pinched between tight little clamps, and her ass is still gently stuffed with the plug Charles pushed in twenty minutes ago.

Arthur is at her side. Lips on her temple. Stroking her hand like he's afraid she'll float away. And Charles is crouched at the foot of the bed, sorting through his black velvet box like a man choosing which instrument to play next.

"She's still trembling," Arthur says softly.

"She's learning," Charles replies. "Let her."

"You said we'd go slow."

Charles picks up a sleek silver device. "We are."

The next toy Charles picks is small. Slim. Chrome. A metal bullet vibrator with a pointed tip that he presses directly against her swollen, overstimulated clit.

She screams. Her hips jolt upward. Arthur catches her wrists in panic, but Charles just smiles.

"See?" he murmurs. "Still responsive."

He turns the bullet to its highest setting. The buzz is barely audible, but her reaction is violent. Her thighs kick. Her chest arches. Her nipples strain against the clamps, her breath punching out of her in sharp, shattered gasps.

"Charles-!" she sobs.

Arthur grabs her hand. "Color, baby?"

"G-green," she cries. "Green, please-don't stop-"

Charles presses the bullet harder. "You're going to come again," he says softly, voice so calm it makes her cry harder. "And then we're going to teach you what denial feels like."

He pulls the bullet away right as she's about to come. She sobs. "Why?" she gasps. "I-please-"

"That," Charles says, tapping her clit lightly, "is called edging."

Arthur looks torn. "Charles-"

"Don't worry," he says. "She'll thank me."

They do it again. And again. And again. Charles uses the bullet to bring her right to the edge of orgasm, until her thighs shake, until her eyes roll back, and then pulls it away.

Each time she cries harder. Each time she begs louder. Each time Arthur whispers "It's okay, baby, just breathe, you're so good" in her ear while Charles praises her through her tears.

"You're stronger than you think," Charles says. "And so fucking pretty when you cry."

When she's practically sobbing, legs twitching, back arched and mouth wide, Charles finally lets her come. This time he uses the bunny-eared vibrator, slick and silicone and shaped to hug her clit with unforgiving pressure.

Arthur kisses her lips. Charles presses it down. She comes so hard she screams into Arthur's mouth, her whole body convulsing, her hands yanking hard against the ribbons. "Good girl," Charles growls. "Fucking come. Show me."

Arthur just holds her. Kisses her forehead while she shakes. But they're not done. Next comes the vibrating butt plug.

"This one stays in while we eat," Charles says. "Remote control. Very quiet."

Arthur watches as Charles lubes it slowly, slides it in with practiced ease. She gasps. Her ass twitches.

"You're so full," Arthur whispers. "You're doing so well."

Charles slips the remote into his back pocket.

"She won't know when it's coming," he smirks. "Every time I press it—she'll clench. We'll be in public. She'll soak through her dress."

Arthur's breath catches. "You're really fucking evil."

"She'll love it."

And she does. She moans when he turns it on, not because it hurts, but because it's too much. Her cunt is dripping. Her thighs are quivering. Her whole body's begging for more.

Next comes the clamp chain. "Can she handle that?" Arthur asks, half in awe.

Charles shrugs. "She's still green. But curious."

He gently unclips the soft clamps from her nipples. She winces. Then he replaces them with two tighter ones, attached by a thin silver chain.

She whimpers. Arthur kisses her neck. Then Charles gives the chain a tiny tug. She screams. But not in fear. Not pain. In desperate, broken, fucked-out need. "She liked that," Charles purrs.

Arthur just kisses her again. "You're so good," he whispers. "So fucking perfect."

And finally- the wand. Heavy. White. Unforgiving. "This will break you," Charles says. "Are you ready to be broken?"

She nods. And he turns it on. Arthur kneels beside her. Holds her hands down. "Breathe through it, baby."

Charles presses it to her clit. She detonates. Squirting. Screaming. Crying. Coming so hard the clamps snap off and her back arches off the bed.

She's sobbing now, gasping, shaking, completely gone. Arthur kisses her eyelids. Whispers: "You did so good. I'm so proud of you."

Charles just watches. "You'll never want anyone else now," he says. "You know that, right?"

She nods. Tears streak her cheeks. And she smiles.

#f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 grid x reader #f1 fluff #f1 smut #formula 1 fanfic #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc #charles lecrelc #cl16 #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc x reader #arthur leclerc smut

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moeswriting · 2 days ago

Text

stains & gold

pairing: Harry Castillo x wife!f!reader

summary: Harry worships routine, almost as much as he worships you.

Or, Harry and his wife get ready to leave.

warnings: age gap or no– that’s up to you; reader has hair that is at least shoulder length, wears feminine clothing/makeup, and is able-bodied; some dom!reader undertones; sacreligious amounts of body worship; i’m not entirely sure if i like all of it, but i’m trying to get better about my obsession with “perfection”, so here you go

word count: 1.7k

a/n: hey. uhhhh it's been awhile. have this *runs*

Harry Castillo masterlist | masterlist of all masterlists

read this on ao3

When your husband is rich, dinners with clients are regular and mandatory, whether you like it or not. Everyone wants to see Harry Castillo’s pretty wife, the woman who finally tied him down. And Harry loves to play show and tell.

Routine. He worships it, almost as much as he worships you.

It starts with a shower. You always shower together– to save the Earth, he says with a bashful smile; you’ll always relent. He gets in first, steps under the water to get his curls wet, and watches you undress through the glass door of the shower stall. He steps out of the way for you as you get in, gaze pointed at the water as it runs down your back with jealousy– how he wishes he could be that close to your skin all the time, on a molecular level. Grabbing his hips, you turn him around so that his back is towards you. You wash his hair with patient fingers, scratching up and down his scalp in practiced circles. The steam smells of something expensive and manly.

After you rinse his hair, it’s your turn. He tips your head back toward the stream, watching your hair grow darker and longer as the water weighs it down. This is art, your body here in front of him, curves and hair and scars. Your eyes are closed, always sensitive to the way he worships you. Harry mimics your touch to your own scalp. The way his fingers run through your hair makes you moan every time.

Routine.

You take turns sliding soap across each other, taking your time to kiss every mark, every tattoo, every little thing that makes the other person them. People always wonder why you’re infamously late to everything. You just tell them the traffic is crazy. You both know it’s because of this; nothing is worth interrupting your time at the altar.

You dry each other off with the softest cotton you’ve ever touched, that anyone has ever touched. Harry can afford it; he’s richer than God. He takes his time with your hair, making sure to never pull too hard or rustle it too much; you’ll make it perfect soon enough.

He leaves you to your makeup routine. He knows each step by heart, what each product does, where to get more if you run out. You like how it makes you look, so he puts in the effort to know.

The closet is attached to the bathroom, at the very back: large and decadent, even if you two are the only ones who see it. Glass displays full of jewelry, ties rolled in neat rows in their own drawer, a crystal chandelier that hangs low in the middle of the space– lighting up everything in a dim, golden glow. His suit is already picked out, you had chosen it and hung it up last night. He lets you choose what he wears, not because he couldn’t do it himself– he’s beyond capable of that– but because he loves the way your eyes light up when he shows you what you’ve made of him.

Navy blue, almost black, jacket and matching dress pants, a white button up and an undershirt tucked under it neatly. You’ve set out a watch and a set of rings for him to wear, all gold with navy blue accents. On the plush carpet beneath it are a pair of black Oxford shoes, already untied and ready for him to slip on. A pair of black socks are tucked into one of them.

Hanging near his, is yours. Long, white dress, shimmering silk, with a low back and a modest neckline. Jewelry laid out beside his, gold with blue diamonds so dark they look like the bottom of the sea. Your sandal heels are stark white, red bottoms a symbol of their worth, again sitting right where they belong next to his.

He’s halfway through putting on his outfit, stumbling through it like he always does, when you speak up from the other room. Robe untied and swaying around your bare legs, you walk into the closet with him. Your hair is dry and your makeup is almost done– he’s always amazed at how efficient you are. Your lips are bare of any color, but you have a lipstick tube in your hand like you spotted him struggling through the mirror and stopped what you were doing immediately to come help him.

“C’mere, you’re doing it wrong,” you mumble, setting down your lipstick on the display cases in the middle of the room and grabbing his wrist, “It’s all crooked.”

First, you undo all his hard work, but he doesn’t mind– he knows you’ll do it better than he ever could. You expertly fold the end of his sleeves so that the cufflink holes align and weave the gold accessories through them. You’ve done this a hundred times, and you’ll do it a thousand more.

“There,” you announce quietly with a small pat on his wrist, and go back to the bathroom like you didn’t just fix everything for him in a matter of seconds.

All that’s left for him to do is groan his way through putting his shoes on and throw on his jacket before you leave for the restaurant, but he’ll wait so he can help you finish like he always does.

You glide the color over your lips and he watches, entranced. Your mouth pops as you push your lips together and open them a few times.

“Come here. Help me blot my lipstick,” you demand, deep red stained onto your smiling lips.

He’s not stupid, he knows what that means– knows that it’ll make them even later than they already are, but he doesn’t care. He would stab himself if it made you happy.

You kiss all over his neck reverently, slow and steady. He can feel the wax and oil staining him, the lipstick causing his skin to stick to and follow your lips as you pull away.

He sighs in content, not frustration. His eyes squeeze shut as the soft lull of your lips pulls at his gut, satisfies him in a way that no business deal ever could.

“This is gonna take forever to get off, baby,” he groans, only because it pleases you to mess with him, tease him.

Your hair whips around as you look over your shoulder, a sly smirk on your tainted lips, as you walk into the closet, “Then, keep it on. They’ll know who you belong to.”

He’ll keep it on, for now, like he always does. Let the color of you stain his skin for as long as he can, even if it’ll leave a mark for everyone to see. Let them see.

He follows you into the closet, sits in his designated place as he waits for you to give him a task. He’s never been a patient man– boardrooms and stock markets and political climates change constantly, wait for no man– but he’ll wait for you.

Silk pours down your body like the water that he worshipped you under not a half hour ago. He loves the way fabric falls on your curves, loves the way you look at yourself in the mirror when you like the way a dress fits you.

You instruct him to pull up the zipper that sits low on your back and his fumbling fingers settle for just that moment, just to do it perfectly for you.

When he’s done, you run a hand through his ungelled hair as a show of thanks. He never wears the godforsaken hair product anymore because you hate the way it hardens his curls and he’s willing to admit he hated washing it out afterwards. He won’t admit how your fingers weaving through his hair makes him want to fall to his knees at your feet.

You wordlessly hold out your gold necklace to him, the one he got you for your birthday last year that you insist is only for special occasions with the dark blue diamonds and the letter “H” in 24 karat gold. He takes it, stands obediently and you spin so your back is facing him. You hold your hair up while he wraps the necklace around your neck from the front. It takes him a couple tries to get the clasp open, but he gets it eventually.

A glance behind you in the mirror shows his devout eyes on you and his hands around your waist. He thinks this is how he should be shown to the world, stationed and stained by you.

Grabbing his hands, you guide them down to his sides so you can grab both of your shoes from the other side of the room. You hold a pair in each hand, gesture for him to sit, and kneel in front of him, carefully so your dress doesn’t get caught under your knees and wrinkle the delicate fabric.

He feels light-headed. This position is not rare for you both, but it has an air of sacrilegiousness. A goddess kneeling in front of him. His pants are feeling tighter.

A kiss on his ankle leaves another symbol of you. Red around the bone hidden by his black socks that you reverently slip on his feet. That mark can stay, he thinks, just for the two of you. His shoes follow close behind. You tie his shoes since you know it hurts his back to do it himself.

“My turn,” you mutter, pulling yourself up and off the carpet, skirt hiked up.

You switch places, and it’s his turn to kneel before you.

He takes his time, unhooking the straps of the heels, lifting your leg up to his lips so he can kiss your knee, your calf, your ankle. A shiver runs down your limbs, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Mi amor,” he mumbles into your skin.

You don’t rush him; he needs this.

The first heel goes on your elevated foot, clasp redone, another kiss on your ankle. He does the same to the other one.

When he finally concludes his veneration, he offers you a hand to pull you up and you take it like you always do and always will.

You (reluctantly) grab a makeup wipe from the bathroom and gently wipe the lipstick off his neck, traces of the stain stay behind. And you smile as he examines his reflection. He is yours, and everyone will know it. Good, he thinks.

Harry grabs his jacket and throws it on. You adjust the end of his sleeves for him. And you leave your apartment.

He likes routine, and he likes it with you even more.

Harry Castillo masterlist | masterlist of all masterlists

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #materialists #pedro pascal #ppcu fanfic #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #harry castillo fluff #fluff #oneshot #reader insert #pedro pascal x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo fanfic

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amalia-eveline-verstappen · 2 days ago

Text

Meet Amalia Eveline Verstappen

She’s twenty. An Aquarius. The youngest of three. Her name is Amalia Eveline Verstappen— though she goes by Malia to the world and Lia to the ones who knew her before the flash of cameras or the roar of engines. She speaks Dutch, French, German, and English with elegant ease, switching between them mid-conversation without skipping a beat, often just to watch the boys around her melt.

She’s studying fashion and models part-time. The camera loves her, but she doesn’t chase the spotlight. Instead, it finds her, constantly. People try to explain her presence in the paddock with words like “It girl” or “rising star,” but that’s not what she is. She’s not a trend. She’s a force of nature dressed in silk and soft smirks, the kind of girl who enters a room and changes the air without speaking a word.

Her older brother, who keeps his heart under lock and key, only ever opens it fully when she’s around. He’s the one with the fame, the trophies, the headlines. But she’s the one who makes him human. With her, he laughs in ways fans never get to see. He softens. There are clips of her slipping him snacks before a race, of him whispering jokes that make her double over laughing. He’s colder when she’s not around, sharper. Everyone notices.

The fans adore her. She’s fiercely private, but every rare appearance—whether in the paddock, beside the garage, or curled up in a hospitality chair with sunglasses and a sketchpad—turns heads. They call her angelic, enigmatic, gorgeous, dangerous. They’re not wrong. But none of them really know her.

Her relationship with her father is... complicated. He tries to win her over with designer bags, VIP weekends, even a horse once. But it’s too late. Her boundaries are crystal clear. She smiles, says “thank you,” and sends everything back. She refuses to be bought. Only her mother, Sophie, and her siblings know how much strength that takes. How much damage came before the distance.

Her mother is everything. Her best friend, her mirror, her anchor. Sophie calls every night, texts her affirmations, sends her voice notes when she knows Amalia is about to walk a red carpet or sit front row at a show. And when Malia’s too tired to talk, she just sends a photo of herself curled in a hotel bed with Sophie’s sweatshirt wrapped around her like armor.

Then there’s Victoria—fierce, protective, chaotic, loving. Her sister is her ride-or-die. They grew up sneaking out together, covering for each other, finishing each other's sentences. Victoria will burn the world if anyone hurts Malia. Once, when a boy broke her heart, Victoria looked him dead in the eye and said, “I hope you step on a Lego barefoot every morning until you realize what you lost.” She wasn’t joking.

The paddock has always felt like a second home and a labyrinth all at once. Malia walks its edges with the ease of someone who grew up around it but never truly belonged to it. She isn’t a driver. She doesn’t want to be. But every team knows her. Every driver pays attention. And every single one of them has, at one point or another, fallen just a little bit in love with her.

Carlos is the flirty one, the teacher. In Barcelona, she sits beside him, struggling through her Spanish homework. He leans over, mouth close to her ear, correcting her pronunciation with a grin. She blushes, mutters a curse in perfect French. He winks. She flicks a grape at his forehead. He swears he’s never been happier.

Lando is the hopeless romantic, the lovestruck puppy. In Monaco, he brings her coffee just the way she likes it—almond milk, three sugars, extra vanilla. He trips over a cable trying to hand it to her. She laughs, takes a sip, calls him her favorite barista. He almost dies on the spot. Later that day, he posts a blurry picture of her laughing to his private story, captioned, “Who gave her permission?”

Oscar is the quiet one, steady as stone. After a particularly rough media day, she’s drained, sitting alone with her sunglasses still on. Without a word, Oscar slips off his jacket and lays it over her shoulders. She whispers “thank you” and leans just slightly into his arm. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Lewis is temptation incarnate. Every time he walks past her, he drops a compliment like a grenade. “Looking dangerous today, Amalia,” he murmurs one morning, lips barely moving. She rolls her eyes. “Your flirting is exhausting.” He grins. “You’re still smiling though.” She is. She always is.

Charles is the soft safety net, the one who doesn’t hide how much he adores her. When she’s nervous before a panel, he wraps her in a hug that lasts just a beat too long, whispers, “You’ve got this, Lia,” and kisses both cheeks with that slow, European affection. She relaxes. He knows exactly how to do that.

George is the thrill she shouldn’t want. Max glares whenever George so much as breathes in her direction, which only encourages her to smile wider and lean closer. In Austin, they’re caught talking under a string of fairy lights, heads tilted together like there’s no one else in the world. Nothing ever happens. But the electricity is undeniable.

Franco is the walking romance novel. “Princesa,” he calls her in the paddock, every time. “Mi vida.” He bows, kisses her hand. Sends her a single red rose before a race. She laughs and says he’s ridiculous. But she keeps the rose.

Then there’s Daniel. Not racing full-time, but always lurking with a joke, a grin, a devilish sparkle in his eye. “Trouble,” he calls her. Once, he stole her sunglasses and declared, “If I can’t date you, I’ll become you.” She laughed so hard she spilled her water. Max threw a towel at him.

Even Kelly, who Malia used to keep at a frosty distance, has started to thaw in her presence. The journey wasn’t easy—Amalia is loyal to a fault, and her trust must be earned. But over time, the two women have reached a silent understanding. Kelly still calls her Amalia. Lia is a name she hasn't earned.

At her core, Malia is soft. Quiet when she’s overwhelmed. Anxious when she’s alone too long. She keeps journals filled with sketches and poetry. Her playlists are full of sad French songs. Her favorite color changes weekly. She hates confrontation but will go absolutely feral if someone disrespects someone she loves.

She is the main character without trying to be. The center of gravity around whom the chaos spins. Drivers fight for her attention. Teams adjust their schedules when she’s in town. Fans follow every glimpse of her like she’s a celebrity. But behind all the beauty and mystique is a girl who just wants to be held the way her mother used to, to be loved without expectations, to be seen for who she is beneath the flawless image.

She has no idea just how unforgettable she is.

But the paddock does.

💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷

Authors Note:

Hello everyone! Welcome to my blog and my story! I hope you enjoy it. I'll write stories all based on this information. If you have any requests or questions, you can always message me!

175 notes · View notes

mrs-delaney · 2 days ago

Text

Letters You Never Sent | Part Two

read part one →

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 14.4k-ish words

request: college sweethearts since ohio state 🫶 but by 2023, fame starts to change joe. he acts single, barely mentions his girlfriend, and reader starts feeling invisible—like she doesn’t even exist in his world anymore. so she starts writing letters. not to give to him—just to survive it. just to say the things she doesn’t feel safe saying out loud. they break up in january 2024. she moves out in a rush and forgets the letters. months later, joe’s in a new (casual) relationship. and the girl finds the letters. she gives them to him. he reads them. and it wrecks him. realizing how badly he hurt someone who loved him with everything she had. and maybe… just maybe… there’s still a happy ending. 🥺❤️

📝 Author’s Note: y'all this one wrecked me. it's the most emotionally honest thing I've written to date. i literally cried.

thank you to everyone who showed up for part one with so much love. the messages, the tags, the dms—i read every single one. you reminded me why i wanted to tell this story in the first place.

this chapter is for anyone who’s ever had to grieve someone who was still in the room. who stayed too long. who loved so hard it hurt.

creative liberties were taken.

alexa play “from the dining table” by harry styles 🥀

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

April 2023 - The Team Event

You're standing in the corner of Tyler Boyd's backyard, holding a beer you haven't touched, watching Joe laugh with a group of teammates you don't recognize. It's the annual team barbecue, the kind of casual gathering you used to love because it felt like family.

Now you feel like a stranger.

"Y/N!" Kierra Boyd approaches with a bright smile, but there's something careful in her expression. "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever. How are you?"

"I'm good," you say automatically. "Just busy with work."

"How's the hospital? Still loving pediatric nursing?"

You're touched that she remembers, that someone still asks about your life outside of being Joe's girlfriend. "Yeah, it's great. Challenging, but I love it."

"That's so amazing. I always thought it was so cool that you had your own thing going on, you know? Not just..." She gestures vaguely toward where Joe is holding court with a group that includes some women you don't recognize.

The pause is loaded. Not just what? Not just a football girlfriend?

"Yeah," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "It's important to have your own identity."

Kierra nods, then hesitates. "Can I ask you something? And please tell me to mind my own business if I'm overstepping."

Your stomach drops. "Sure."

"Are you and Joe okay? I mean, you guys seem... distant lately. At events and stuff."

You glance over at Joe, who's now taking selfies with some of the women in the group. Young, pretty women wearing Bengals jerseys and bright smiles. He hasn't looked for you once in the past hour.

"We're fine," you say, but the words taste like lies. "Just figuring some things out."

Kierra follows your gaze and her expression softens. "Tyler mentioned that Joe's been different this season. More... I don't know, guarded? Less like the guy who used to talk about you all the time."

"He used to talk about me?"

"All the time. Like, to the point where the guys would tease him about it. 'Joe's girlfriend this, Joe's girlfriend that.' It was actually really sweet."

The past tense hits you like a physical blow. Used to.

"Things change," you say quietly.

"They don't have to."

Before you can respond, Joe appears at your side, his hand settling on your lower back in a gesture that should feel familiar but somehow doesn't.

"Hey babe," he says, but he's looking at Kierra, not you. "Kierra, have you met Madison? She works for the team's social media."

A blonde woman materializes beside him, all white teeth and perfect highlights. "Nice to meet you," she says with a bright but empty smile, already turning back to Joe.

"Madison was just telling us about this new campaign she's working on," Joe continues. "Really innovative stuff."

You watch him light up as Madison launches into an explanation of her work, the same way he used to light up when you talked about your patients. When did he stop looking at you like that?

"That's really interesting," Kierra says politely, but you can see her watching the interaction with growing concern.

"Joe," you interrupt, "can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure," he says, but he doesn't move away from Madison. "What's up?"

You glance around at the group, realizing he expects you to have this conversation in front of everyone. "Privately?"

Joe's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Can it wait? We're in the middle of something here."

The dismissal is casual but clear. In front of his teammates, in front of their wives, in front of some woman he just met, Joe is choosing not to step away with you.

"Of course," you say, your cheeks burning. "Sorry."

You turn and walk toward the house, needing space, needing air, needing anything but the sight of Joe giving someone else the attention he used to give you.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and stare at your reflection. When did you become the kind of woman who gets dismissed at parties? When did you become someone Joe treats like an inconvenience?

When you come back outside, Joe is exactly where you left him, still deep in conversation with Madison. He doesn't notice you return.

* * *

May 2023 - The Foundation Event

The children's literacy event is at the community center where you and Joe volunteer regularly.

But everything feels different.

"Y/N!" Mrs. Rodriguez waves you over to where she's setting up reading stations. "I'm so glad you're here. Sofia has been asking about you."

You smile, remembering the eight-year-old who'd been one of your patients last year. "How is she doing?"

"So much better. She starts fourth grade in the fall." Mrs. Rodriguez glances around. "Is Joe coming today?"

"He's here somewhere," you say, though you're not entirely sure. He drove separately, saying he had a meeting that might run long.

You spend the afternoon reading with kids, helping with crafts, doing the work you genuinely love. It's only when you're packing up that you realize you've barely seen Joe all day.

You find him by the sign-in table, talking to a reporter from the local news station. There's a camera crew setting up nearby.

"...really important to give back to the community," Joe is saying. "These kids are our future."

"And what brought you to this particular cause?" the reporter asks.

"I've always been passionate about literacy. Education is everything."

You wait for him to mention that this is your regular volunteer spot, that you work with many of these families through the hospital. You wait for him to acknowledge that this event was partially your idea.

He doesn't.

"We'll be right back with more from Bengals quarterback Joe Burrow," the reporter says to the camera, "after this quick break."

During the break, you approach the group. "Hi," you say to the reporter. "I'm Y/N."

She looks at you politely but without recognition. "Nice to meet you."

"Joe's girlfriend," you clarify, feeling pathetic for having to introduce yourself that way.

"Oh!" Her face lights up with professional interest. "Are you involved with the foundation as well?"

"I volunteer here regularly, and I work at Cincinnati Children's Hospital, so—"

"We should probably wrap this up," Joe interrupts, checking his watch. "I have another appointment."

The reporter nods. "Of course. Thank you so much for your time."

Joe is already walking away, leaving you standing there mid-sentence. The reporter turns back to her cameraman, the moment lost.

You follow Joe to the parking lot, your frustration building with each step.

"Joe, wait."

He turns, keys already in his hand. "What's up? I really do have to go."

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"In there. With the reporter. You completely cut me off."

Joe sighs. "Y/N, it was a quick interview about the event. Not everything has to be about you."

The words sting worse because of how casually he delivers them. "I wasn't trying to make it about me. I was trying to talk about the work we do here together."

"We?"

"Yes, we. I've been volunteering here since before you ever came to an event. These families know me. This is my work too."

"Okay, and? You want a medal for reading to kids?"

You stare at him, genuinely shocked by his tone. "I want my boyfriend to acknowledge that I exist when we're doing something together."

"You exist, Y/N. You're standing right here."

"But I'm not part of your story anymore, am I? When you talk about your life, your work, your future—I'm not in any of it."

Joe runs his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "Can we not do this here?"

"When, then? When can we talk about the fact that you're erasing me from your life?"

"I'm not erasing you from anything. You're being dramatic."

"Am I? Because I've been keeping track, Joe. It's been six months since you posted a photo of us together. Four months since you mentioned me in an interview. Three weeks since you introduced me as your girlfriend instead of just saying my name."

"You're keeping track?" Joe looks at you like you've admitted to stalking him.

"I'm paying attention."

"Look, I have to go. We can talk about this later."

"When later? You're always busy, always somewhere else, always—"

"Later, Y/N."

He gets in his car and drives away, leaving you standing in the parking lot of a community center where you've volunteered for years, feeling like a stranger in your own life.

* * *

June 2023 - The Interview

You're at the hospital, just finishing your shift, when Emma texts you: Turn on ESPN. Joe's on SportsCenter.

You find a TV in the break room and catch the tail end of an interview about the upcoming season. Joe looks good—confident, relaxed, every inch the franchise quarterback.

"So Joe," the interviewer is saying, "what's your support system like? Who are the people who keep you grounded through all the pressure?"

Your heart speeds up. This is it. This is where he talks about you, about how you've been there since college, about the partnership you've built.

"Well, first and foremost, my family," Joe says. "My parents, my brothers. They've been my foundation since day one."

You nod along. Of course. Family first.

"The coaching staff and my teammates have been incredible. Really can't say enough about the organization and how they've supported me."

Okay. Team second. That makes sense.

"And just having good people around me, you know? People who knew me before all this, who help me stay focused on what matters."

You wait. The pause stretches.

"That's really what it's about," Joe continues. "Surrounding yourself with the right people who believe in your vision."

The interview moves on to football strategy, and you realize with a sinking heart that he's not going to mention you. Not at all.

You think about the AFC Championship loss, when you were the first person he looked for. You think about all the times he's credited you with believing in him when no one else did.

Now, apparently, you're not even worth a mention when he talks about his support system.

Your phone buzzes with another text from Emma: That was weird, right? That he didn't mention you?

You don't respond. You can't find the words.

* * *

July 2023 - The Birthday

Joe's 26th birthday falls on a Tuesday, which should make it low-key. Intimate. Just the two of you, the way you've celebrated every year since you've been together.

Instead, Joe announces he's having a party.

"A party?" you ask, looking up from your laptop where you've been researching weekend getaway ideas for just the two of you.

"Yeah, just a small thing. Some of the guys want to celebrate."

"Oh. Okay. Do you want me to help plan it?"

"Nah, Tyler's wife is handling most of it. Thanks though."

Kierra is planning Joe's birthday party. Not you, his girlfriend of six years. Kierra, who barely knows Joe outside of team functions.

"Where are we having it?"

"That new rooftop place downtown. Should be fun."

The party is not small. It's at least fifty people, most of whom you don't know. Joe works the room like he's campaigning for office, taking photos with everyone, making sure he talks to each guest.

You spend most of the night standing with the other girlfriends and wives, feeling like an accessory rather than the guest of honor's partner.

"This is a great turnout," one of the newer wives says. "Joe's really popular."

"He always has been," you reply, watching him pose for photos with a group of women you don't recognize.

"How long have you two been together?"

"Six years. Since college."

She looks surprised. "Really? That's so sweet. You're like childhood sweethearts."

"Something like that."

Later, when the crowd starts to thin out, you find Joe on the rooftop terrace, looking out at the Cincinnati skyline.

"Good party," you say, joining him at the railing.

"Yeah, it was great. Good turnout."

You stand in comfortable silence for a moment, and for just a second, it feels like old times. Just you and Joe, away from the crowd.

"I got you something," you say, pulling out a small wrapped box.

Joe takes it, looking surprised. "You didn't have to get me anything."

Inside is a watch—simple, classic, the kind he's mentioned liking but never gets around to buying for himself. You'd noticed him checking his phone for the time constantly and thought he might appreciate having a nice watch again.

Joe looks at it, turning it over in his hands. "This is really nice."

"I know you've been wanting a new one," you say. "And I thought... I don't know, I wanted to get you something you'd actually use."

Joe is quiet for a moment, still looking at the watch.

"Thank you," he says finally. "This is really thoughtful."

But he doesn't put it on. He just closes the box and slips it into his pocket.

"Should we head back in?" he asks.

You nod, following him back into the party, where he immediately gets pulled into another group conversation. He doesn't mention the gift to anyone. Doesn't show it off the way he used to show off thoughtful presents from you.

At the end of the night, as you're getting ready to leave, you realize that Joe never introduced you to anyone as his girlfriend. You were just "Y/N" all night, floating around the edges of his birthday celebration like a guest who didn't quite belong.

July 15, 2023

Joe,

Today was your 26th birthday. I've been there for five of your birthdays now, and this one felt different than all the others.

I gave you a watch for your birthday. Something simple that I thought you'd actually wear since you're always checking your phone for the time.

You said it was thoughtful, but you put it in your pocket and never mentioned it again.

I used to be the person who planned your birthdays. Now I'm the person who shows up to parties planned by someone else, where I don't know half the guests and you don't introduce me as anything more than my first name.

I used to be your person. Now I feel like I'm just... here. Taking up space in a life that you're building without me.

I keep waiting for us to talk about what's happening. I keep waiting for you to notice that we're falling apart. But you seem completely fine with the distance between us, and I don't know what that means.

Are you trying to break up with me without actually breaking up with me? Are you hoping I'll just fade away so you don't have to do the hard work of ending things?

Because I'm starting to feel invisible, Joe. I'm starting to feel like I don't matter to you at all.

And the worst part is, I don't think you even notice.

Y/N

* * *

September 2023 - Season Opener Party

The rooftop bar overlooking the city is packed with players, coaches, and their families celebrating the season opener win. You're wearing the dress Joe complimented you in last year, hoping tonight might feel different, might feel like old times.

It doesn't.

You've been here for two hours and have barely seen Joe except in passing. He's working the room like a politician, stopping to chat with everyone, taking selfies with fans who somehow got invited, deep in conversation with teammates you've never met.

"Excuse me," a woman with perfect curls approaches you by the bar. "Are you with the team?"

"I'm Y/N," you say, extending your hand. "Joe's girlfriend."

Her face lights up with recognition, but not the kind you want. "Oh! I'm Ashley, Mike's wife. I was wondering... we haven't seen you at any of the family events this season."

Because you haven't been invited to the family events this season. Because Joe keeps "forgetting" to mention them until after they've happened.

"I've been busy with work," you say.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a pediatric nurse at Cincinnati Children's."

"That's amazing! You know, Mike mentioned that Joe was single. I thought maybe I'd misunderstood, but here you are." She laughs, but it's awkward. "Men are terrible at sharing information, aren't they?"

Your stomach drops. "Mike thinks Joe is single?"

"Oh, I'm sure it was just a miscommunication. You know how guys are about talking about personal stuff."

But you can see in her eyes that she's trying to make you feel better about something that can't be explained away. Joe has been telling his teammates he's single. Or at the very least, he's not mentioning that he has a girlfriend.

"I should find Joe," you say weakly.

You spot him on the other side of the rooftop, laughing with a group that includes some women you don't recognize. When you approach, he glances at you briefly.

"Hey," he says, not moving to include you in the circle. "Having fun?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Kind of in the middle of something here. Everything okay?"

The group is watching now, and you feel like you're being dramatic, needy, clingy. All the things you never wanted to be.

"Never mind," you say. "I'm going to head home."

"Okay. I'll probably be here for a while."

He doesn't offer to come with you. Doesn't ask if you're feeling alright. Just turns back to his conversation like you were never there.

You take an Uber home alone from your boyfriend's season celebration party.

* * *

October 2023 - The Sports Illustrated Profile

You're on your lunch break at the hospital when Emma texts you: Have you seen the SI article about Joe? It's really good.

You pull up the piece on your phone: "Joe Burrow: The Evolution of a Champion." It's a beautiful profile, full of gorgeous photos and thoughtful writing about his journey from Ohio State benchwarmer to franchise quarterback.

The writer traces his path through LSU, the Heisman, the draft, the injury, the comeback. They interview his parents, his coaches, his teammates. They talk about his leadership style, his work ethic, his vision for the team's future.

Six years of your relationship gets one line: "Burrow keeps his personal life private, preferring to let his performance on the field do the talking."

That's it. Six years reduced to "private personal life."

No mention of the girl who believed in him when he was third string. No mention of the support system that helped him through the transfer decision, the injury, the comeback. No mention of the pediatric nurse who moved her entire life to Cincinnati to build something with him.

You think about all the interviews you've watched where he gushes about his parents, his brothers, his coaches. People who matter enough to mention. People whose support he acknowledges.

You read the article three times, looking for any reference to you, any hint that you exist in his story.

There's nothing.

* * *

November 2023 - The Charity Kitchen

The Cincinnati Children's Hospital benefit dinner is one of your favorite events each year. It's where your two worlds—your work and Joe's platform—come together for something meaningful.

You arrive separately because Joe had a meeting that ran long, but you're not worried. You know this event, know these people, know how important this cause is to both of you.

"Excuse me," a woman with a clipboard approaches you near the registration table. "Are you here to volunteer in the kitchen? We're running a little behind on prep."

You look down at your cocktail dress and heels, confused. "I'm sorry?"

"The volunteer kitchen staff? We have appetizers that need to be plated."

"Oh, no. I'm not a volunteer. I'm here as a guest."

She looks at your dress again, clearly confused. "Are you with one of the corporate sponsors?"

"I'm here with Joe Burrow. I also work at the hospital."

"Oh!" Her face changes completely. "I'm so sorry! I thought... well, we had several volunteers sign up to help with service, and I just assumed..."

You smile tightly. "It's fine."

But it's not fine. Because this is an event honoring the work you do every day, at the hospital where you've worked for three years, and the event coordinator doesn't recognize you as Joe Burrow's girlfriend.

Later, during cocktail hour, you watch Joe work the room with practiced ease. When a reporter approaches him, you instinctively move closer.

"Joe, tell us why this cause is so important to you," the reporter says.

"Children's Hospital does incredible work," Joe responds. "Being able to support the families who are going through the hardest times of their lives—that's what it's all about."

The reporter nods. "Do you have a personal connection to pediatric care?"

Your heart speeds up. This is it. This is where he mentions you, mentions that his girlfriend works here, that you see these families every day.

"Not personally, but when you're in a position to help, you help. It's that simple."

The interview moves on, and you're left standing three feet away from your boyfriend while he talks about your life's work like he has no personal connection to it at all.

* * *

December 2023 - The Christmas Party Photos

The team Christmas party is at the Omni, elegant and festive with perfect lighting for photos. You've been looking forward to it because Joe seems more relaxed lately, and you're hoping it might feel like the old days when you were part of things.

Joe looks incredible in his navy suit, and when he compliments your red dress, you feel a flicker of hope.

"You look beautiful," he says, and for a moment, his smile is real.

The party is lovely—good food, open bar, festive atmosphere. You mingle with the other wives and girlfriends, most of whom are polite but distant. The newer ones don't seem to know who you are.

Then the photos start.

Joe poses with his teammates at the bar. Click. With the coaching staff by the Christmas tree. Click. With the team owners near the dance floor. Click.

"Joe!" the team photographer calls. "Let's get one with all the players and their families."

This is it. This is your moment to be included, to be part of the team family, to exist in the visual record of Joe's life.

Joe joins the group, and you start to move toward him, but he's already positioned himself between Ja'Marr and Tyler. The photographer is arranging people, and somehow you end up standing behind a group of wives, partially obscured.

"Perfect!" the photographer says, snapping several shots.

Then comes the couples photos. You watch as player after player poses with their significant other. Sweet, intimate shots that will probably end up on the team's social media.

You wait for Joe to look for you, to gesture you over.

He doesn't.

Instead, he starts chatting with the team's social media manager about posting strategy, completely forgetting that couples photos are happening.

By the time he's done with that conversation, the photographer has moved on to group shots with the front office staff.

You stand by the dessert table, watching everyone else create memories, and realize you're going to be the only long-term girlfriend who doesn't have a single photo with her partner from this event.

"Y/N!" Robin Burrow appears beside you with a warm smile. "You look gorgeous, honey. Are you having fun?"

"Thank you. Yes, it's lovely."

"Where's Joe? I wanted to get a photo of you two. You never take pictures anymore."

Your throat tightens. "He's busy with team stuff."

Robin follows your gaze to where Joe is now posing with a group of sponsors, laughing at something someone said.

"Hmm," she says quietly, and you can hear years of motherly wisdom in that single sound.

When you get home that night, Joe is already scrolling through the team's Instagram stories, watching the photos from the party pop up.

"Good party," he says absently.

"Mmm."

"Oh, look, they got that group shot." He shows you his phone, and there it is—the team family photo where you're barely visible behind three other people, like a ghost at your own boyfriend's Christmas party.

"Nice," you say.

Joe doesn't seem to notice that you're not really in it. Or if he notices, he doesn't care.

That night, you lie awake thinking about Ashley's comment from September: Mike mentioned that Joe was single.

You think about the Sports Illustrated article where six years of love and support were erased completely.

You think about being mistaken for kitchen staff at an event honoring your own workplace.

You think about watching every other couple at the Christmas party take photos together while your boyfriend forgot you existed.

And you finally admit to yourself what you've been avoiding for months:

Joe Burrow has already broken up with you. He just hasn't told you yet.

December 25, 2023

Joe,

Merry Christmas. I'm writing this while you're asleep next to me, and I can't stop thinking about how different this feels from every other Christmas we've spent together.

Last night at the team party, I watched you take photos with everyone except me. I watched every other couple create memories while you forgot I was there. I stood by the dessert table feeling like a stranger at my own boyfriend's Christmas party.

Your mom asked why we never take pictures anymore. I didn't know what to tell her.

I keep waiting for you to notice that you're erasing me from your life. I keep waiting for you to care that I'm disappearing. But you seem fine with it. More than fine—you seem relieved.

I think I finally understand what's happening. You don't want to be the bad guy who breaks up with his college girlfriend, so you're just making me disappear instead. Death by a thousand small cuts instead of one clean break.

It's working. I feel invisible.

I feel like I don't matter to you at all.

And the worst part is, I don't think you even realize what you're doing. I think you've convinced yourself that this is just how things are now, that this is normal relationship evolution.

But it's not normal to erase someone you love from your life.

It's not normal to treat your girlfriend like an inconvenience.

It's not normal to act single while you're in a six-year relationship.

I'm writing this letter on Christmas, and it might be the last one I ever write to you.

Because I finally understand that you don't want me in your life anymore.

And I'm too tired to keep fighting for someone who doesn't want to be fought for.

Y/N

* * *

January 14th, 2024

You're in the kitchen making coffee when Joe comes downstairs, already dressed in his team-issued workout gear. The playoff loss was yesterday—a heartbreaking end to what should have been a championship season—but he looks like he's ready to move on.

"Morning," he says, grabbing a protein bar from the pantry.

"How are you feeling?" you ask, even though you already know he won't give you a real answer.

"Ready to get back to work. Season's over, but next year starts now."

There's no mention of how devastating the loss was, no acknowledgment that you were there in the stands watching his dreams slip away. No need for comfort or processing or any of the emotional intimacy that used to define your relationship.

"Joe," you say, setting down your coffee cup. "We need to talk."

He checks his watch. "Can it wait? I've got a training session at nine."

"No. It can't wait anymore."

Something in your tone makes him look up, really look at you, for the first time in months.

"What's going on?"

You take a breath, steadying yourself for what you've been building toward since Christmas. "When did you decide you didn't want to be with me anymore?"

Joe's expression shifts from confusion to something like annoyance. "What? Y/N, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that you've been acting single for months. I'm talking about the fact that you've erased me from your life so completely that your own teammates think you're available."

"That's not—"

"When was the last time you introduced me as your girlfriend, Joe? When was the last time you posted a photo of us together? When was the last time you mentioned me in an interview about your support system?"

Joe runs his hand through his hair, that familiar gesture that used to seem endearing but now just looks irritated. "Why does everything have to be about social media and interviews? Why can't our relationship just be private?"

"Private and invisible aren't the same thing."

"I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to act like you want to be with me. I want you to stop treating me like I'm some embarrassing secret you have to hide."

Joe leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "I'm not hiding you."

"Really? Because at the Christmas party, you took photos with everyone except me. At the hospital benefit, you talked about pediatric care like you had no personal connection to it while I was standing right there. A Sports Illustrated profile about your entire life mentioned me for exactly zero sentences."

"You're keeping track of magazine articles now?"

"I'm keeping track of being erased from your life!"

The words come out louder than you intended, and Joe flinches slightly.

"You want to know what I think?" he says, his voice getting colder. "I think you're looking for problems that don't exist because you're insecure about me being successful."

The accusation hits like a slap. "Insecure about your success?"

"Yes. You can't handle that my life is bigger now, that I have more obligations, more people depending on me."

"Joe, I've been supporting your dreams since you were riding the bench at Ohio State. I moved my entire life to Cincinnati for your career. I have never, not once, been anything but proud of your success."

"Then what is this about?"

"This is about you changing. About you deciding that the girl who loved you before you were famous isn't good enough for the life you want now."

Joe is quiet for a moment, and in that silence, you see something shift in his expression. Not denial, not confusion. Recognition.

"Maybe," he says slowly, "we're just in different places now."

The words are careful, diplomatic, but they land like a confession.

"Different places," you repeat.

"I'm trying to build something here. A legacy. And maybe... maybe that requires making some choices about what fits and what doesn't."

"And I don't fit."

It's not a question, but Joe answers anyway.

"I don't know."

The honesty is almost worse than a lie would have been. After six years, you've been reduced to "I don't know."

"You know what the worst part is?" you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "It's not that you've changed. People change, I get that. It's that you've been too cowardly to just end things. You've been hoping I'd get the hint and leave so you wouldn't have to be the bad guy."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it? You've been making me smaller and smaller in your life, erasing me bit by bit, hoping I'd just fade away so you could move on without having to actually break up with me."

Joe doesn't deny it, which tells you everything you need to know.

"I think," you say, surprising yourself with how calm you sound, "we should end this."

Joe looks up sharply. "Y/N—"

"No, it's okay. You don't have to pretend anymore. You don't have to keep me around out of guilt or obligation or whatever this has become."

"It's not guilt. I do love you."

"I know you do. But you love the idea of your future more, and I'm not part of that picture anymore."

Joe is quiet, not denying it, not fighting for you, and that tells you everything.

"I'm going to pack some things," you say. "I'll come back for the rest later."

"Where will you go?"

"That's not your problem anymore."

You turn to leave the kitchen, but Joe's voice stops you.

"Y/N. I never meant for it to happen like this."

You look back at him, this man you've loved for six years, who looks genuinely sad but also relieved.

"I know," you say. "But it did happen like this. And we both have to live with that."

* * *

You pack quickly, mechanically, throwing clothes and essentials into suitcases while Joe presumably goes to his training session. You can't think too hard about what you're taking or you'll fall apart.

Your nursing textbooks. Your favorite jeans. The Ohio State sweatshirt you've had since freshman year. A few photos from before everything went wrong.

The wooden box of letters sits in your nightstand drawer, forgotten in your rush to get out. Six years of loving someone documented in careful handwriting, left behind like everything else that used to matter.

When you're done packing, the apartment looks the same except for the empty spaces where your things used to be. Like you were never really there at all.

You leave your key on the kitchen counter next to your coffee cup, still half full and growing cold.

By the time Joe comes home from training, you're gone.

* * *

Two days later, Joe texts you: Can we talk about practical stuff? I want to help with your transition.

You're staying at Emma's, sleeping on her couch and trying to figure out your next move, when the text comes through. You almost don't respond, but there are things you left behind that you need.

You meet him at a coffee shop near the hospital, neutral territory. He looks tired, guilty, like he hasn't been sleeping well.

"I found an apartment for you," he says without preamble. "Downtown, close to the hospital. I want to pay for it."

You stare at him. "What?"

"An apartment, living expenses, and enough money that you can focus on whatever you want to do next without worrying about bills. Ever."

"Joe—"

"I know how this looks, but I just want to make sure you're okay. That you land on your feet."

The offer is generous. Too generous. A one-bedroom downtown would probably cost more than you make in several months, and the financial security would give you time to rebuild without the stress of money.

It would also mean accepting his guilt money. It would mean letting him buy his way out of feeling bad about how he treated you.

"No," you say.

"Y/N, be practical. You've been living a certain way for years now. You shouldn't have to struggle financially because of how this ended."

"No." Your voice is firm. "I don't want your money, Joe."

"Please. Just let me do this one thing right."

"Doing this right would have been having this conversation six months ago instead of making me disappear from your life piece by piece."

Joe's jaw tightens. "I'm trying to help you."

"You're trying to make yourself feel better. And I'm not going to take your money so you can sleep better at night knowing you paid me off."

"That's not what this is."

"That's exactly what this is Joe."

Joe is quiet, and you can see that part of him knows you're right.

"I want to do this," he says finally. "Please let me do this."

"I want to do this myself."

You stand up, leaving your untouched coffee on the table. "I'll get my things this weekend when you're out of town."

"Y/N—"

"I don't want your guilt money, Joe. I want to forget this ever happened and build something that's mine."

You walk away before he can argue, before the practical part of your brain can override your pride, before you can change your mind about money that would solve all your immediate problems.

Because taking his money would mean staying connected to him, staying grateful to him, staying small.

And you're done being small.

* * *

Three weeks later, you sign a lease on a tiny one-bedroom apartment in a decent neighborhood. It's nothing fancy—old hardwood floors, a kitchen barely big enough for one person, a view of the parking lot—but it's yours. Paid for with money you'd saved over the years while Joe covered most of your living expenses.

Emma helps you move your few boxes of belongings. You buy a couch from Facebook Marketplace and hang up photos from before everything went wrong.

It's small and humble and nothing like the life you thought you'd be living at twenty-six, but when you sit on your secondhand couch in your empty living room, you feel something you haven't felt in months:

Peace.

You don't think about Joe during the day when you're busy with patients. You don't check his social media. You don't wonder what he's doing or who he's with.

You think about the little girl in room 304 who's going home next week after three months of treatment. You think about the continuing education class you're taking to specialize in pediatric oncology. You think about the book you're reading and the weekend plans you're making with Emma.

You think about building a life that belongs entirely to you.

And if sometimes you lie awake at night remembering what it felt like to love someone that much, to believe in forever that completely, you remind yourself that loving Joe Burrow was the best and worst thing you ever did.

The best because it taught you how much you were capable of feeling.

The worst because it nearly made you forget how much you were worth.

But you remember now. And that's enough to start over.

* * *

July 2024 - Six Months Later

Melissa finds the box on a Saturday morning while Joe is at training camp.

She's been staying over more frequently lately—nothing serious, just convenient—and Joe mentioned she could reorganize the bedroom furniture if she wanted. "Make it feel more like home," he'd said, though they both know this isn't going anywhere permanent.

"She's moving the nightstand to get better morning light when she notices it's heavier than it should be. When she opens the bottom drawer to see what's weighing it down, there's a wooden box pushed all the way to the back.

It's beautiful—polished wood with delicate metal hinges, the kind of thing someone keeps treasures in. Melissa stares at it for a long moment, knowing she shouldn't be curious about Joe's personal belongings. It's probably documents, maybe family photos, something private that's none of her business.

But something about the box draws her in. It looks old, well-loved, like it holds memories.

She almost closes the drawer and pretends she never saw it. That would be the right thing to do. But her fingers are already reaching for it, already lifting it out to examine the craftsmanship.

The box isn't locked. The hinges open easily, as if they've been opened countless times before.

Inside are letters. Dozens of them, written in careful feminine handwriting on different papers—notebook pages, stationary, hotel letterhead. Some are dated, some aren't. The oldest ones are from 2017, the newest from December 2023.

Melissa's stomach drops. She shouldn't be reading these.

Instead, she picks up the top letter, dated October 15, 2017, and reads the first line:

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

I'm starting this collection because someday you're going to be a famous football player...

Melissa sets the letter down immediately, her heart racing. These aren't just personal—they're love letters. Someone wrote love letters to Joe, and they've been hidden in this drawer for God knows how long.

She should stop reading. Should put everything back and pretend this never happened. Joe's past relationships are none of her business, and reading someone else's private correspondence is a massive violation.

But the date catches her attention. 2017. These letters span years, not months. This wasn't some casual relationship—this was something serious, something long-term that Joe has never once mentioned.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Melissa picks up the letter again and reads the whole thing. Then another. Then another.

By the time she's read five letters, she understands she's holding someone's entire heart in her hands. Six years of love letters from someone named Y/N, documenting a relationship that clearly meant everything to her and apparently meant enough to Joe that he kept every single letter.

But if these letters are so important, why are they hidden in a drawer? Why has Joe never mentioned this woman who obviously loved him completely?

Melissa has heard the name exactly once, in passing, when Joe mentioned his "ex from college" without elaborating. She'd assumed it was some brief relationship, nothing significant enough to discuss.

These letters tell a different story.

She reads about Ohio State, about late nights studying together, about Joe being too nervous to make a move. She reads about LSU and the Heisman and the draft. She reads about moving to Cincinnati together, about building a life, about talks of marriage and forever.

Then she reads about the slow dissolution. About feeling invisible, about being erased from his life, about watching the man she loved become someone who treated her like an inconvenience.

The final letter, dated December 25, 2023, makes Melissa's chest tight:

I'm writing this letter on Christmas, and it might be the last one I ever write to you. Because I finally understand that you don't want me in your life anymore. And I'm too tired to keep fighting for someone who doesn't want to be fought for.

Melissa sits on the bedroom floor, surrounded by six years of someone else's love story, and feels sick to her stomach.

Not because she's jealous—she and Joe aren't in love, aren't building toward anything serious. But because these letters paint a picture of a man she doesn't recognize. A man who systematically erased someone who loved him completely, who slowly broke someone's heart while they begged him to remember what they used to mean to each other.

When Joe comes home from training, Melissa is sitting at the kitchen island with the wooden box in front of her.

"Hey," he says, dropping his gear bag by the door. "How was your day?"

"I found something," she says quietly.

Joe glances at the box and his face goes completely white. He stares at it like he's seeing a ghost.

"What is that?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I was hoping you could tell me." Melissa's voice is careful, controlled. "I found it in your nightstand drawer when I was moving furniture."

"Joe's face goes completely white when he sees the box. "That's Y/N's. She had it when we moved in, but I never... I never knew what she kept in it."

"Joe—"

"I remember Y/N having this, but I never knew what was in it." He reaches out to touch it, then pulls his hand back. "What's inside?"

"Letters. A lot of them. From her."

Joe's face crumples like he's been hit. He sits down heavily in the chair across from her.

"Y/N wrote me letters?"

"You really didn't know?"

"I had no fucking idea." Joe's voice is strained. "She must have left it when she moved out. I never... I never cleaned out that drawer. I never had any reason to."

Melissa watches his face carefully. The shock seems genuine, but so does something else. Fear, maybe. Or dread.

"Did you read them?"

"Some of them." Melissa's voice is careful, controlled. "Enough."

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of six years of hidden love letters between them.

"She was so in love with you," Melissa says finally. "These letters... they're six years of her heart on paper."

Joe nods, not looking at her.

"And you just... what? Got tired of her?"

"It wasn't like that."

"What was it like?"

Joe runs his hands through his hair, a gesture Melissa now realizes probably drove Y/N crazy with familiarity. "It was complicated."

"She doesn't make it sound complicated. She makes it sound like you decided she wasn't good enough for your new life and slowly pushed her out instead of having the balls to break up with her."

Joe flinches. "That's not what happened."

"What was it then?"

Melissa reaches into the box and pulls out a letter from September 2023. "She writes about your teammate thinking you were single. About you not mentioning her when you talked about your support system." She looks up at Joe. "Sound familiar?"

"You don't understand the pressure I was under—"

"From who? From your agent? Your publicist?" Melissa's voice gets sharper. "Or from yourself because you wanted to be available?"

Joe is quiet.

"There's a letter in here about you liking Instagram photos of other women. About her friends having to tell her because she didn't know." Melissa shakes her head. "That's not pressure, Joe. That's cruelty."

"I never meant to hurt her."

"But you did hurt her. For months. You made someone who loved you feel like they were crazy for expecting basic respect."

Joe finally looks up, and Melissa can see something breaking behind his eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Melissa says, standing up and gathering her purse, "I can't be with someone who treats people like that. And because she deserves better than having her love letters hidden in a drawer like they're something to be ashamed of."

She pushes the wooden box across the island toward him.

"Read them," she says. "Read what you threw away. And then figure out how to live with what you did."

After Melissa leaves, Joe sits alone in his kitchen staring at the wooden box. He's never seen it before in his life.

He turns it over in his hands, examining the delicate metal hinges, the worn spots where fingers have traced the edges countless times. It's clearly old, clearly meaningful, clearly not something that belonged to him.

Y/N must have left it behind when she moved out. In six months, he's never cleaned out that nightstand drawer—never had a reason to. He'd assumed she took everything that mattered to her.

The fact that she forgot this, whatever it is, feels significant in a way he can't quite name.

With trembling fingers, Joe opens the box.

His heart stops.

Inside are dozens of letters, some on notebook paper, some on stationary, some on hotel letterhead. They span years—he can see dates ranging from 2017 to 2023. Six years of letters he never knew existed.

Joe picks up the first one with shaking hands, dated October 15, 2017:

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

I'm starting this collection because someday you're going to be a famous football player, and I want to be able to show you that I always knew you could do it...

The words blur as Joe reads about nineteen-year-old Y/N, sitting in her dorm room after their library study session, so sure of his potential that she started documenting her belief in him. She writes about his terrible impression of Coach Meyer, about the way he looked when he talked about football, about being proud to love someone chasing such big dreams.

He had no idea. No idea she was writing to him, about him, for him. No idea she was creating this record of their love story, this proof of her faith in him when he barely had faith in himself.

The second letter is from after their first date, gushing about his nervousness and his sweetness and how she's already falling for the frustrated quarterback who everyone overlooks.

The third is from LSU, about missing him but being so proud of his courage to transfer, so sure he'll prove everyone wrong.

Letter after letter of unwavering support, of love, of belief. Y/N documenting every milestone, every moment of growth, every step of his journey from benchwarmer to Heisman winner to NFL quarterback.

But it's not just about football. She writes about the way he makes her laugh, about his terrible cooking, about lazy Sunday mornings and shared dreams. She writes about loving him not because of what he might become, but because of who he is.

Joe reads for hours, watching their relationship unfold through Y/N's eyes. The joy in her words when he wins the Heisman. The excitement when he gets drafted. The love when they move in together. The security when she writes about their future like it's inevitable, beautiful, certain.

Then come the 2023 letters, and Joe's heart breaks completely.

The shift is gradual at first—confusion replacing confidence, questions replacing certainty. She writes about his Instagram activity, about feeling invisible at events, about being erased from his life piece by piece.

March 15, 2023: When I tried to talk to you about it, you called it "my problem." You acted like my feelings were irrational, like caring about this made me crazy and jealous.

Joe remembers that conversation. He remembers dismissing her concerns, making her feel small for caring. Reading her words now, he sees how cruel he was, how blind.

July 15, 2023: I gave you a watch for your birthday—something I thought you'd actually wear since you're always checking your phone for the time... You said it was thoughtful, but you put it in your pocket and never mentioned it again.

The watch. Joe looks down at his wrist where it sits now, the watch he wears every day but never thinks about. He'd forgotten it was from her, forgotten the love behind the gesture.

December 25, 2023: You don't want to be the bad guy who breaks up with his college girlfriend, so you're just making me disappear instead. Death by a thousand small cuts instead of one clean break.

The accuracy of her observation hits him like a physical blow. That's exactly what he did. Too cowardly to end things cleanly, he slowly erased her instead, hoping she'd fade away so he wouldn't have to face what he was doing.

The final letter, written on Christmas night, destroys him:

Joe reads it three times, each word cutting deeper than the last. Y/N, the woman who loved him before anyone believed in him, reduced to begging for basic recognition in her own relationship. Y/N, who documented six years of loving him, finally admitting defeat on Christmas night.

When Joe finally closes the box, the sun is coming up outside his kitchen windows. He's sitting in the same spot where he dismissed her concerns about Instagram, where he made her feel crazy for wanting to matter to him, where he let her walk away rather than fight for what they had.

For six months, he's told himself it was for the best, that they just weren't compatible anymore, that he was doing them both a favor. The letters obliterate every lie he's told himself.

Y/N didn't leave him. He systematically destroyed her until she had no choice but to save herself.

And she'd been documenting it all—not to hurt him, but because she loved him so much she couldn't stop believing their story mattered, even when he was busy erasing her from it.

Joe picks up his phone, Y/N's contact still saved under a heart emoji he never changed. His fingers hover over her name.

But what could he possibly say? How do you apologize for six months of cruelty? How do you explain that you never knew someone was writing love letters to you while you were busy breaking their heart?

How do you ask for forgiveness when you finally understand you don't deserve it?

Joe sets the phone down and stares at the wooden box containing six years of the most genuine love he's ever received. Love he never knew existed, never appreciated, never deserved.

Love he destroyed because he was too blind to see what he had and too selfish to protect it.

For the first time in his adult life, Joe Burrow understands what he's lost. And it's too late to get it back.

* * *

August 2024 - The Unraveling

Joe starts saying no.

No to the networking events that feel hollow. No to the sponsor appearances that require him to be "on" for hours. No to the parties where he doesn't know anyone and everyone wants something from him.

His agent is confused. His publicist is concerned. His teammates start asking if he's okay.

"I'm fine," Joe tells Ja'Marr over lunch. "I'm just trying to figure some things out."

"This about Y/N?" Ja'Marr asks.

Joe looks up sharply. "How did you—"

"Dude, you've been different since she left. And you used to talk about her all the time." Ja'Marr shrugs. "Now you act like she never existed."

"Did I really talk about her that much?"

"Constantly. It was actually annoying. Y/N this, Y/N that. You were gone for that girl."

Something cold washes over Joe. He'd forgotten that version of himself—the one who couldn't shut up about his girlfriend, who was proud to be claimed by someone who chose him when he was nobody.

"What happened? You never told me." Ja'Marr asks.

"I got stupid," Joe says simply. "I thought I wanted something else, and I threw away the best thing I ever had."

* * *

Fall 2024 - The Work

Joe starts seeing a therapist.

Not because anyone suggests it, not because it's trending or good for his image, but because he reads Y/N's letters again and realizes he doesn't understand why he became the person who could treat someone like that.

Dr. Andrews is in her fifties, has probably never watched a football game in her life, and treats Joe like any other patient working through relationship issues.

"Tell me about fame," she says during their third session. "How did it change you?"

"It didn't change me. It just... amplified things."

"What things?"

Joe thinks about this. "The need to be perfect. The fear of being vulnerable. The idea that I had to be worthy of the attention."

"And being in a relationship made you feel unworthy?"

"Being in a relationship made me feel... tied down. Like I was missing out on something."

"What were you missing out on?"

Joe is quiet for a long time. "I don't know. That's the fucked up part. I threw away something real for something that doesn't even exist."

Dr. Andrews nods. "Fame can be a very effective shield against intimacy. It's easier to be loved by thousands of strangers than to be truly known by one person."

The observation hits Joe like a physical blow, because it's exactly right. Loving Y/N required him to be real, to be flawed, to be human. Fame let him be perfect, untouchable, always performing.

* * *

Winter 2024-2025 - The Isolation

Joe spends his first off-season in years actually off. No training camps in exotic locations, no promotional tours, no appearances. Just him, his house, and the uncomfortable silence of not being constantly busy.

He gets back into reading actual books, not just playbooks. He cooks real meals instead of ordering out or having his chef prepare them. He takes long walks without his phone, remembering what it feels like to think without interruption.

He also writes letters he'll never send.

Y/N,

I read your letters. All of them. I had no idea you were writing to me, documenting us, believing in me even when I was too stupid to believe in myself.

I wish I could explain why I became the person who hurt you, but I'm still figuring that out. All I know is that somewhere along the way, I started believing my own hype and forgot that the best parts of my life had nothing to do with football.

You deserved so much better than what I gave you. You deserved to be chosen every day, not slowly erased because I was too cowardly to face what I really wanted.

I hope you're happy. I hope you found someone who appreciates what I was too blind to see.

I hope someday I become worthy of the love you gave me, even if it's too late for us.

Joe

He writes dozens of these letters, each one an attempt to understand what went wrong, to take responsibility, to imagine a version of himself that could have been better.

He never sends them. But writing them helps him understand the difference between regret and genuine remorse.

* * *

Spring 2025 - The Breakthrough

"I think I understand now," Joe tells Dr. Andrews during a session in March. "Why I did what I did."

"Tell me."

"I was terrified of being ordinary. Y/N loved me when I was just a backup quarterback, when I was nobody special. Part of me always worried that if I stayed with her, I'd stay ordinary too."

"And now?"

"Now I realize that being loved for who you really are is the most extraordinary thing in the world. And I gave that up to be loved by people who don't actually know me at all."

Dr. Andrews nods. "That's significant insight, Joe. What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know. She's moved on. She's probably with someone else, someone who deserves her. But I want to become the kind of person who could be worthy of that kind of love, even if it's too late for us."

* * *

Summer 2025 - The Changes

Joe starts living differently.

He buys groceries and cooks his own meals. He calls his parents every week just to talk, not because he needs something. He volunteers at the children's hospital—not for publicity, not for photos, but because Y/N's passion for helping kids finally makes sense to him.

He stops following Instagram models. Stops going to parties where he doesn't know anyone. Stops saying yes to every opportunity just because it might look good.

His social media becomes quieter, more authentic. Less brand management, more actual life.

People notice. Teammates comment that he seems more relaxed, more present. His family says he sounds like himself again for the first time in years.

"You're different," his mom says during a visit home. "More like the Joe we raised."

"I'm trying to figure out who that person is again."

"He's a good person," Robin says. "He just got lost for a while."

* * *

Fall 2025 - The Understanding

Joe has dinner with Tyler and Kierra Boyd, something he hasn't done in years—just dinner, no agenda, no networking.

"Can I ask you something?" Joe says as they're finishing dessert. "How do you stay real when everything around you is fake?"

Tyler and Kierra exchange a look.

"You remember what matters," Kierra says finally. "You remember that the football stuff is what you do, not who you are."

"And you surround yourself with people who knew you before," Tyler adds. "People who'll call you out when you're being an ass."

Joe thinks about Y/N, who used to tease him about his terrible jokes, who kept him grounded without even trying, who saw through his bullshit even when he couldn't.

"I had that," he says quietly. "I threw it away."

"Y/N?" Kierra asks gently.

Joe nods, surprised she remembers.

"She was good for you," Kierra says. "You were different when you were with her. More... yourself."

"I know. I just didn't appreciate it until it was too late."

* * *

2025 - The Growth

Joe's first full year of therapy focuses less on what he did wrong and more on building the person he wants to be going forward.

He learns to sit with uncomfortable emotions instead of numbing them with work or distractions. He practices vulnerability in small ways—admitting when he doesn't know something, asking for help, letting people see him struggle.

He dates occasionally, but nothing serious. Partly because he's still working on himself, partly because everyone feels like a pale imitation of what he had with Y/N.

"I keep comparing them to her," he tells Dr. Andrews.

"That's natural. She was a significant relationship."

"It's more than that. She was... home. She was the only person who made me feel like I could stop performing and just be."

"Do you think you could create that feeling with someone else?"

"Maybe. But not until I can be that person without needing someone else to bring it out of me."

* * *

Early 2027 - The Readiness

By his third year of therapy, Joe has become someone he actually likes. Someone who can sit in silence without needing constant stimulation. Someone who asks his friends about their lives instead of waiting for his turn to talk. Someone who volunteers because he wants to help, not because it looks good.

He's still successful, still driven, still competitive. But those things don't define him anymore.

"I think I'm ready," he tells Dr. Andrews during one of their sessions.

"Ready for what?"

"To be in a real relationship again. To be the kind of partner someone deserves."

"What would that look like?"

"Present. Honest. Willing to be vulnerable. Someone who chooses their partner every day, not just when it's convenient."

Dr. Andrews smiles. "That sounds like growth."

"I know she's probably moved on. I know I probably lost my chance with her forever. But if I ever get another opportunity to love someone that completely, I want to be ready for it."

* * *

Late 2027 - The Invitation

The wedding invitation arrives on a Tuesday in October: Kyle McClain & Emily Stevens request your presence...

Joe remembers Jake from Ohio State—offensive lineman, good guy, someone who knew both him and Y/N back when they were just college kids figuring things out.

His first instinct is to decline. Weddings are complicated, full of people from his past who might ask questions he's not ready to answer.

But then he thinks about the person he's become over the past three years. Someone who can handle awkward conversations. Someone who doesn't need to perform or impress. Someone who can show up as himself and be okay with that.

He RSVP's yes.

He doesn't let himself think about whether Y/N might be there. He goes because Jake is a good friend and because he wants to celebrate love, even if his own chance at it might be gone forever.

But as he drives to Columbus the morning of the wedding, Joe allows himself one small hope: that if he does see Y/N, she'll be able to see the man he's worked so hard to become.

The man who finally understands what he lost.

The man who might, just might, be worthy of a second chance.

* * *

October 2027 - Columbus, Ohio

Joe sees her before she sees him.

She's standing near the bar at Kyle and Emily's wedding reception, wearing a navy blue dress that skims her knees, her hair longer than he remembers and pulled back in a way that shows off the elegant line of her neck. She's laughing at something the woman next to her is saying, and the sound carries across the room like a melody he'd forgotten he knew.

For a moment, Joe can't breathe. Three and a half years of therapy, of growth, of becoming someone better, and the sight of Y/N still hits him like a physical force.

But this time, it's different. This time, he doesn't feel the desperate, possessive ache he might have felt years ago. Instead, he feels something quieter, more complex—a mixture of joy at seeing her looking so genuinely happy and a profound sadness for everything they lost.

She looks good. More than good. She looks like she's thriving.

Joe stays where he is for a few minutes, just watching her interact with the other guests. She's confident in a way she never quite was when they were together, engaging in conversation with an ease that seems effortless. When she throws her head back and laughs at something, Joe can see that this is who she was always meant to become.

He's about to turn away—maybe slip out early, let her enjoy the evening without the complication of his presence—when she glances around the room and her eyes land on him.

The recognition is instant. Her smile fades slightly, not in an unfriendly way, but in the way of someone who's just been reminded of a different lifetime. They stare at each other across the crowded reception hall, and Joe feels like they're nineteen again, meeting for the first time in that orientation session.

Y/N says something to the woman she's talking to, then begins making her way across the room. Joe's heart rate picks up, but he stays put, letting her come to him.

"Joe," she says when she reaches him. Her voice is warm but careful. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"Y/N." He smiles, hoping it looks more natural than it feels. "You look... you look really good."

"Thank you. So do you."

There's an awkward pause as they both try to navigate this moment. The last time they saw each other, she was packing boxes and leaving their shared life behind. Now they're adults at a mutual friend's wedding, trying to figure out how to have a normal conversation.

"Beautiful ceremony," Y/N says, falling back on safe territory.

"Yeah, Kyle looked like he was about to cry during the vows."

"He did cry. I saw him wiping his eyes when Emily was walking down the aisle."

Joe smiles. "Good for him. They seem really happy together."

The conversation continues in careful, polite territory for a few more minutes. They talk about the wedding, about how good Kyle and Emily look together, about how strange it is to be back in Columbus. Neither of them mentions their past directly, but it hangs between them like a third person in the conversation.

Then Y/N mentions, "I actually moved to Chicago about a year ago."

"Chicago," Joe repeats. "That's great. For work?"

"Partly. I got into a pediatric oncology program at Northwestern. It's what I always wanted to do."

"I should probably go find my table," Y/N says eventually. "It was good to see you, Joe."

"Wait," Joe says, surprising himself. "Would you like to dance? I mean, if you're not here with someone..."

Y/N hesitates for a moment, and Joe can see her weighing the decision. "I'm not here with anyone," she says finally. "And... okay. One dance."

The band is playing something slow and romantic as Joe leads Y/N to the dance floor. When he places his hand on her waist and she puts her hand on his shoulder, muscle memory takes over. They fit together the same way they always did, her head at the perfect height to rest against his chest if she wanted to.

She doesn't, keeping a careful distance between them, but Joe can smell her perfume—something different than what she used to wear, more sophisticated—and feel the warmth of her hand in his.

"This is weird," Y/N says with a small laugh.

Joe nods. "I was thinking the same thing."

They dance in silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Joe wants to say so many things—wants to apologize, wants to explain, wants to tell her about the letters and the therapy and the person he's become. But he also knows that this moment isn't about him or what he needs to say.

"You seem happy," he says instead.

"I am," Y/N replies, and there's something in her voice that tells him she's surprised by her own certainty. "It took a while, but I am."

"I'm glad."

"Are you? Happy, I mean."

Joe considers this. "I'm better. I'm not the same person I was when... when we ended things."

"None of us are the same people we were at twenty-six."

"No, I mean really different. I spent a lot of time figuring out why I became someone who could hurt you like that."

Y/N looks up at him, and for the first time tonight, he sees something vulnerable in her expression. "Joe..."

"I'm not trying to relitigate the past," he says quickly. "I just wanted you to know that I understand now. What I did, why it was wrong, why you deserved so much better."

"I appreciate that," Y/N says quietly.

The song is ending, and Joe knows this moment is almost over. When the music stops, Y/N will go back to her table, and he'll go back to his, and they'll finish the evening as polite acquaintances who used to mean everything to each other.

"Y/N," he says as the final notes play. "I know this might be presumptuous, and I know you probably have a whole life in Chicago that I don't know anything about, but... would you have dinner with me sometime? Just dinner. Just to talk."

Y/N is quiet for so long that Joe starts to prepare himself for rejection. But then she looks up at him with those same eyes that used to watch him across library tables and football stadiums, and he sees something he hadn't dared hope for.

Curiosity. Interest. Maybe even a little bit of the old warmth.

"I'd like that," she says simply.

The music stops, and they step apart, but neither of them moves to leave the dance floor immediately.

"I'm flying back to Chicago tomorrow night," Y/N says. "But I'll be in Cincinnati next month for a conference."

"Text me," Joe says. "When you know your schedule."

"I will."

They stand there for another moment, both seeming to realize that something significant has just happened. Not a reconciliation, not a grand romantic gesture, but something quieter and more important. A door opening, just a crack, to the possibility of finding out who they might be to each other now.

"I should let you get back to the celebration," Joe says finally.

"Yeah," Y/N agrees, but she's smiling now, a real smile that reaches her eyes. "It was really good to see you, Joe."

"You too."

Joe watches her walk back to her table, where her friends immediately lean in to ask what that was all about. He can see her laughing, shaking her head, probably deflecting their questions with the same grace she's always had.

He doesn't stay much longer after that. He makes his rounds, congratulates Jake and Emily, and slips out before the bouquet toss. But as he drives back to Cincinnati, Joe feels something he hasn't felt in years.

Hope.

Not the desperate, grasping hope of someone trying to reclaim the past, but the quiet, mature hope of someone who's done the work to become worthy of a future.

Y/N said she'd text him. Maybe she will, maybe she won't. Maybe dinner will lead to more conversations, or maybe it will give them both the closure they need to finally move on completely.

But for the first time since he read those letters in his kitchen three years ago, Joe Burrow allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the best love stories are the ones that teach you how to love better the second time around.

* * *

November 2027 - Cincinnati

The restaurant Joe chooses is small and quiet, the kind of place that values conversation over ambiance. Y/N arrives exactly on time, wearing a simple black sweater and jeans, looking nervous but determined.

"Hi," she says, sliding into the booth across from him.

"Hi," Joe replies, and they both laugh a little at the awkwardness of it all.

For the first hour, they stick to safe topics. Her work at Northwestern, his off-season training, mutual friends from Ohio State, the food. But gradually, carefully, they begin to venture into deeper waters.

"I read about your foundation work," Y/N says over dessert. "The literacy program you started. That's really beautiful, Joe."

"Thanks. It actually started because of something you said once. About how reading was the first way you learned to escape when things got hard."

Y/N looks surprised. "You remembered that?"

"I remember a lot of things I wish I'd paid attention to at the time."

They're quiet for a moment, the weight of their history settling between them.

"I found your letters," Joe says finally. "After we... after you left. I had no idea you'd been writing them."

Y/N's cheeks flush slightly. "I forgot them when I packed. I almost came back for them, but..."

"I'm glad you didn't. Reading them made me understand what I'd actually lost. What I'd thrown away."

"Joe—"

"I know we can't go back," he says quickly. "I know too much happened, too much hurt. But Y/N, these past three years, I've done everything I could to become someone worthy of the love you gave me. Not to win you back, just to... to honor it, I guess."

Y/N reaches across the table and touches his hand briefly. "I can see that. The way you are tonight, it's different. You're present in a way you never were before."

"Are you happy?" Joe asks. "In Chicago, with your life?"

"I am," she says, but then adds quietly, "but I think I could be happy other places too. With the right person."

They look at each other across the table, both understanding that something fundamental is shifting between them.

"I don't want to rush anything," Joe says. "I don't want to mess this up again."

"Good," Y/N replies with a small smile. "Because I'm not twenty-six anymore. I know what I'm worth now."

"You're worth everything," Joe says simply. "I just hope I'm finally worthy of you."

When they leave the restaurant three hours later, Joe walks Y/N to her rental car. They stand in the parking lot, neither wanting the evening to end.

"I fly back tomorrow," Y/N says.

"I know."

"But I could come back. For another dinner. If you'd like that."

Joe's smile is soft and genuine. "I'd like that very much."

This time, when he kisses her goodnight, it feels like a beginning.

#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow fluff #nfl fanfic #nfl fan fic #nfl fanfiction #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #nfl imagine #nfl smut #nfl x reader #joe burrow x you #nfl x you

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leighsartworks216 · 14 hours ago

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Thinking about apartment neighbor Sylus who's still a crime boss and everything. Comes home hiding bullet wounds, soundproofs his place so nobody hears the calls he makes, etc

You happen to catch him coming home one morning and greet him. You're friendly with all the neighbors, but you always seem to miss him when you've tried introducing yourself before. Tell him to wait one second as you run back inside. He stands there waiting, holding a hand to his side underneath his jacket, interested if not a bit wary. You come out with a jar of handmade jam as a gift. It's a simple mason jar but it's got a little ribbon tied around the lid with a handmade tag that says what kind of fruit's in it. He thanks you, you dash off to get to work, and he heads inside, setting it on the kitchen counter as he heads to the bathroom to clean up

Comes by it later. Smells it - smells just as jam should, sweet and fragrant. Tests it for any poisons or hidden substances, but finds nothing at all unusual. When he finally trusts it enough, he grabs a spoon and tries some of it... And oh my god he's in love. He's used to luxury, used to buying from people who have perfected their crafts and work hard to make their products perfect, but even he couldn't buy something this good from the greatest jam-maker in the world

He starts to make it a point to learn your schedule, to be coming or going at the same times you do, so you can have those "chance" encounters in the hall. He earnestly compliments your jam, and asks if he could buy some more. You're so glad he loves it so much! You tell him he can just have more, you don't need his money. But that doesn't mean he won't try to pay you back in other ways

During one of your chats, you complain about your oven being on the fritz and how the landlord refuses to fix it unless it's absolutely no longer functional. The next day, you're hearing back from the landlord about a replacement oven being there in the next couple days. You bake Sylus a pie with your special jam to celebrate, unaware that it was his "influence" that made it happen

You're having guests over and are short on an ingredient, so you ask him for some. He's not only giving you what you need (plus extra), he's helping you cook so you can have everything ready in time. The decor is so "you" it makes his chest ache. And watching you get into your element while still joking and having fun, oh lord the things he would do for you

You come home soaking wet and - for the first time ever since he's known you - on the verge of a breakdown. He insists you get inside, take a shower, get into some comfy pjs, and come back over to his place when you're done. When you do, he's already prepared an expansive dinner that he insists you take leftovers of if you enjoyed it. Provides a listening ear and any advice if you're looking for it, and encourages you to reach out if you ever need to

You find him slumped on his doorstep one day, covered in blood and face screwed up in pain. You panic, about to call an ambulance, when he grabs your wrist and ends the call. He's the levelheaded one, calming you down even as he's in pain, as you flounder to try helping him as best as you can. You help him up and into your apartment, hobbling through to the bathroom where he sits down heavily on the toilet lid. Your medical kit isn't as extensive as his, but he makes do, prepared to deal with it all himself. And while he does certainly do the most gory bits, you insist on helping him bandage his wounds and giving him pain killers. He lets you think he got jumped by some gangsters, roughed up and mugged, when that's nowhere near the truth. You feed him and let him sleep on your couch for the rest of the day to keep an eye on him while he recovers

Except one day, you actually do get cornered by some gangsters trying to rob you. You're terrified, begging them not to hurt you as your shaking hands struggle to retrieve your wallet. Who else but Sylus would come to your rescue, dealing with them so efficiently you have to wonder how they got him so bad before. When they run off, he checks on you, and you collapse into his chest crying out your fear, clutching to his shirt and trying to stop shaking. He shushes you gently, assures you you're safe, he's there, one hand cradling the back of your head as he keeps you close to him until you're okay enough to come back home

And then you kiss idk I just love this trope lmao

#sylus #love and deepspace

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blueberrypancakesworld · 2 days ago

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I have a request please 🙏

so was thinking like at a family bbq or get together or party you and Erik are there. Kinda like enemies who are secretly in love. Bobby and Julia know how you each feel about one another. So they plan to like lock you in the closest until you sort your feeling out?? angst and smut please and thank you

United in the wardrobe

Erik x fem!reader

warning : +18, smut, teasing, kissing, mutual feelings, fluff, angst

Summary : The saying those who tease each other love each other seems to apply to these two pretty well. Either they teased each other all the time and caused chaos, or they liked each other immensely and seemed to be best friends. But what happens when you lock two such emotional people in a closet and they can no longer avoid each other?

info: Hi dear, I finally finished it, I'm sorry for the long wait. I hope you like it and, as always, I wish you and everyone else lots of fun reading see you next time ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was shining, a gentle breeze was blowing through the city, and the few puffy clouds were slowly but steadily passing by.

In the Campbell family's garden, there was a pleasant, exuberant, and above all, atmosphere as the family gathered for a barbecue at the beginning of summer.

From aunt to uncle, cousin to cousin, siblings and friends, everyone found themselves in the garden.

The guests, relatives, family, and friends were all immersed in their various activities.

Breanda sat on the terrace with her sister-in-law Darlene and chatted about all the latest gossip the blonde had picked up.

Howard and Marty played Jenga against Stefani and Charlie.

The two blonde Campbell siblings came out of the kitchen with snacks and lemonade, everything seemed perfect, except for two people arguing in front of the grill.

Erik was trying for the fifth time to poke his neighbor and long-time acquaintance with tongs, and the woman was threatening to spray him with the garden hose.

Her fingers were ready to pull the trigger and spray the water on Erik, “Once they get wet, all your beautiful piercings will rust,” she warned him and took a step toward him, while he put on a shocked expression and protected himself behind the grill, which wasn't even lit yet.

Holding the tongs like a sword in front of him, “My pretty piercings won't rust, my dear, just watch out for the grill,” he warned back, and the two of them had a race through the garden with the hose and tongs, which was met with eye rolls and laughter from the others.

To everyone else, it seemed like business as usual; they knew the two of them well...but Julia and Bobby exchanged knowing glances.

Erik's two younger siblings had been watching their brother for a while and noticed that he was teasing the other woman, so they suspected there was something going on between them.

Was it the banter while preparing dinner, the blush on her cheeks when their hands touched, the way they couldn't take their eyes off each other while swimming in the pool, or how they were now tumbling around in the green grass and you could still see the tenderness behind it?

It was so true that Erik and she teased each other so much, yet they couldn't stay away from each other, how could they?

Ever since they had known each other, there had been sparks between them, a fire that blazed in all directions because it didn't know how to deal with all these feelings in the air.

She loved Erik, loved his funny way, loved his piercings and tattoos, knew every single one by heart, and as cynical as he seemed, she appreciated his heart, which was full of care.

A quality Erik appreciated in her, her care for others, how selflessly she jumped in to help with anything, her nature that was stormy and yet gentle at the same time.

Like two sides of a coin, the two seemed to love each other one moment and hate each other the next, a back-and-forth that Julia and Bobby saw as a sign that something needed to be done.

The look the blondes gave each other spoke volumes as they continued playing Jenga, but the plan they had in mind would soon be put into action.

Several hours passed as they engaged in various activities, the grill was slowly lit, and she found herself on the porch next to Julia and Charlie.

A glance at Charlie let her know that he was glad he was no longer the only one being talked to.

Her gaze kept returning to the trampoline where Erik was happily jumping with Julia. “Everything okay, honey? You seem a little down“ Brenda's question snapped her back to reality and she looked at the blonde older woman who gave her a gentle smile.

Taking a sip of her drink, the tart sweetness calming her for a moment, she said, “Just a little tired, the sun must have gotten to me a bit,” the half-truth coming out of her lips.

It was true that she was a little exhausted from all the excitement, but deep down, there was also a hint of insecurity, as always.

As much as she enjoyed the days with Eriik, she missed the time they spent together when days like these came to an end.

The question of what if he didn't like her and it was all just normal flirting was a thought that wouldn't leave her... because she had never asked him.

She had never dared to ask the black-haired boy how he felt, and she had never dared to confess her feelings to him.

Brenda's hand on her shoulder squeezed gently, the look in the older woman's eyes almost understandable, it seemed as if she was about to ask something when Julia suddenly appeared among the three of them.

“Can you help me upstairs with the wardrobe?” the blonde asked with a broad smile, a smile that the older woman couldn't guess the meaning of when she agreed.

Julia had often taken her to the wardrobe before; they had swapped shirts, sorted things out together, or just talked, but right now, with the barbecue still going on, it seemed almost strange.

The two of them left the terrace and went back into the kitchen, past bowls full of snacks and food, up the stairs to Julia's room, the younger girl almost pushing her friend into the room.

“You can go into the closet, I'll get the champagne,” the blonde winked and hurried out of the room as the door to the closet, which had once been a slightly larger storage room, opened in front of her.

Just as she took a step inside, her hand groped for the light switch, the door closed behind her with a click, and she heard, “Did they catch you too?” which made her cry out in surprise, and suddenly the light bulb came on, casting a dim light.

It would take a few minutes for the energy-saving bulb to fully illuminate the room, but even in the semi-darkness, she recognized Erik standing only an arm's length away from her, trying not to get any more pink clothing stuck to himself.

“What do you mean?” Julia just wanted to lend me a few things-” she stopped mid-sentence as her hand tried to open the door, but realized that Julia had locked the closet.

Erik's smile was closer than usual as he stood behind her and watched her realization with amusement.

“And Bobby just wanted to play a round of Mortal Kombat...looks like we're stuck here, Water Queen,” he mumbled, wanting to lean against the wall, which almost caused him to knock the clothes rack down and set it straight again.

With an annoyed sigh, she turned back to Erik, as there was hardly any room to move, and wanted to point her finger at him, but instead she actually touched his upper body.

“You had to chase me with the death grip, and besides, shouldn't you know Bobby better?” she asked back, hoping he hadn't seen her look, the realization dawning on her as it slowly became warm in her head and it seemed to be getting crowded in there...when she realized how close she was to Erik.

Erik also seemed to slowly become aware of the closeness and intimacy as he placed his hands over her, indirectly pushing her further into the room, cutting her off and taking the space for himself.

“Well, he's my brother...besides, I have a feeling that the two of them are hoping for something else” he admitted, averting his gaze for a moment as if he himself wasn't entirely sure what he was saying, what he was talking about, how far he could go.

But how could he have known that when he saw her look, something changed in him too?

When, despite the dim light, he saw how she looked away, almost ashamed, like a child caught lying, “Are the two of them right? Or... or is all this for nothing?” she asked the question.

Feeling her heart beat faster, feeling how this small room, which could barely hold the two of them, had such an effect.

In the semi-darkness, she could only partially see Erik's surprised expression, more her own flinching than his hand resting on hers, slowly and carefully, as if he were afraid that a hasty reaction could destroy this thing between them.

As if it were now becoming clear whether he was just teasing her again or whether there was truth between them, “Nothing has been in vain, not when it comes to you...and my feelings for you,” he said slowly, she had never seen him hold back like this before.

He was so careful and cautious that she placed her other hand on his, as if trying to give him support, to tell him he could continue. "“I think it's true that those who tease each other love each other,” he murmured, moving closer to her.

She could have pushed him away at any time, but that would have been a lie.

Finally pushing her fear and worry aside, she closed the last few inches between them and kissed Erik, whom she had wanted to kiss for so long, hoping for so long that he would reciprocate her feelings.

The two of them pressed closer together in the small space, almost pressing themselves against each other as if the closet were shrinking.

Her hand got caught in his dark T-shirt and tried to pull it off.

Erik's own hands wandered under her shirt, moving up her side, and she sighed when he touched her breasts.

The thought that they were still in a closet, that the family was only one floor below in the garden, spurred them both on. “We have to be quick,” she heard him murmur as he left her lips and kissed her neck, “Such a stormy boy” she replied teasingly.

A gasp falling from her mouth when he nibbled lightly on her neck, knowing that he would leave a mark, as if they were still teasing each other.

She could practically see his smile, the smug look that told her it wouldn't be the only mark.

She casually placed her own hand on his shirt and ran it gently over his nipple, seeming to feel the black-haired man shudder as his piercings on that sensitive spot tingled.

The image formed in her mind as she thought of the other places where he had piercings, and a gasp escaped her as she pressed her thighs together, pressing herself closer to Erik.

His teasing question, “What was my darling thinking about?” as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, as if he hadn't thought about her every time they were in the pool together, trying to preserve this pretty image of her.

The tension between them grew as her skirt slipped to the floor and Erik somewhat awkwardly opened his pants in the narrow space between the walls.

“Thinking about where you have all your pretty piercings” she winked and let her hand wander over his clothed center, unable to suppress a giggle when she felt his piercing, as Erik let out an excited sigh.

His hands wandered down her side, the strap of her panties snapped, his gaze letting her know that despite everything, he was asking her if they should continue, and the kiss she entwined him in told him everything he needed to know.

As the last pieces of clothing fell from their bodies and her hands wrapped tightly around his neck, he lifted her slightly and gently lowered her onto his cock, the narrowness of the closet now more of a help than a hindrance.

A moan escaped from both their lips as they felt each other, she was being explored, the tingling sensation in her body as she felt the cool piercing, the ball and the ring moving as Erik made his first thrusts.

She swore she felt him twitch when he was finally inside her, saw his eyes close for a moment as he felt exactly the same as she did. Her fingers got tangled in his black hair as he gradually increased his pace, leaving more marks on her cleavage.

The more colorful spots there were on her, the harder she pulled on his hair, her fingers scratching his back when the excitement became too much.

The moans that continued to escape from their lips were drowned out by their kisses, his grunts whenever she tensed her muscles slightly, and she shuddered when his piercing moved.

It didn't matter to either of them anymore whether anyone could hear them, whether Julia and Bobby were standing outside the door, or whether anyone was even thinking about them.

It was only about Erik and her, only the two of them mattered, knowing that in all those years they could have had each other, could finally connect in that small room, their dreams becoming reality.

The feeling of loving each other so much, the kisses that didn't stop, passionate and stormy, their hands not wanting to let go of each other's bodies, too much fear of losing each other.

The looks they exchanged, the excitement and longing with every thrust, showed more ecstasy than she felt as Erik got faster, seemed to lose himself, and she pressed herself closer to him, just wanting to feel him as the only sounds in the room were obscene noises.

Her breathless whispering of his name told him what she knew as he moved for the last few times and they united in a kiss as orgasm washed over them both.

As the couple held each other lovingly, Erik buried his head in the crook of her neck for a moment and she leaned her head against the closet door.

Erik gently let her go after a few moments and the two slowly regained their composure when their eyes met again, the light illuminating them both as a mischievous smile played on their lips, knowing that the saying those who tease each other love each other was true.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@captainthomasrobbie , @monkeydoll5 , @starry-eyed-wild-child , @porterroths , @ghastly-artist , @whoresinatrenchcoat , @whybemean , @eriks-dih-piercing , @slasher-fan-fr , @dont-touch-my-knives , @koolaidmanforever @mythicalcowboyatheart

#final destination #final destination bloodlines #final destination erik #erik campbell #erik campbell x reader #male x female #reader is female

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himasgod · 2 days ago

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hiii, hope you're having a good day!!

i finally mustered up the courage to ask for a scenario for sebek, where he's pursuing his s/o who continuously rejects his advances for physical touch (not because they don't like him back, but out of fear from a previous experience, but they do trust him a lot, justtt hoping sebek's a little patient with waiting until they're comfortable enough and when they do hold hands sebek might explode!)

hahahah its some nonsense but its been rotting my mind,,,

SEBEK X READER

Where he waits patiently for you and your issues with physical contact

I'm proud you mustered up the courage to send me this request. I hope I didn't disappoint you. As Sebek would say, I'm proud of you. Keep going <3

Sebek was loud about everything.

About Malleus. About his training. About the perfection of Briar Valley. And now about you.

Ever since he realized his feelings weren’t some fleeting fascination or admiration—but something real—he’s been loud about his intent to court you.

"I shall accompany you to alchemy class! It is not safe to walk alone with those Octavinelle students lurking about!"

"Eat more iron-rich foods! You're pale—paler than usual. You must keep your strength up!"

"Your form is sloppy—not bad! But lacking—acceptable! For a human! I mean. Yourbody IS lovely! It has always been! Yet I will train with you—"

And every time his gloved hand reached toward yours, every time his shoulder brushed too close, every time he forgot himself and leaned in too fast—you flinched. Or froze. Or pulled away.

And Sebek noticed.

Every. Single. Time.

At first, his pride screamed wounded offense. But it only lasted seconds. Because he saw your eyes—not rejecting, not disgusted, just afraid.

And then he remembered: real loyalty isn't just loud. It's patient.

So Sebek stopped reaching. He never spoke of it. Never demanded answers. Just adjusted.

Gave you space, a full arm’s length between you when you walked side-by-side.

Held back his natural instinct to offer you his hand when stepping over puddles.

Bit his tongue every time his heart screamed to hold you close.

Because you smiled at him. You trusted him.

That was enough.

Days passed, and he kept his promise. His hands remained respectfully at his sides when you sat close enough for your knees to brush. When you stumbled, he caught you without gripping too tight. And when you gave him those silent looks of gratitude, he stood straighter, proud.

not of himself, but of you.

Of how you stayed.

Of how you trusted him, even with your fear.

It happened during a walk by Ramshackle, the fireflies came out before curfew. The sun dipped low. The air smelled like and pine.

You were laughing—really laughing—at something stupid he'd said (about his chlidhood), and you didn’t realize how close you’d stepped. Your shoulders touched.

He froze.

But didn’t move away.

You didn’t either.

Then, slowly—tremblingly—you reached down.

And laced your fingers with his.

Sebek blinked. The world stopped.

“...My hand,” he whispered, blinking down.

You swallowed. “Is this okay…?”

He jolted upright like lightning . “O—OF COURSE IT IS!!”

He turned so red his ears glowed.

“I mean!!” He coughed, trying to recalibrate. “I… I will hold your hand as long as you desire. If this—if this is a sign of trust—then I shall remember you this. I'm so proud of you, and I love you. with all my being!”

You laughed again—softer. “Thank you… for waiting.”

His grip squeezed yours just a little.

He didn't need to say it. His wide eyes, glassy , said it all.

He’d wait a thousand years if it meant holding your hand like this.

#sebek x reader #sebek zigvolt x you #sebek zigvolt #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x yuu #sebek #sebek zigvolt x yuu #sebek x you #twst x reader #twisted x reader #twisted Wonderland x reader

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juudesgirl · 3 days ago

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the space he chose - jude bellingham (part 2)

Back in Madrid — That Evening

The apartment was too quiet.

Jude sat hunched at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the soft glow of his phone. The room was dim, shadows stretching long across the floor as the evening sun disappeared completely behind the buildings of Madrid. But he hadn’t moved to turn the lights on. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see the space around him, or worse — see how empty it felt without her.

3 missed calls from Mum.

1 message from Jobe: “What the hell happened with you and Y/N?”

His chest tightened as he read it again.

What had happened?

He thought if he let her go, he could protect her. That the silence would shield her from the storm his life had become. That maybe if he put distance between them, she’d be spared the weight of always being second to everything else — second to football, to flights, to fatigue. He thought he was doing the right thing.

But why didn’t it feel like it?

Before he could begin typing a response to Jobe — something, anything — his screen lit up.

“Mum calling”

He let it ring twice. Three times. His thumb hovered over the screen.

Then, finally, he answered.

“…Hi.”

There was a pause. Then his mum’s voice, low and strained:

“We saw Y/N.”

Jude’s stomach twisted.

“I figured,” he said quietly, voice already unsteady.

“She told us,” Denise continued. “About the breakup.”

The silence that followed seemed to echo through the room.

“She looked… heartbroken, Jude,” came Mark’s voice suddenly. Softer, sadder than Jude had expected. “And even then, all she wanted to do was say goodbye. To thank us. To ask us to look after you. After you left her.”

Jude closed his eyes. Shame pooled in his chest, hot and heavy.

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” he said, barely audible.

“But you did.”

Jobe’s voice cut in, sharp and trembling with emotion. “You did, Jude. She looked like she was barely holding it together. Like she was trying not to fall apart in front of us. And yet, she still showed up with more strength and kindness than most adults I’ve ever met. She still defended you. Still loved you.”

Jude’s breath hitched, and he swallowed the ache rising in his throat.

“I thought I was protecting her,” he whispered, his hand tightening around the phone. “I thought… if I let her go now, it’d hurt less for her in the long run.”

Mark let out a heavy exhale. “Protecting her from what? From being loved? From building something real with you? From being part of your life?”

“I didn’t want her to hate me,” Jude choked out. “Didn’t want her to feel like she was chasing me around the world, only to always come second. I could see it happening already — the missed calls, the last-minute cancelled plans, the nights I came home too tired to even talk properly. I didn’t want her to start resenting me. I thought… I thought ending it now would save her from that pain.”

“But you didn’t save her from anything, Jude,” Denise said softly, and her voice broke in that motherly way that made him feel small — not out of shame, but out of truth. “She didn’t ask for a perfect version of you. She knew what she was signing up for. She chose you. Even when you were tired. Even when you were distracted and distant and didn’t have much to give. She still chose you.”

Jude’s shoulders began to shake. The tears came, silent and relentless. He didn’t wipe them away.

“She never asked you to be perfect, sweetheart,” Denise continued gently. “She just wanted to be loved. To be seen. To be fought for.”

“I didn’t know how,” he admitted through the tears. “I didn’t know how to be everything she needed.”

“She didn’t need everything, Jude,” Mark said. “She just needed you. The real you. Not the image. Not the name on the shirt. Not the kid with the world on his shoulders. Just Jude.”

And that was when it hit him fully — like the final crack in a dam that had been holding back months of emotion.

She had seen him. Really seen him. The version of him that wasn’t always confident. That sometimes crumbled under pressure. That sometimes got it wrong. And she had loved him anyway. She had stayed, even when he made it hard. Even when he shut down, even when he pulled away, she had stayed.

Until he forced her not to.

He buried his face in his hands, phone still pressed to his ear.

“I didn’t even say goodbye,” he whispered, voice barely there. “I let her walk away thinking I didn’t care. I let her think I was okay with losing her.”

There was silence on the other end of the line — not because they didn’t have anything left to say, but because they knew that was the part only he could fix. If it wasn’t already too late.

And maybe it was.

But right now, Jude didn’t know what hurt more — the silence that filled the space she used to be in, or the fact that he had been the one to create it.

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham fic #jude bellingham fics #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham fanfiction #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham imagines #jude bellingham fluff #jude bellingham angst #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham x y/n #jb22 #jb5 #bellingham latest

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nanaseo1999 · 3 days ago

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How goldenboy!rafe and goodgirl!reader meet

At first, she kind of annoyed him.

The girl who says “sorry” when someone bumps into her. Who whispers when she speaks, and fidgets with her sleeves when someone makes eye contact. Who highlights her notes in neat pastel lines, who sits perfectly straight in class, who always raises her hand, and always says thank you.

The kind of girl who wants to be liked.

And Rafe? He spots that kind of thing from a mile away. Girls like her — too sweet, too eager to please — never interested him. He liked the loud ones. The reckless ones. The ones who didn’t care what people thought.

Not the girl who wore bows in her hair and lip balm she reapplied three times before seeing him.

Not the one who blushed when the professor said she did a good job.

So, at first, he noticed her, but that was all.

He noticed the way she bit her lip when she was nervous. The way she shrank in on herself when someone walked by too close. He noticed the way she smiled, even when no one smiled back.

Cute, he thought. But boring.

Until one afternoon, he overheard something that changed everything.

He wasn’t even trying to listen. He just happened to be in the locker room hallway when he caught her voice — soft, shaky, not meant for anyone else to hear.

“If I don’t do everything perfectly… if I let one thing slip, it all falls apart. I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

She was talking to another girl, not realizing Rafe was around the corner. Her hands clutched her bag, her eyes wide. And something in the way she said it — like she meant it, like she lived it —

hit him like a punch to the chest.

She wasn’t trying to be perfect because it was easy.

She was doing it because if she wasn’t, she felt like she wouldn’t be loved at all.

And suddenly, she wasn’t annoying anymore. She wasn’t boring.

She was someone who kept herself together, down to the bow in her hair, just to feel safe. Someone who said “sorry” not because she was weak, but because she was terrified of being a burden.

Rafe knew that feeling too well.

After that, he couldn’t unsee her. Couldn’t stop looking.

He started talking to her. Teasing her. Calling her princess when she blushed, teacher’s pet when she color-coded her planner. He waited to see how flustered she’d get when he told her she looked cute in pink.

And then one day, when she dropped her pen and apologized for the noise — again — he asked:

“Do you really need to hear that you’re doing a good job? Or do you just need to know you’re enough, even when you’re not trying so hard?”

She froze.

Like no one had ever asked her that before.

That’s the moment he really, fully fell.

Not for the good girl. Not for the soft colors or quiet voice.

But for the girl who tried so hard to be loved without making anyone uncomfortable. The girl who smiled even when it cracked at the edges. The one who whispered “Did I do good?” not because she doubted herself, but because she couldn’t breathe until someone said yes.

He didn’t tell her right away. But he showed it.

He praised her. Gently. Sincerely.

He held her hand when she panicked, and kissed her temple when she said sorry for the fourth time.

And one day, after she helped him with something and looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, cheeks flushed, voice barely audible —

“Did I do okay?”

He pulled her close, hand cradling the back of her neck, and said

“You did better than okay, baby. You were perfect.”

#rafe obx #rafe cameron #goldenboy!rafe #x reader #fem reader #goodgirl!reader #🐢nanaseo1999 #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe fanfiction #rafe x you #how they met

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formulafanfics13 · 2 days ago

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She's Got Me Wrapped - MV1

Masterlist

"Is that... is that a burp cloth on his shoulder?" Lando didn't even lower his voice.

Charles elbowed him hard in the ribs and whispered, "Shut up, he'll hear you."

They were already too late.

Max looked up from his coffee with the slow, unbothered confidence of a man who had survived two hours of sleep, a cluster feed, a projectile spit-up, and a 6:15am FaceTime with his wife where their daughter babbled into the camera while trying to suck on her entire fist.

His hoodie was rumpled. His hair was a disaster. There was indeed a tiny pastel muslin cloth draped over one shoulder, complete with a faint milk stain and a cartoon duck embroidered in the corner. His phone sat screen-up beside his coffee, looping a silent video of his baby girl trying to roll over, cheeks squished against a play mat, fists clenched like she was preparing for battle.

Max didn't even blink. "What?"

Lando blinked at the cloth again. "You've got baby stuff on you."

"Yeah," Max said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "She puked. Twice. I didn't want to change shirts. It smells like her."

Charles smiled softly. "You're... like, really in it, huh?"

Max sipped his coffee. "In what?"

"Dad mode."

Max shrugged, but a grin was already pulling at the corner of his mouth, the rare, real kind, the one that made him look like less of a world champion and more like the boy who used to race go-karts in the rain just because it felt cool. He opened his phone, tapped a video, and turned it around so both men could see.

It was grainy, clearly filmed half-asleep in a dark bedroom. His daughter was curled up on his chest, drool pooling onto his hoodie, her tiny hand fisted in the chain around his neck. Max's voice, low and wrecked with exhaustion, whispered from behind the camera:

"Look at her. Look at her little mouth. Jesus fucking Christ, she's perfect."

Lando's face twisted. "Okay, wait, hold on-this is the same Max who once threw a PlayStation controller at my head because I beat his time in F1 22?"

Charles tilted his head. "Didn't he used to say babies were 'loud and weird and useless'?"

Max didn't even flinch. "That was before I met her."

Lando choked on his orange juice. "You're gone. You're so gone."

Max grinned fully now, scrolling to another picture. "Bro. Look at her in this beanie. Tell me this isn't the most beautiful fucking thing you've ever seen."

He shoved the phone across the table. Charles picked it up with the same reverence one might use to handle a bomb.

The picture was pure domestic violence to the heart: a six-week-old baby girl swaddled in cream wool, blue eyes barely open, her mouth puckered in a sleepy pout. Max's hand cradled her head, massive by comparison, his knuckles gentle, his wedding band catching the light.

Charles sighed. "She looks just like your wife."

"She does," Max said proudly. "Same nose. Same pout."

"Same ability to ruin your life and you say thank you," Lando muttered.

Max laughed, full-bellied. "I love it." Then, softer, almost like a confession: "I've never loved anything this much before. It's like... my chest is full all the time. It hurts."

Neither of them knew what to say.

Max rubbed his jaw, looking suddenly shy. "Last night she gripped my finger while she was half-asleep. Like, properly held it. She can't even hold her bottle yet but she held me. Like she knew. And I nearly fucking cried. I was just sitting there in the nursery sobbing while she slept."

Lando blinked. "You've changed."

Max nodded. "Good. I wanted to."

Charles grinned. "And your wife? She okay?"

Max lit up like someone had flipped a switch in his ribs. "She's a machine. She's everything. I don't even have words. I thought I loved her before, but now, seeing her with our daughter? There's not a word for what I feel now. I'd burn the world down."

Lando fanned himself. "Okay damn."

Charles smiled. "Soft era Max Verstappen. Who would've thought."

"Shut the fuck up," Max said, but he was smiling. "Just wait. One of you has a kid and you'll be crying at CBeebies too."

Lando pointed at his own chest. "Not me. I'm still struggling to keep houseplants alive."

Charles chuckled. "I like sleep too much."

"You think I sleep?" Max shot back. "I haven't slept since November."

"Why are you glowing, then?" Lando narrowed his eyes.

Max shrugged again. "Because she smiles when she sees me. That's it. That's all I need."

His phone buzzed on the table. Baby girl just did her first giggle. Sent you a vid. COME HOME. Love you. Max smiled so hard it looked like it hurt.

"Boys," he said, already standing, already throwing cash on the table. "Breakfast was lovely. But I'm going back to my girls."

He tucked the burp cloth properly onto his shoulder, grabbed his hoodie, and started walking, then paused, turned, and said with zero shame "Don't text me unless it's about diapers or the next GP. And even then, only if it's urgent."

And then he was gone. Charles blinked.

Lando said, "I swear to God, we just witnessed the downfall of an apex predator."

Charles nodded. "And it was adorable."

The group had agreed to meet for breakfast again, same spot as before, same sleepy Monte Carlo café with the wraparound terrace and endless espressos. But this time, it was different.

This time, Max brought his girls. He walked in with a softness none of them had ever seen, hoodie zipped halfway, jaw scruffy, one hand curled protectively around the tiny bundle against his chest. You trailed behind him, radiant in that specific way new mothers glowed when they'd just managed to shower and drink a full cup of tea while the baby napped.

She was in leggings, an oversized knit jumper, hair tucked into a clip, and still, Max looked at her like you were walking on water.

But it wasn't his stare that drew attention. It wasn't even the way he practically hovered behind every step you took, like you might float away if he didn't keep a hand on you.

It was the baby. Wrapped in layers of cream cotton and fleece, their daughter was snuggled into Max's arms like a secret too precious to be exposed to the cold. Her tiny fists were balled against his hoodie. Her hat was slightly too big. Her eyelashes were absurdly long.

And Max... Max looked like he'd carved her out of marble with his own hands.

"Oh my God," Lando muttered under his breath as the couple approached the table. "That's the Verstappen baby. That's the Verstappen baby."

Charles blinked. "She's real."

"She's so small," Carlos whispered.

"She's a princess," Pierre added reverently.

The table went quiet as Max reached them. "Morning," he said casually, adjusting the blanket around her as he sat down, pulling a bottle from the baby bag like it was nothing. "She just fed, but she might get fussy soon."

You slid into the seat next to him, leaning in with a smile to smooth the blanket around her face. "She likes noise. Don't feel like you have to be quiet."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Lando said faintly, still staring at the baby like she might levitate.

"What's her name again?" Oscar asked quietly.

You smiled. "Elena."

Charles inhaled softly. "That's beautiful."

Max tucked the bottle away and gently shifted her so she was facing outward, head nestled against his collarbone. "She's six weeks today."

"She's perfect," Pierre said, totally sincere.

Then Elena made a noise, a little hiccuped gurgle, like she was trying to coo but didn't quite have the mechanics yet. Her tiny mouth opened. A squeak. Another gurgle. And she was looking directly at Charles.

He froze. "No, no-she's not-"

"She's looking at you," you confirmed.

"She likes you," Max added, grinning.

"She's got taste," Carlos joked.

Charles sat there, back poker-straight, as this impossibly tiny human blinked up at him with wide, watery blue eyes and made a bubbling noise in her throat like she was gearing up for full conversation.

Then she smiled. A proper baby smile. Gummy and wide. Directed entirely at Charles Leclerc. It was over. "Oh my God," Charles said, clutching his chest. "That's it. I'm done. I'm ruined."

Lando practically threw himself across the table. "Did she just smile at you?!"

"She's never smiled at me like that," Max said, mock offended.

"She loves Uncle Charles," you said sweetly, sipping your tea.

Charles was completely fucked. "Can I hold her?"

You nodded. "Absolutely."

Max paused. "Support her head."

Charles took her like she was made of glass, eyes wide, arms careful, like every single muscle in his body had turned into air. Elena wriggled once. Then sighed. And settled against him like she knew she was in safe hands.

Charles immediately stopped breathing. "Oh my God," he whispered. "She's so warm."

You smiled into your mug. "She has that effect."

Carlos leaned over to peek at her. "She's got Max's ears."

"And your lips," Max said, gaze on you.

You flushed. "Don't start."

"She does," he insisted. "And your nose. And your sleepy pout when you've just woken up."

"You're obsessed," Lando muttered, still trying to get a peek. "He's actually obsessed."

Pierre pointed. "You cried when she burped yesterday, didn't you?"

"She made a tiny noise," Max defended, "and her little fist clenched like she was proud. What the fuck was I supposed to do, not cry?"

Charles, still holding the baby, was gently humming under his breath, rocking slightly in his seat like some paternal instinct had been violently activated. Elena blinked up at him again. Her hand fisted the edge of his hoodie.

"Do you want one?" Oscar asked, half-serious.

Charles didn't look up. "Yes."

Everyone turned. "Wait, what?"

"I want one," Charles repeated, softer now. "Not now, obviously. But someday. This-" he looked down at her again, full-body soft, "-this is everything."

Max smiled, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Yeah," he said, "it is."

And for a moment, just a moment, all the bullshit melted. No media. No grid rivalries. No contract talks or brand deals or egos.

Just a group of men, sitting around a baby, watching her blink like she'd just invented light.

Max leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, then to his daughter's head as Charles cradled her. "You've got the world already, little one."

And somehow, somehow, she gurgled in reply.

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 fluff #f1 smut #mv1 #mv33 #mv1 x reader #max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fluff

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wardenparker · 23 hours ago

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The Secret of My Success, ch 2

Harry Castillo x plus size reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When not even a professional matchmaking firm can help Harry Castillo find love, he turns his attention to helping his best friend meet their soulmate instead. The surprise of finding his own in the process will challenge the attitude Harry has taken toward dating for his entire life, and open up a whole new world of romance.

(This story picks up where the last chapter of The Unbearable Weight of Perfection leaves off, and will weave in a few other soulmate characters from previous stories just for fun. Don't worry if you haven't read those stories though! I'll be dropping the pertinent references in each chapter's note section to read along with Harry and his soulmate's adventures.)

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 7.8k Warnings: *Reader is nicknamed Mack* Continuous warnings for: food/alcohol consumption, tobacco smoking. Mentions of past bullying and mistreatment, a bit of humanizing judgmental behavior. Fluff, sexual tension, flirting. Summary: Venue hunting for Percy and Tamara's wedding turns into an afternoon with Harry and a nearly perfect first date. Notes: Spot the reference to Zach's supper club from 'In the Still of the Night' and a mention of our very first soulmate story setting, The Alewife!

The next four hours are spent calling vendors, arranging appointments, cashing in favors, and even fielding a call from Percy’s parents begging for an update. By the time it gets to be about five-thirty, you push back from the enormous conference table and groan, arching your back to crack what feels like every single vertebrae.

“Well,” you check your phone for the time and glance back down at your appointment book. “The next couple of days are going to be crazy, but, it’s going to be perfect when it all shakes out.”

Harry had not done much more than watch as you worked. Impressed by the way you organized and prioritized calls. You are meticulous and it shows in how you have managed to get everything together in such a short time. He had brought you an organizer. One out of one of the many supply offices, and you had quickly filled it. Smiling in appreciation when he had set it and an espresso down beside your open notebook and half eaten plate of Mango curry chicken.

“I should get home if I’m going to change.” It’s not that Keen’s is particularly dressy, but for a date you like to put in a little effort. Especially if it’s a date with someone as heart-stoppingly handsome as Harry, who you’ve also spent the day finding out is as considerate as anyone could ever hope for.

“Let my driver drop you off.” He offers, reaching for his phone.

When your immediate reaction is surprise, you practically roll your eyes at yourself. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you have a driver.”

He frowns slightly, brows furrowing together before he slowly lowers his hand. “So you don’t want the ride?” He asks, trying to figure out why you would say that.

“No, no,” Immediately, you regret not tempering your reaction. “It’s actually very nice of you to offer, thank you. I just…you’re that level of fancy and important. Sometimes I forget people are really like that and it’s not just in movies.”

“So you do want the ride.” Now it’s apparent that he’s a little amused by the way this conversation is turning out. His eyes are twinkling playfully, but he’s hiding the smirk.

You don’t bother, smirking openly when you catch his playful tone. “There’s no way I get out of this without being teased, is there?”

He shrugs slightly, returning the smirk and humming. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He licks his lips. “I was going to see if you wanted him to wait for you to get ready.”

“I don’t think that counts as me picking you up.” It’s funny. He’s fun. This unexpected turn of events has your stomach flipping again like a teenager with a crush.

“That’s true.” He agrees easily. “Then I will go home and wash my hair before trying on one too many outfits.” He tells you with a playful wink.

“That’s why I have mine picked out already.” This time you wink, and when he actually laughs, you take a minute to gather up your things from his conference table to hide your pleased expression. “I’ll come by your place at eight?” He’d given you his address during the course of the afternoon, and you’ve swapped cell numbers. Every second closer to this date you get, it feels so giddy and real.

“Eight.” He confirms. Wondering if you are just that eager to go out, or if you are eager to go out with him. You don’t seem interested in his bank account, which is both surprising and intriguing.

There is no reason for him to know that you pulled a string or twelve with the friend of an old friend to get the reservation and that the only possible time to squeeze you in was 8:30. The actual fact is that you’re looking forward to tonight.

******

In the end, Harry has his driver take him back to his apartment. Taking the time to shower and carefully dress appropriately for what could be considered a first date. He wonders briefly if he should get you flowers, but he reasons that you initiated this date. He will laugh if you bring him a bouquet.

At eight sharp, you ring the buzzer for the penthouse of his building in Tribeca. The doorman has given you about a dozen appraising -- and borderline judgmental -- sweeps of his gaze since you pulled up to the curb outside, and now that you're standing in the lobby waiting for Harry to appear, you have to wonder if little red dress was too much for tonight. Control top tights are doing their job tonight and keeping your figure on point as well as hiding the scars you have from your soulmate with just a little bit of color. Any casual observer would think the color was just your skin, and you own about six pairs of these heavy duty but breathable tights just in case the company ever goes out of business.

As soon as the desk informs him that you are here, Harry is in the elevator and riding down to the lobby. Wondering if the charcoal black suit and ruby red tie is too much. He had decided on a black button-down shirt as well. The only color popping on the dark background is the red of his tie and pocket square.

There really ought to have been theme music playing when the elevator door opened, you think, tucking your smile into the corner of your mouth. Harry steps out in a gorgeous suit and you swear you nearly giggle. "Hey, handsome." He is. There's no reason not to say it out loud. Your purse is in one hand, but the other has a single red rose that you picked up from your florist friend on the way over. "I thought a whole dozen would be unwieldy," you tease, holding it out to him.

“For me?” He’s honestly a little shocked that you have brought him a flower. Delighted as he plucks it from your hand and turns towards the desk. “You have any scissors?” He asks the desk clerk.

"Of course, Mr. Castillo." In a building this expensive, tenants are never called by their first name. The woman turns a pair of sleek silver scissors over easily.

Harry cuts the stem of the flower, leaving only two inches and he tucks it into the pocket of his jacket in front of the pocket square. “Perfect.”

It is? He is? That churning, flipping sensation in your belly is back and the urge to skip ahead a few hours and try kissing him is strong. "Absolutely perfect."

Harry turns his full attention on you and his brows wing up, his eyes dragging up and down every curve of your body. “Not nearly as perfect as you in that dress.” He hums, stepping forward to get close enough to pull you in for a very respectable peck on the cheek. Only lingering for a moment as he smells your perfume.

"I like that we unintentionally match." His tie is the same shade as your dress and the rose, and you would not be ashamed to admit that you shiver a little at the innocent little peck. "Ready? Or should I promise your mother I'll have you back by curfew before we leave?"

He chuckles and turns to offer you his arm even though this is your date. “She is very reasonable about what time to be home.” He jokes.

"Glad to hear it." He lets you lead him outside to where your newly-cleaned-out, modest little sedan sits in the pickup zone outside his building, and you hop forward to open his door for him.

He looks at the car in surprise. He had expected a taxi, or an uber to dinner. He honestly did not expect you to have a car. “Interesting.” He muses.

"She's not flashy, but she does the trick." And since you're a person who makes a living planning things, you've already booked a parking space in a garage two blocks from the restaurant.

“Just surprised you have a car in the city.” He admits, sliding in the seat and chuckling when you close the door and skirt around the front.

"I was warned before coming up here that some of my clients would want to have weddings outside the city," you explain. A quick check of the rearview and you buckle your seatbelt, gliding away from the curb smoothly. "So I didn't sell my car. It's worth the slight complication of keeping it here to have the ability to do whatever I need to for my clients."

“Smart.” He nods as he watches the way you drive. Harry doesn’t actually drive himself. He has a license, but he hasn’t been behind the wheel in years.

"So how was your evening?" It almost feels cheeky to ask, since you spent almost the whole day together, but you flash him a grin as you merge into traffic.

“Oh you know, did the entire self care routine.” He smirks. “Soaked in a bubble bath and did a mud mask.”

"What number outfit is that?" You tease, knowing full well that you would have gone through a dozen or more without this trusty red dress.

“Three.” It’s a joke. He had pulled it out immediately and decided on it. For some reason wanting a bold look for this bold date.

Somehow you doubt it, but you like that he plays along. "Third time was definitely the charm."

“And the best part of it is that it won’t show a stain if I manage to drop food onto my clothes.” The banter between you is easy and he appreciates that.

"I cannot say the same." But the thought of it does make you laugh. "Satin shows all sins."

“But you wear it well.” He compliments.

"Like I said," you throw him a wink that makes both of you grin. "Satin shows all sins, which makes it perfect for showing them off."

If satin shows all sins, then apparently you don’t have many. The dress sits perfectly, mouthwateringly appealing. “Then I’ll have to give you the name of my dry cleaner.” He teases.

That hits the horny tone in the back of your mind a little too hard and you swear you can feel the warmth of damp excitement between your legs. “I’ll remind you,” you hum, biting back a smirk.

“I have no doubt.” He leans back in his seat and watches as you navigate traffic towards the restaurant, only to drive by it. “Uh—”

"There's a parking garage two blocks down with a reserved space just for us," you tell him, and tap the display on the dashboard. "We still have ten minutes before our reservation. Perfect timing."

“Okay.” He nods, knowing he would have chosen the valet parking, but this is your date.

"I remembered what you said about New Yorkers being unimpressed by everything," you tell him, pulling around the next block. The blue and white parking sign is just up ahead. "So I figured...the odds were pretty good that you hadn't really walked around and just taken things in. We might find something surprising if we look around, who knows?"

“Who knows?” He echoes, grinning at your idea and he wonders how you will feel about it after dessert in those heels.

The car is easily parked, and you make it even more easily back to the sidewalk. You had jokingly offered him your arm to walk together but he is just enough taller than you that it feels a bit awkward. It doesn't stop it from being sweet, though, or making you both smile.

“So I’m guessing that you have looked at the menu?” He asks with a glance over at you before looking ahead again. There’s several sets of eyes on the pair of you and he’s reaching down to take your hand.

"Of course." His hand is bigger than yours, and seems to envelop it entirely, which sends a shiver up your spine. "But I was going to ask you what your favorite thing is that they make."

“Half dozen oysters, with a dry martini.” Harry tells you. “Calamari salad and the twelve ounce prime filet mignon with au Poivre.”

You groan quietly, eyes practically fluttering with the sound of it. "Swap the martini for a Hemingway daiquiri and it sounds like perfection."

“Because you’re a rum girl.” He chuckles. “Then you have to get the bananas foster for dessert.”

"Surprising no one," you laugh. "I love bananas foster. This place I used to work back home...they do the most incredible bananas foster French toast. Everybody goes crazy for it at weekend brunch."

"Never thought about it on French toast." He admits, looking interested in it. "It sounds like it would be amazing."

"If you ever get to Fayetteville for any reason," you turn the corner together and up the block. "You have to eat at The Alewife. It's the best place in the county. Maybe the whole of the Carolinas."

"The Alewife." He tilts his head curiously, intrigued by the name. "You worked there?" He knows you were in North Carolina, or the Carolinas, but he hadn't known what area. He had assumed it would have been the Triangle.

“I waited tables from the time I was sixteen, all the way up through college. Any time I was home from school, I was back there in an apron with a tray.” There’s a different kind of warmth to him holding your hand than to the summer air, and you’re reveling in it. “It’s where I learned about event planning. They started doing catering while I was there.”

It doesn’t take more than another minute to be standing in front of the door to the famous restaurant. “Let’s see if Keen’s bananas foster is up to par.” He offers, reaching for the door to open it for you.

You’re right in time for your reservation, and are seated promptly. The hostess fawns a little over Harry — apparently he really is a regular here — and you sit down together in the atmospheric lighting at a table with a crisp, white cloth.

The drink menu is extensive and he watches as you look it over. “I say we order cocktails with our appetizers and bottle for the meal?” He suggests.

“I think what you mentioned outside is perfect.” And considering this is probably the fanciest restaurant you’ve ever eaten at, you’re sure absolutely everything is good.

“Although if you want to try the mutton, I’ve heard it’s delicious.” He hums.

“Do we dare?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at him. “Try all new things tonight? Things you’ve never had here before?”

“We could.” He smirks. “We could order the steak and mutton and share?” He hadn’t really thought of that before, but it sounds like fun. “Now I usually eat the oysters raw, but do you prefer them Rockefeller?”

“I’ve only had oysters raw or fried. Rockefeller would be totally new.” He likes the idea, and you like the way he looks surprised by just a touch of whimsy. “I think we gotta do it.”

“Then we get them Rockefeller. Roasted veggies and mashed potatoes?” He asks. “All the sides come to share.”

“The only thing, then, is drinks.” You set your menu down since you clearly won’t need it tonight. "You order for me and I’ll order for you?”

He lifts a brow and smirks slightly. “You’ve already told me what you want to drink, so I don’t think that’s exactly hard.” He pauses and then grins. “But I’m ordering you something else.”

"I hope you surprise me utterly," you tell him honestly. "And I'll choose something other than a dry martini for you."

He hums, mischief lighting his eyes as he nods. “But remember, I’m snobbish, Mack.” He teases, sending you a wink to show that he is only playing.

"Oh, I know." But the smirk on his lips makes you practically giggle. "But I didn't only wait tables when I worked in food service. I know my way around a whole roster of cocktails. For snobs and for sugar addicts alike."

“Then you’re gonna know everything that I could order you.” His pout is for show, a small, grumpy looking thing even though his eyes are laughing. A conversation about drinks should not be this entertaining.

"Just because I know the drinks," you point out, "doesn't mean I know what you'll choose for me."

“What do you think I’ll order?” He demands, watching as the waiter starts to approach.

"A negroni." He seems utterly fashionable and up on trends, which makes you think he'll go for something popular for you. "Or an Aperol spritz."

He doesn’t answer as the waiter stops in front of the table and greets each of you, listing off the specialty drinks of the night. Harry nods towards you when he asks if either of you would like anything. “Ladies first.”

"A boulevardier for the gentleman." That will likely be a little outside of the drinks he's tried out and you think he'll like a complex cocktail. Classics are classics for a reason.

The only indication that the man is surprised that you are ordering for Harry is a slightly raised left eyebrow. Then it’s his turn to order. “The lady will have an El Presidente and can you bring us an order of oysters Rockefeller?

"Right away." The waiter smiles politely, but you catch the twist of his lips and you smile as he walks away.

"I think he's going to be amused by us tonight," you predict.

“People watching is an integral part of being a waiter.” Harry snorts.

"It is." That can be confirmed in a heartbeat, from your life as an ex-waitress. "It really is."

“Bussing tables never gave the same kind of insight.” He admits, glancing around. “You saw the kind of mess they left behind. None of it ever pretty.”

“You worked in a restaurant too?” That actually comes as a surprise, but maybe only because you haven’t known Harry long enough to picture him doing anything but his current career.

“My parents were determined to make sure that we were aware of our privilege.” He cocks his head. “I had a job from the time I turned 15 until the day I graduated college. And I wasn’t allowed to have an office job.”

"That's an admirable way to go about it, I think." In fact, it gives you an instant bump of appreciation for the way he was raised. His parents could have spoiled them rotten and handed them everything. But Harry and his brother had worked, and learned the responsibility of it. "What made you pick food service?"

“Because I sucked at construction.” He flashes you a grin and shrugs. “My mother once told me you can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats those that serve him.” He looks around. “Everyone here has a story. Just matters who’s telling it.”

"I couldn't agree more." It's another layer to him that makes you smile. It gives such a window into his personality, that he has worked with the public and hasn't just worked in a gilded office for his whole life.

“So what made you interested in wedding planning?” He asks. “Dreamed of your own since you were a girl?”

"If I say yes do I lose points for sounding girly?" You sit back in your chair and smile softly. "I think I've planned by own wedding dozens of times over, and I love helping people make their dreams come true."

He chuckles and shakes his head. “That’s good.” He tells you, almost jealous that you can envision that future for yourself. He’s never been able to. “It’s okay to be girly. To enjoy that process.”

"I like to dream." And you don't mind admitting it, which you know sets you apart from a lot of people. "It helps balance out the daily bog of responsibilities and disappointments."

“What disappoints you?” He asks.

"A lot of things, unfortunately." It's a less desirable topic, but it feels important. The kind of question that helps you get to know a person that most people don't think to ask. "Although...the first thing that comes to mind is burnt popcorn. Burnt popcorn is a bummer."

It’s an odd thing to say and stares at you for a moment before he starts to laugh. “Burnt popcorn?”

“Sure.” You grin. “It’s a disappointment. Because clearly I was looking forward to a tasty snack. But it’s not going to end the world if I have to do it again or even if I don’t have it at all.”

“Well, if that’s the only disappointment you have in a day, it’s probably a pretty good one.” He reasons.

“Exactly.” The waiter is coming over with a tray but you don’t even notice, too distracted by him. “Unfortunately, it’s very rarely the only disappointment on any given day.”

He chuckles again, aware of the disappointments a day can bring. “I can understand that.” He admits.

The waiter murmurs a greeting, sets down your cocktails and oysters, and takes your dinner order from Harry all in a manner of a few seconds. The service here is polite and efficient, with an emphasis on getting the details right. You can tell just from the way your drinks are delivered and the oysters are garnished.

“What about you?” You ask Harry once the waiter has gone. (edited)

“I don’t really think about it.” He admits. “There are days that I don’t want to repeat, but…” he frowns slightly. “I guess I’m just going through the motions.”

"Everyone has days they don't want to repeat." Your fingers play with the cold stem of your cocktail glass, avoiding his eyes for just a moment -- hoping that today isn't one of them. "But I hope you're able to find some joy in between the motions."

“There’s always some joys to be had.” He picks up his drink. “A good cocktail.” He takes a sip. “Dinner with a beautiful woman.”

"Yeah?" Your eyes come up again, meeting his even as you pause with your drink halfway to your lips. "Then I hope you like your boulevardier. So you can have both joys at once."

He sees the flash of doubt in your eyes and he sets his drink down. “When was the last time someone called you beautiful?” It’s a sad thing that he even has to ask, because you are beautiful.

"Not counting my parents, or Percy when he's sucking up because he wants something?" Your smile is a shield, a flash of armor on the battlefield of self-doubt. "I honestly can't remember."

“Well, you are beautiful.” He tells you softly, leaning in and smiling warmly. “You look beautiful. That dress is….” He clicks his tongue and can’t help the way that his eyes drift slightly. “Perfect.”

It's a lovely way to pay the compliment, and your cheeks go from warm to burning in less than a second. "Feel free to look as much as you like," you hum, in that sort of charmed and bashful way that almost has you hiding behind your glass. "Might even let you touch later, if you want to."

“Just like that?” He asks, brows shooting up in surprise. He leans back and watches you squirm for a second. “Did you already decide before now?”

"I'd say hope, rather than decide," you admit, but shrug slightly. "It was this afternoon that did it, it case you're curious."

“What about this afternoon?” He frowns slightly in confusion and tries to think about what he might have done to make you want to sleep with him.

"Right after I hung up with the third bakery." Finally taking a sip of your cocktail, you moan happily to find it delicious, and set the glass back down while he doles out oysters. "You came back into the conference room with two espressos, and I watched you inspect them before you decided which one to give me. You gave me the one that had the perfect crema on it and kept the other for yourself, and then asked me if I had enough light despite the fact that your conference room is practically floor-to-ceiling windows." Swallowing nerves and choosing courage, even for just a little moment, you reach forward at the table and set your and on his. "I asked you to dinner when you were just my best friend's exceedingly hot and clever boss. But I'd go home with you because you have a good heart."

He chuckles softly. “So being considerate gets me into your bed….” He taps his glass lightly, smirking. It’s not his money, or his connections. Not even his sense of style or attractiveness. It was because he had been considerate. “Interesting.”

"I decided after my last break up that I wasn't accepting anything less from now on." Which is why, unfortunately, Harry is your first date worth a damn in over a year. It's tough out there for a girl with standards.

“And if I’m somehow a disappointment?” He asks, his own insecurities rising up but he tries to keep them hidden.

“I’d say there’s an equal chance of either of us disappointing the other.” Not that you wouldn’t put money on it being you rather than him, but for the first time you think you see a glint of flesh and blood behind that suit of armor he wears and you aren’t going to poke at whatever wound lies beneath. “That’s a risk we agree to take if we decide to go home together.”

“I don’t see how that could be.” He turns his hand over to have your palm against his. “Tell me your risk assessment.” He prompts. “Your fears.”

“Those aren’t…” Just because you don’t think of dating in business terms doesn’t mean he doesn’t, you remind yourself. The weight of his hand under yours is comforting. Grounding. Even despite being electric. “The present looks different without the wrapping,” you tell him flatly. The two of you start to eat slowly, but start together. “Which is to say, more than a few men have unwrapped the present only to find they don’t want it anymore.”

“Because you’re thicker than they like?” He asks bluntly. His eyes are still fixed on your face, he’s not shying away.

"I think a lot of people forget that curves come with thing like stretch marks and cellulite." The first oyster is warm and luscious and full of flavor. Cheese and seafood isn't always your favorite but this works beautifully.

He snorts and watches as you pick up your drink to savor it after the oyster. Losing contact with you isn’t necessary so he uses his other hand to scoop up a bite of his own out of the shell. The oysters are already separated, so it’s easier than it would normally be. “And yet they would be insulted if their penis was a disappointing size.”

“God forbid that topic should get touched,” you snort almost identically. “But there is the other thing.”

“What’s that?” He asks, amused at your dry sarcasm.

“Marks,” you tell him matter of factly. “I have some.”

“Oh.” His smile doesn’t falter, but it’s honestly disappointing how quickly his heart drops. The new bloom of interest, of intrigue, is crushed. You have a soulmate out there. Still, he shrugs causally. “And they don’t like competition with your future partner?”

"And it doesn't matter that I'm not actively out there looking for my soulmate, either. They assume I am and lose interest." Which, unfortunately, if why you mentioned it. Because you just saw the light leave Harry's eyes the way you've seen it leave plenty of men's before. "Like you just did." There's no use in pretending. And you can't blame him for it. Not really. It's only human to shy away from someone that you don't fully believe could commit to you.

“I didn’t.” He argues and you just huff and give him a disbelieving look. “My last relationship—” he bites his lip and sighs as he looks away from you for a moment. “She had a soulmate. Had been with him and left.” He chuckles quietly and looks back at you. “The night before we were supposed to go to Iceland and I was going to propose, she broke up with me and went back to him.” He shrugs.

"Shit..." Instead of taking your hand away, you squeeze his in a show of absolute support and sympathy. "That...that is bullshit and I'm sorry to hear it."

“We didn’t love each other.” He admits. “But we could have built a good life together.” In his mind, that’s as good as love.

"Is that what you want?" You ask, honestly wondering about the answer. "To build a good life with someone, rather than to search and search for the romantic ideal?"

“Isn’t romance the effort you put into something?” He asks. “The care and time. Not just some feeling in the pit of your stomach. That could be fleeting, it could change with sickness or surgery.”

"If attraction changes with surgery, then I would have to question whether it was ever real at all." Still, this is a hell of a conversation for a first date. Maybe it's good. You're comfortable enough with each other to actually have an important conversation just twenty-four hours after meeting. That is something you consider a good sign. "Tell me what you would want, then. Your parameters for building a good life with someone."

The waiter comes back and asks if you both would like another drink and Harry looks towards you to see how you feel about that.

"I'll hold off." Something tells you that having a clear head would be best tonight. Plus, Harry ordered wine with dinner anyway.

“We’re good.” He nods his thanks and turns his gaze back towards you. “What would anyone want?” He asks vague. “Trust. Respect. Communication.” He sighs softly. “I’ve been told that I look at love like a business deal. Negotiations and clauses. But I don’t think that it’s a bad thing.”

"I think relationships are different to different people. And that's one of those things that makes me believe soulmates aren't total bullshit." When you've each had your last oyster, you both instinctively lean forward at the table to make it easier to keep holding hands. "Communication is the key, though, in my opinion. If you can communicate to me that you're looking at things in terms of a business deal, then that tells me that you want things to be beneficial for both of us and hopefully equal. That's not a bad thing at all."

“And what are your parameters?” He’s curious to figure out if you are whimsical daydreams or practicality. Or perhaps you are something of a mixture of both. “For life and love.”

"I'm greedy," you inform him without hesitation. "I want the good communication, respect, trust, and that feeling in the pit of my stomach. I want to be a little giggly about my partner sometimes. Be able to take them into my daydreams and fantasies with me. Which...is probably why I'm still single."

He blinks slightly, surprised by your answer. It doesn’t seem too bad. Not unobtainable if someone put in the effort. “I see.” He doesn’t mind any of that, but he doubts he would have given you any reason for the tingles. “I don’t think that’s a horrible list.”

"I'm glad to hear it." And you really are.

Dinner arrives, plates steaming and smelling delicious. “You’re in for a treat.” He promises as they set the plates down in front of you and the sides framing the edge of the table.

"I think the only thing that keeps it from being perfect is that we can't eat one handed."

“Why is that?” He asks, his face serious and set before he smirks slightly when you open your mouth to answer. “Because we can’t keep holding hands?” He huffs. “That’s true, but having both hands means I can feed you a bite of this steak.” He says as he cuts into the tender meat to gather a bite for you.

He's so fucking cute you could just melt. It's like he doesn't quite understand how sweet he really is, but there's a layer of playfulness under the surface that you feel privileged to get to see. Your humming and soft moan of pleasure at the bite of food isn't even a put on. The food here is delicious and that first bite is delivered in the very best way possible. Nothing could be better.

He watches you wrap your lips around his fork, moaning softly as you take the first chew. Eyes fluttering as you lean back. It’s almost fucking erotic as he watches you savor that bite.

"Perfect," you pronounce when you open your eyes again, and that light has come back to his eyes full force.

“Yes it is.” He’s agreeing with you, but he’s not talking just about the steak.

The entire meal is perfect, actually. Every morsel of your dinner is expertly prepared and the conversation keeps flowing as easily as the wine. There's a sort of unexpected blanket of comfort that's surrounded you in his presence. Harry Castillo isn't just an intelligent or clever man, he's thoughtful in ways that surprise you even going from topic to topic in conversation.

“Don’t tell me you’re a Philly fan?” He wrinkles his nose as he sits back in the seat, the bottle of wine is on the table and your glass is almost empty so he leans forward the tipple the rest of the bottle into your glass. You had oohed and ahhhhed over the vintage he had selected, promising yourself that you would buy a bottle for your home and he didn’t have the heart to tell you it is a five hundred dollar bottle. “It’s bad enough to be a National League fan, but at least be a Braves fan.” He shakes his head slightly.

You stop him at half a glass more since you have to drive home, but it’s too good not to have just a little bit more. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” you’re laughing together and enjoying the night so goddamn much. It’s easy with Harry. It’s comfortable and exciting all at once. “But the first place I ever lived in the States was Missouri. So I’m actually a Cardinals fan.

“Oh that’s worse.” Harry is born and bred Yankee’s fan. He has box seats, although most often the tickets are used as business assets rather than just going to enjoy the game.

“I was five!” You argue, practically doubled over laughing at his dismay. “My Dad bought me some Cardinals gear after my first game. It’s purely sentimental.”

“Shame really.” He huffs. “They are steered wrong at such a young age.” His tongue is tucked into his cheek and he’s grinning when you sputter at him.

“Yankee snob,” you tease, still laughing while your shake your head at him.

“True.” He won’t deny that. Huffing in amusement when you roll your eyes. “But there’s nothing like watching the Yankee play from the seats with a hot dog and cold beer.”

“Yes to the hot dog and beer, but I would go to pretty much any game. The fun of going is who you go with.”

He smiles softly. “Then I’ll have to arrange to take you to a game.”

You hum, biting back a face-splitting grin. “Does that mean there’s going to be a second date?”

“Do you call a Sunday afternoon game a date?” He asks, tilting his head.

You huff, looking at him incredulously. “Daytime dates are vastly underrated and that is a hill I will die on.”

He chuckles and shrugs. “So daytime dates count in your book. And baseball games count.” He smirks slightly. “What else counts?”

“Museums…curling up on the couch with a movie…concerts…plays…” Anything. Literally anything that includes him, your heart says with a little flutter. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“There’s a little place that you might enjoy.” He shrugs. “Dinner club modeled after the old nightclubs in Vegas. Live singer, low lights, good food.” It’s become a popular place and Peter has taken Charlotte there many a date night. “Used to be an old theatre.”

Your eyes practically sparkle with how fast they light up. “That sounds perfect.”

“Figured you would like that.” He laughs as he forks up the last morsel of steak and offers it to you.

There is not a single part of you that is bothered by how well he seems to have you figured out already, nor by anything else that’s happened tonight. It’s like an incredible little bubble you want to live inside forever. “Okay, I have another one,” you tell him after the last bite of dinner is gone. “What’s your dream vacation?”

He huffs for a second. Putting the fork down and pausing before he huffs again. “That’s hard to say.” He admits. “I—I plan things. Research them, and then….” He spreads his hands wide. “Never go.”

“Why not?” You know why not for one of them, but that’s only one. And it sounds like he’s done this a lot.

He sits with it for a moment, probably analyzing why for the first time. An introspective look on his face before he looks down at his hands. “Because it’s not fun going alone.” He finally answers.

“Well…” You tuck your hand back into his on top of the table and gives his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Dare to dream, gorgeous. You don’t have to go alone.”

He smiles. Staring at you for a moment before looking down at your hand on his. “May I interest you in dessert?” The waiter is discreetly at his side and it ruins the beautiful tension of the moment.

“This very learned and well traveled man,” you motion to Harry with your free hand, good naturedly not scowling at the waiter for bursting your precious, perfect bubble. “Has never had bananas foster before.”

He huffs, and tosses one shoulder up. “Sue me.” He jokes.

“Bananas foster.” The waiter smiles and moves to bus your empty plates off the table. “And coffees?”

“Cappuccino?” Harry asks. “Or are you more an espresso with dessert girl?”

“Cappuccino sounds good, thank you.” It sounds comforting and delicious, which is where you’re at right now.

But the bubble further bursts when your phone rings.

“Uh oh.” Harry frowns.

“I’m so sorry.” You frown right along with him. “This is my client that’s getting married next weekend. We’ve been having some vendor issues so I really have to take it.”

“I understand.” Of course he does, business is always a priority. He would know that better than most. “Take the call.”

“I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” Your phone is raised to your ear halfway to the front door, but you keep your voice low and do your best not to disturb other diners. It puts a damper on a perfectly lovely moment, but Anisa and Andy are a sweet couple and you inherited their event from a planner that left Dragonfly not too long ago. They deserve the care and attention of your professionalism.

Harry sits at the table, supremely aware that often times it is him that has to excuse himself from the table to take an urgent phone call. He can’t be upset about it. He smiles to himself as he pulls out his phone and taps the emails.

In less than the space of five minutes, you reappear at the table with your phone still in your hand but a pronounced frown on your face. “I’m so sorry…” Coffees have arrived at the table, but not dessert yet. “My bride is panicking and…she tried to call her venue with questions and just…” A weary sigh makes your shoulders slack. “I need to go straighten out the mess she made before she accidentally loses her venue or her block of booked rooms.”

“I can have my driver—” he cuts himself off, remembering that you had driven. “Then let me walk you to the car.” He stands up and motions the waiter over.

“I can drive you home,” you offer, knowing the end of this date is nothing like what you wanted. You’re supposed to be falling into his bed, not scurrying away hurriedly. “I’m going to your neighborhood anyway.”

“Okay. Let me pay the bill.” He agrees. “I’m sorry. We have to leave.” He tells the waiter as he comes over. “Please Give our dessert to someone and bring the check.”

“I have it here, sir.” Though the waiter seems perplexed he is professional, bringing the small leather folder out of his apron and not commenting when Harry hands over his card without so much as glancing at it.

“Thank you. Again, I apologize.” He picks up the cappuccino and hands it to you. “At least drink this while we wait for him to run the card.”

“This was not the end of the night I was hoping for.” He knows that, and you accept the cup that he hands to you with a small smile. It seems like you might be up for a while tonight and the caffeine will be good.

“Are you sure you can drop me?” He asks seriously. “I can always catch a cab.”

"That's asking if I'm willing to give up the last vestiges of our first date." He's right, though. While you are driving through Tribeca, it would be faster not to go through the middle of the area.

“There will be other dates.” He promises with a wink as the waiter brings back the slim folio book. “Do you want me to run and grab your car?” He asks as he signs and leaves a tip. “So you don’t have to rush in your heels?”

"Shall I have the valet?" The waiter begins to ask.

But you shake your head. "No, I can manage it. Thank you." With another nod and murmured thanks, the waiter disappears with the signed slip – Harry seemed barely to look at any of it, calculating a generous tip swiftly in his head. For Harry, you really wish you had something better to ask than, "Will you at least walk out with me?"

“I’ll walk with you to the garage.” He snorts. “Not gonna let you walk alone.”

"She's having anxiety over the details being just right. It isn't uncommon," you explain to him as you walk around together, turning up the block together the way you arrived almost an hour and a half ago. "It's just that she called the hotel where everything is happening and started making panicked demands for changes in such a way that the night manager to now threatening to cancel the thing altogether. If I can't smooth it out with him, I'll have to relocate an entire wedding in a week."

“That’s not good.” He winces, knowing that last minute wrenches in deals can always cause the entire thing to implode. “Hopefully cooler heads will prevail.”

"I'm hoping so." If not? You're confident, but relocating an entire wedding last minute is not something you have the resources for yet in New York. After inheriting this client from someone else, you would hate to pass her to a third.

“Let me know if I can help in any way.” He offers, not sure what he can do, but he would try.

"That's very sweet of you." And so is the arm he offers you, a comfortable place to rest your hand as you walk together. "But short of buying a hotel, I'm not sure what the solution will be."

“I don’t know if I could pull that off in a week.” He admits with a small laugh.

The two of you laugh together, but you put just a gentle touch of pressure to his arm and smile. "It's sweet of you to offer," you repeat sincerely. "And thank you for tonight."

“I should be thanking you.” He corrects with a smirk. “You asked me out, remember?” He huffs. “I distinctly remember being bowled over that this beautiful, confident woman hit on me and asked me out.”

"Oh hush." He certainly hadn't looked bowled over at the time. He had looked astonished and mildly amused.

He snorts playfully and reaches out to put his hand on your back. Your dress is silky against his palms and he wished that you didn’t have to rush off. “Doesn’t take compliments well.” He understands that, he doesn’t either.

“I’m sure Percy can tell you all of the tricks for dealing with me, if you need an insider tip.” It’s more that you’re just not used to receiving many compliments, but his hand on your back is better than any words you could conjure right now.

“I think I’d like to find out on my own.” He admits, turning to look at you with a small smirk. “Isn’t that the fun of dating?”

“Well, I think so.” And your cheeks burn with the idea that this could really go somewhere, despite the rocky end to tonight. “I just didn’t know if you did too.”

“I’ve decided that I will just take it one day, one discovery at a time.” He explains. “I’ve done the checklists and I didn’t like it.”

“Checklists are for packing,” you contend. “Not for people.”

Your car is so close that you’re practically cursing yourself for picking a convenient parking garage. “Are you coming to dinner tomorrow night? Before Percy and Tam take her parents to LA for the rest of the week?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.” Harry admits with a small smile. “Should I crash it?”

“Maybe.” Suddenly you’re beaming at him again. “Wanna be my plus one?”

“I can rearrange my plans.” He nods. “It was nothing but work anyway.”

“Okay.” The warmth in your face has you beaming at him as you reach your car. “I should get going but I’ll, um…I’ll text you the name of the restaurant and the time?”

“That sounds good.” He reaches over and opens the door for you. “Let me know when you get back home?” He asks, aware that you owe him nothing but he feels like someone should be looking out for you.

“I will.” Even though you still have a roommate for the time being — before Percy officially leaves to live with Tamara in LA — it’s nice to know that he wants you to be safe. That at least he’s thinking of you in terms of protectiveness.

Harry waits until you are backing out of the parking space before he pulls his phone out of his pocket to order an Uber. It’s easier than calling his driver.

It would have been a perfect night, even without going home together, if you’d just been able to indulge in a good night kiss. Next time, you promise yourself as you drive through the city streets, next time.

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slushycoookie · 3 days ago

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Between Two Worlds ~ Loser! Miguel O'Hara x Stripper! Reader (Pt.9)

★ Word Count: 4.2k

★ Content: Miguel and Reader womp like crazy. And spend the day together. They are horny as hell.

★ A/N: Let's ignore how long it's been since the last part. I hope you all enjoy!

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You're breathtaking when you snore.

The sound woke Miguel out of a peaceful sleep. Your snoring is light, not too heavy or raspy. Your lips part and a trickle of drool stains the pillow. Your nostrils flare with each breath you take.

Miguel wore you out last night. You passed out after he pressed your head against the mattress, watching himself easily slide in and out of you. Not letting you move a muscle and just take his cock.

At first, he got worried at your lack of response. His phone was immediately in his hand to call 911 when you fell limp. It wasn’t until the gentle lull in your slumber paired with a cute giggle that made him relax. Now he's faced with another dilemma.

He wants to go again.

Your body tangles against the sheets, giving him a view of your back. He reaches over and drags his fingertips along your spine. It makes you whine in your sleep and he’s half hard already.

Before Miguel can continue, he goes to the bathroom to freshen up.

He hones in on the hickey on his neck. One you gave him before he pinned you down. He smiles at the sight of your passion.

With a fresher breath and an erection, he goes back on the bed, hovering above you before leaning over and dragging his lips along your ear. Your breath hitches, your body shifting as he goes lower. The faintest touch of his lips against your nape. Your shoulder blades. Your spine. Your full ass.

“Miguel…” You stir, about to turn over before he stops you.

“Good morning.” He lifts up your hips, getting a clear view of your bottom. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yea-” You gasp as he buries his face into your cunt. Lapping at your clit, nose along your cheeks. You taste divine. Miguel didn’t know why it took so long to taste you. You were better than any meal he's ever had. And the mix of your salty sweat with the sweet scent of your lotion made it so much better.

He can spend all day here. Eating you out, making you cry below him while you call his name. You moan his name so sweetly, like a siren luring in her victim. The thing is you already have him. He's all yours.

He knows when you whine against the pillow. When he sucks your clit before pumping his fingers into you. Your thighs creating a perfect squeeze that makes cum leak out of him, beading around his tip.

“Oh, oh Miguel…fuck…” You grab the sheets, balling it in your hands when you orgasm. Shaking under his hold. He hums along your sex, giving it a few more licks before setting you down gently.

As Miguel pulls out another condom, you turn over to your side to gather your bearings. Trying to fully understand what happened.

He reaches down to kiss you, but you stop him with a hand over your mouth.

“Morning breath.”

“I don't care about that.”

“I do.”

Miguel pouts, reaching in your purse to get you a breath strip. You settle it on your tongue, giving it a bit before allowing him to kiss you.

The cool, minty freshness on his tongue as he grips a hand under your knee. He raises it, enough for him to see your glistening pussy in the sunlight. Miguel doesn’t waste time to slide into you.

Your mouth gapes, but no sound comes out. He groans and his grip tightens. Watching his cock slip in and out of you. You being able to take his large shaft so well.

He sets a slow pace.

He's obsessed at how you move when he moves. Body flowing like water. Your cunt so slippery and slick. He loves that about you. He loves everything about you.

You grip his shoulder when he picks up the pace, moaning beside him, trying to hold back by biting your lip. It's early, some people are still sleeping.

Miguel would be considerate, but not when you look like this. He pushes further, hitting your cervix and making you croon. Eyes rolled back, sex pulsing around him. God, you feel so good. He wants everyday to be like this with you.

“Right there…” Your back arches, toes curling when he hits your g-spot. He listens, not stopping and making you climax for him. Your still perfect nails scratch his skin. He silences your moans with a kiss all while still fucking you. In and out. In and out. In and out. Until he explodes, filling up the condom with his seed.

He doesn't stop kissing you. Not when you both come down from your high, lingering on the bed.

You decide to pull away, stabilizing your breaths, “That’s one way to wake me up.”

You two go get breakfast, arriving a little later because you couldn't get your hands off of each other. When Miguel heard your stomach growl, he knew it was time to put some food in you.

It was another spread like last time. You sitting next to him, happily eating, feeding him fruit and glowing. The sun rays from the tall windows reflecting your beauty. Hardly saying a word to each other, reveling in the silence.

Miguel feels lighter, less tense. He wants to say it's because he doesn't have the banquet hovering over his head again, but that wasn't the only reason.

Suddenly, you kiss his cheek.

“I hate that we have to go back today…” You pout, checking your phone of the time. “I still have to pack my bag and I'm so not looking forward to going back to my other job right now.

“Oh, we're leaving tomorrow.”

Your eyes widened, “Really?”

“Yes.” Miguel begins to smile but pauses, “Oh no, you have work tomorrow. I'm sorry, I didn't ask if you have enough time at work to be able to call out.”

You shake your head, feeding him a grape. “I work part time, remember? No time off. And I'll just call out tomorrow. They'll find somebody to take my shift.”

“Okay. As long as you won't get in trouble.”

“I won't.”

He's then rewarded with multiple kisses across his face.

“Thank you.”

“You don't need to thank me, I wanted to make you happy.”

“Oh, I'm very happy.” Your hand slides up to his arm, before taking it's rightful place through the back of his curls. Miguel’s eyes flutter when you tug on his hair. The blood already rushing to his cock from that simple touch. You're also gazing at him with a sharpness in your eyes. Ready to pounce on him in the chair.

So much for having clean sheets back in the hotel room.

“Did you want to do anything while we're here?” Miguel asks, wanting to know before he presses you against the mattress again. “We can walk around the lake, there's a trail back there where you can also feed the ducks.”

You immediately perk up, “Ooh, I want to feed the duckies!”

You hurry up to finish your food, which amuses him.

“We don’t have to rush, the trail is open all day.”

“Look at how many ducks are outside.”

When you point at the window, there's groups of ducks swimming out on the lake. Splashing around and soaking in the sun. A perfect time for duck feeding.

The hotel has bread laid out specifically for said activity. Miguel takes a few and leads you out by the lake.

This is what he should’ve done with you at the start.

No ex-fiancé's. No pesky bosses/biological fathers. Just him and you, spending time together, enjoying each other’s space. A mini getaway for the two of you.

That realization hits him when you giggle at the ducks swimming around, munching on the bread in the water. You try to make sure each of the ducks get their share. When a familiar duck comes back around for more, you chastise that they already had some before throwing the bread in a different direction, giving more ducks a chance to eat.

“You know they can’t understand you, right?”

“They absolutely can.” You point to the duck with a little white spot on its wing, “That one had three more pieces than the others. Just being greedy.”

Miguel chuckles, “Can’t really do anything about it.”

“Says who?”

You shout at that duck to move away, causing Miguel to laugh a bit harder than usual at your antics. The duck not paying you any mind and continuing to eat all it wants.

There were a few things Miguel didn’t get a chance to do this weekend. Go shopping in the luxurious strip mall that’s nearby. Or go to that dessert shop to grab some baked goods. He also wasn’t going to forget his mother’s macaroons.

He gets ready to open his mouth to pitch what he wants to do, but stops. Dana is waiting by the front desk. With the way the hotel is set up, it’s easy to miss anyone while making way to the elevators. Miguel wasn’t so lucky.

“Oh Miggy!” Dana waves at him, beckoning him to come over.

“Oh boy.” You say, reluctantly following behind him.

“Hi Dana.” Miguel greets. He sees her bags are packed on a luggage cart, “All packed up?”

“Yes. Tyler was eager to leave this morning.” She looks behind you two, “Are you heading out as well?”

“No, we decided to stay an extra day.”

“Oh.” Dana blinks for a second, “You’ve never done that with me.”

You cut in, hand tight around his, “We just wanted to enjoy the hotel a little while longer. Plus, we didn’t get much sleep last night, right baby?”

Miguel shyly chuckles when you latch closer to him, head on his shoulder and caressing his chest.

“Right. We were a little restless.”

Dana shifts, clutching her baby blue purse close to her. Her ears change to a red tint when she sees you tight on his arm.

“I see. Well, good for you! It’s nice to have an extra day to relax.”

“It is.”

“I guess while you stay here, we’re supposed to go to Vegas. The Tony Stark invited him for the day. In his penthouse suite! Can you believe that?”

Miguel holds his disdain at Dana’s excitement. First a banquet and now a mini investors meeting in Vegas? Is she not exhausted?

“I can believe that. I hope you enjoy yourself.” He says, “Get home safe too.”

“I will.” She gives him a heartfelt smile. He smiles back, despite the action not doing anything for him. No heart skip or stomach filled with butterflies.

Now it’s time to suggest places to go for the day. Dana's interruption wasn’t going to affect his day. Your suddenly phone rings right when he presses the button for the elevator. You immediately pull him to the side once you see who it is.

“Hi Ma.”

“Hi, my baby. Hi Miguel.” He gives her a kind greeting. “Are you two still packing up? You’re about to check out, right?”

“Oh, no we decided to stay an extra day. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“That’s sudden. Are you holding my child hostage?”

Miguel stutters, “N-No I’m not, I promise I will have her back tomorrow.”

Your mom laughs, her amusement filling a part of the lobby.

“I’m kidding, you’re fine.” He sighs of relief while you shake your head.

“Stop messing with him.”

“Okay, okay I will. I just miss you.”

“I miss you too. I’ll be home tomorrow, really. Miguel is taking care of me.”

You squeeze the hand he’s holding and that doesn’t stop him from grinning ear to ear.

“Good. You two have fun.”

“We will.” Miguel says.

“And don’t forget, no babies.”

You purse your lips before hastily saying goodbye to your mom, hanging up.

“Sorry, she’s going to keep saying that.”

“It’s fine.” He presses the button again for the elevator. “Safe sex is important. Your mom should advocate it.”

“Should she now?” You gaze at him up and down, the lust coming back in your eyes.

Miguel clears his throat, “Yes. It is better than us doing something one of us might regret. You did say you didn’t want any kids.”

“I did…” The elevator opens and you push him inside. He stumbles when you make your pursuit, the wall catching him. If anyone else wanted to get in that elevator , they’d have to take another one. Miguel’s face gets hot as you’re inches away from his face, nose to nose. “But I like making them.”

A necessary groan escapes him when you kiss him. He’s holding you close, submerging himself in you once more as the elevator goes up. His tongue against yours during the messy kiss. His hands palming your ass under your sweatpants.

Miguel decides your neck is his next target. His lips right above your pulse, giving it a sloppy suck that makes you croon. You’re grinding your hips along his erection, in a desperate attempt to feel more of him. He can just take you right here if he wants to.

“Wait.” He pulls away, quickly fixing his glasses to search the area. Before you could ask what’s wrong, he sees the little camera in the corner and he sighs.

“There’s a camera?”

“There’s a camera.”

You whine, reluctantly pulling away after a few more kisses. One of the few times Miguel’s patience is tested. He’d want nothing more than to sink inside you against the cool, gold wall of the elevator. With no condom in his pocket.

Housekeeping was a few carts down when Miguel led you back inside the room. The door was hardly closed when he was upon you. Your clothes gone, his bare body pressed against yours along the wall. That full ass of yours enticed him to put it in, but after a quick condom grab, he’s ready.

The head of his cock pushing through and filling you up all over again. One palm on the wall, the other on your hip as he made quick thrusts, knocking the air out of your legs. Your whimpers making his shaft throb along your walls. He’s breathing you in, nudging along your head after a buck of his hips. You’re completely locked in with no escape other than to climax for him.

“Mmh…Miggy…”

Miguel shudders, nails digging into your skin. He almost comes right there. The way you call him is so sweet. So delightful.

“S-Say that again.”

“Miggy…” You moan, your legs shaking with each thrust, “Miggy, you’re fucking me so good…”

He gasps, thrusts getting uncoordinated. It’d be too much to ask you to call him Miggy again. Not when your orgasm hits its peak, squeezing any last resistance he had from his length. His own climax filling up the barrier that prevents you from getting pregnant.

His lips press along your forehead before down to your cheeks, then your neck, then your shoulders. There’s already a small layer of sweat on your skin.

A good time for a shower.

Except for your time in the shower, you’re not even a minute in from washing up when Miguel has the idea of making you cry for him again. Playing with your wet pussy while making out with him as the hot water runs. His thumbs making circles on your clit, two fingers pumping into you with a similar rhythm.

You clutch on to his soaked skin, the whimpering and moaning music to his ears. He watches your lashes flutter every time he hits your g-spot. The sight makes his cock raise against your leg. When he helps you climax, he's fully erect once more.

Taking you in the shower is so tempting. The pull out method isn't the best way to make sure you don’t get pregnant, but he wants to see how good his odds are. All of that goes out the window when you get on your knees, his shaft now swallowed whole.

Miguel can’t remember the last time he's felt this relaxed. Actually, has he ever been this calm? Not worrying about anything else besides the hotel room he shares with you?

He doesn't dwell on it, not after the extensive shower he just had with you. Where once fully dressed, he offers to go out for a bit in the town.

You immediately say yes.

Miguel never lets go of your hand. He walks by your side when visiting the strip mall. Most stores there are of a high caliber, including famous brands.

He stops at the bakery to order macaroons for his mother. Her tastes vary on her current mood. Miguel remembers her mentioning she's enjoying a lot of orange lately, so he buys that.

You're admiring the small space, the pink colored walls being a fresh face amongst the sleek, black, modern establishments. The prices do match, however. His lips curl upwards at you pointing out how much a container of gourmet popcorn is.

“My mom would love that but jeez, it's so pricey.” You whisper when the cashier goes to the back to grab the macaroons.

“What flavor would she like?”

“The caramel. It's a sweet treat she enjoys now and then.”

“Would the rest of your family like that too?”

“They would eat anything as long as it's good.”

Miguel laughs before flagging the cashier down. He adds two containers of the triple mix popcorn, which contains caramel, white cheddar, and hot & spicy.

“I hope that's enough.” His brow furrows, “I wanna make sure they have plenty.”

“Oh my god, that's more than enough. You didn't have to do that.”

Before he could say he wanted to, his face is covered with lipstick marks. The vanilla scent you carry filling his nostrils as well. He doesn't want you to wipe off his face when you pull out a tissue, not caring how ridiculous he looked.

Most of the time was spent window shopping. How you said you liked certain stuff, but not enough to get it. Miguel understood. A lot of higher quality, expensive clothing hardly fit what he was into. He was okay with finding comfort over style. Although since you weren't buying anything, maybe taking you to the strip mall wasn't a good idea. If Dana didn't buy anything, it showed that she wasn't having fun.

“Are you enjoying yourself? We can go back if you aren't.”

You clutch to his arm while walking beside him, “What? I'm having a good time. Do I not look like I am?”

Miguel glanced away, “You aren't buying anything so I just thought…”

“I don't have to buy a bunch of stuff to have a good time. I'm with you.”

“Right, right. I'm sorry.”

“You’re okay, baby. Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry-” He bit his tongue, but you chortled at his flustered face.

The rest of the stay was spent relaxing.

After grabbing a late lunch/early dinner of gigantic hamburgers that neither of you could finish, it was spent watching TV. For like thirty minutes. Half way into this medical, comedy show, Miguel peeked at your shorts riding up on your ass. He dipped his finger into your waistband to pull them off completely. A hand fondling your full cheeks before he kisses you.

Miguel can’t explain how in this moment, you're all he wants to focus on. All he wants to hold and kiss. As if he's slowly allowing himself to be with you and not think about Dana.

He knows you're different from her. After he satisfies you again, you go back to watching TV, snuggled up next to him when he pulls out his phone. Candy Blast plays and Miguel unconsciously cringes at the opening synthesized music.

The scrutinizing words of, “You’re playing that game again?” cloud his mind. He pauses, thinking about putting the phone away so he doesn't bother you. The game quickly captures your attention as you see the loading screen of a cute blue alien when he selects a level.

“Ooh are you playing that game that you like?”

He nods, “I need to play some rounds to keep my place on the scoreboard.” Miguel’s finger hovers above the screen. “I'm disturbing you, aren't I? I can play tomorrow instead…”

“No, you’re fine!” You latch on to him tighter, “We're not doing anything so go ahead.”

Miguel swallows, not saying anything when he decides to check his place on the scoreboard. Margo wouldn't be pleased if she finds out he's now in sixth place. Lucky for him, it's an easy fix.

“Who’s SpiderByte?”

“That's Margo. She's an intern at the company.”

You let out a whistle at her being in third place. “Isn’t she fifteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Damn. And I was worried about if my science fair project was good enough at that age.”

Miguel chuckles, “I'm sure it was.”

“I was recording the stages of a banana. It was not.”

He pulls you in closer while he starts up a level.

“Does that say level 436?”

“Yes.”

“My grandma is on level 85. Or 86, I don't remember.”

“Your grandma has skill.”

With ease, Miguel swipes along the candies shaped like various planets. The little blue alien on the bottom right corner cheering when he gets perfect matches. A bar filling up on the right to it's rocket ship. Once it fills up, the rocket ship blasts off and destroys an area on the board that he selects.

The letters ‘Candy Blast’ hover across the screen, before the entire board clears out, showing that he’s won.

“You did that in less than five minutes.”

Miguel smiles, “It was an easy level. I was lucky to have the purple candies in a good spot to start which then sets up a five candy combo with the yellow swirlies.”

“But I saw you do that move with the blue ones…”

“Yeah, it was risky. Sometimes when I do the match with the blue, I get black holes. Which makes it a hundred times harder if I don't have any rockets. But I was able to get two in the same row which helped a lot with those black holes and I was able to achieve a candy blast.”

Miguel freezes when you look at him with an unknown expression. Your eyes lowered, lips pressed in a flat line.

“I'm sorry I was talking too much about it, wasn't I? I can stop.”

“No, don't stop. Keep going. I like listening to you.”

He immediately sat up, his eyes wide in surprise. “Really? Dana didn't like when I talked about it so I didn't want to bother you.”

Your face doesn't hesitate in frowning at the mention of her name, but it doesn't kill the mood.

“You’re not bothering me, Miguel. In fact…” Your fingertips trace his chest, “I think it's attractive.”

Miguel should be embarrassed at how his dick immediately stood up. That lustful gaze in your eyes expressed that you are genuine. This was new.

“You…think it's attractive?”

“I do.”

Of course his arousal doesn’t go missed when you pull up the covers. He can't take his eyes off of you when you move closer to his shaft.

“My nerdy man. Who's so good at this game that's he's in the top ten. That's so impressive.”

Miguel tries not to focus on his cock getting harder from your praise. “You think so?”

“Yeah…” You circle your nail on his thigh, so close to his shaft. “You should talk more about it while I suck you off.”

“Wouldn’t that be difficult?”

Miguel hitches a breath when you pull back his hood, licking some pre cum off the tip.

“We won't know unless you try.”

Turns out it wasn't difficult at first. He went on to explain the inner workings of his favorite game, going over the mechanics and tricks when seeing certain features on levels. While your pretty lips wrapped around his thick cock, saliva coating his length, setting a moderate pace that was borderline unbearable.

“What happens…when you mix five red and five blue together?” You’re cupping his balls and feathering his leaky tip with kisses. Remnants of his cum sticking to your upper lip.

“Oh you get…hmm…y-you get a-aah…”

Miguel’s breathing increases, words passing by as you're taking him completely in your mouth again. You stop at his base while looking up at him. He didn't finish his sentence.

“M-Mixing them together, hah, means you get a, hmm a…asupernova.”

He mutters, gripping the back of your neck, face filled with awe as you're deep throating him. Getting him to coat you with his cum. It doesn't take him long. His seed shooting down your throat.

Miguel pulls you off for a kiss, pushing you down on the mattress and going in between your legs.

“Give me a minute to get hard again.” He says, a leg around his waist.

“Oh my god.” You giggle when he kisses your face while gripping your thigh.

Miguel ignores his phone buzzing when he's on top of you. He'll make sure the cleaning staff gets a nice tip after everything.

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