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welcome to my little world !! I'm Akira. eigthteen. she/her. black. sagittarius. actress 'nd ballerina. Apollo's devote. writer when something comes to mind. requests are open !!
well, now that I know you're still writing for Olivia and Louis, I have some ideas. one could be inspired by the time Louis and Olivia went to the tennis match together; they could go with the reader and her fans would be dying of love for the three of them.
and the other one would be something where the reader is like a physics whiz (she's studying that at university) and Olivia and Louis love it when she's studying because they say she looks sexy. they too might be so proud of their girlfriend, and they'd be saying things like, "you know, my girlfriend is so smart and beautiful," they would be like, super in love with her
love means nothing (not a game)
love means nothing (not a game)
c.ai bot link at the end.
olivia rodrigo x louis partridge x fem!reader
warnings: fluff, established poly relationship, mild suggestiveness, pet names, reader is a tennis girly
word count: 1962
You're pretty sure your face hurts from smiling.
Not that you're complaining — not when the sun is hitting the Centre Court just right, not when the strawberries and cream on your lap are actually as good as everyone said they'd be, and certainly not when Olivia's hand keeps finding your knee under the shared blanket every time the player on the left misses a volley.
"You're doing that thing again," Louis murmurs from your other side, lips brushing your ear.
"What thing?"
"That thing where you look like you're about to combust from happiness but you're also trying to play it cool."
You turn your head just enough to catch the smirk playing on his mouth. He's unfairly pretty today — the navy Prada blazer hugging his shoulders, the wine-colored tie that matches the red of Olivia's gingham dress, his hair pushed back from his face like he just ran his fingers through it.
"I am playing it cool," you whisper back. "This is me playing it cool."
Louis snorts. Olivia leans forward to look past you, raising an eyebrow at both of you. "What are you two gossiping about?"
"Your girlfriend's about to explode," Louis says.
"I am not—"
"She keeps touching my knee," Olivia cuts you off, deadpan, "and I think she forgot we're being photographed by like, fifty different people."
Your stomach does a little flip.
Right. The cameras. The Royal Box. The fact that you're sitting here, in the most exclusive seats at Wimbledon, sandwiched between two of the most recognizable faces on the planet, and every few seconds you catch the distant click-whir of telephoto lenses from across the court.
You'd known this would happen, logically. When Olivia asked if you wanted to come with them — "it's just tennis, baby, we'll be in a box, it's not a big deal" — you'd mentally prepared yourself for the possibility of being seen. Of being noticed.
What you hadn't prepared for was how nice it would feel.
Not the cameras. Not the attention. But them.
The way Louis had showed up at your flat that morning with a garment bag over his shoulder and a sheepish grin. "Thought you might need something to wear." Inside: a cream linen blazer, a soft silk shell top, and tailored shorts that somehow managed to look both elegant and effortless. "Olivia picked the top. I did the rest."
The way Olivia had texted you an hour later, a selfie of her in the red gingham dress with a caption that just said: matchy matchy? followed by approximately seventeen heart emojis in varying shades of pink.
The way they'd both gone quiet when you opened the door, fully dressed, and Louis had whistled low and Olivia had said "oh, shit" like she'd forgotten how to breathe.
And now you're here. In the Royal Box. With your people.
"You're staring into space again," Olivia says, poking your thigh.
"Sorry. Just — look at this." You gesture vaguely at everything: the impossible green of the court, the hush of the crowd, the way the summer light filters through the roof panels and turns everything gold. "This is insane. We're at Wimbledon."
"We're at Wimbledon every year," Louis says, amused.
"You're at Wimbledon every year. I'm the one who plays tennis at 7 AM on a Saturday. I'm just..." You exhale, shaking your head at yourself. "I'm being weird. Ignore me."
"We're not going to ignore you," Louis says simply. His hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers lacing together. "That's kind of the whole point of bringing you along, love."
And — okay. Maybe your face hurts from smiling for a different reason now.
———
The match itself is good. Really good. You're not a professional — you'll never be a professional, you're too old and too late and too something for that — but you've been playing since you were twelve, sneaking onto the high school courts after hours, joining rec leagues just to feel the thwack of a racket connecting with something solid. You know tennis the way some people know poetry: not academically, but viscerally.
So when the rally stretches past twenty shots, when the players are sliding and grunting and pushing each other to the absolute limit, you forget about the cameras. You forget about the whispers from the row behind you, the not-so-subtle glances from other guests, the fact that your name is probably trending somewhere on Twitter right now.
You just watch.
And then — a drop shot. Perfectly executed, barely clearing the net, dying on the grass like it was always meant to be there. The opposing player doesn't even try to run for it. Just stands there, racket hanging at his side, watching the ball bounce twice.
You let out a noise — something between a gasp and a groan — and both Olivia and Louis turn to look at you.
"You okay?" Louis asks.
"That was filthy," you say, genuinely distressed. "That was — he just — how do you even defend against that? You don't. You just stand there and die."
Olivia laughs. It's loud and bright and completely un-self-conscious, the kind of laugh she only does when she's forgotten anyone's watching.
"You're such a nerd," she says, fond.
"I'm passionate."
"Same thing."
She leans over and kisses your cheek — quick, casual, like it's nothing. Like there aren't a hundred people in this box and thousands more watching from home.
Your heart does something complicated in your chest.
Behind you, someone whispers "oh my god, did you see that?"
Louis squeezes your hand. "Told you you'd combust."
"Shut up."
"You're blushing."
"It's sunburn."
"In the shade?"
You glare at him. He grins, unrepentant, and reaches across you to steal a strawberry from Olivia's plate.
"You're both insufferable," you announce.
"And yet," Olivia says, popping the last of her Pimm's into her mouth, "you're still here."
———
Between matches, Louis disappears to find more drinks, and Olivia pulls out her phone to scroll through — something. Twitter, probably. Or Instagram. You try not to look, because you know what's on there, and you're not sure you're ready to see it.
"You're doing it again," Olivia says without looking up.
"Doing what?"
"Overthinking."
"I'm not —" You stop. Sigh. "Okay, maybe a little."
She locks her phone and turns to face you fully, one leg folding under her on the velvet-cushioned seat. Up close, you can see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her mascara has smudged just slightly at the corners from the heat.
"What's going on in that head of yours?"
You chew on your bottom lip. "I don't want to make things weird."
"Things are already weird. We're dating two people at once and my ex-boyfriend's fans still send me death threats on a weekly basis. 'Weird' is our baseline."
A laugh escapes you despite yourself. "Okay, fair."
"So talk."
You look down at your hands — at the silver ring on your middle finger that Louis gave you for your birthday, at the faint calluses on your palm from gripping a racket. "I just — I don't want people to think I'm using you. Either of you. For clout or whatever. Like I'm just... here because you're famous and I want to be seen."
Olivia's quiet for a moment. Then she reaches out and tilts your chin up with one finger.
"Baby," she says, soft. "You hate being seen."
"I don't hate —"
"You literally wore a bucket hat and sunglasses to go get coffee with me last week. Inside the coffee shop."
"That's called fashion."
"That's called 'I don't want anyone to recognize me.'" She smiles, small and real. "Nobody who's using us for clout wears yesterday's gym clothes to brunch, okay? Trust me. I've met those people."
You want to argue. You want to say something witty, something self-deprecating, something that deflects.
Instead, you just say: "I really like you. Both of you. Like, stupid like."
Olivia's smile widens. "We know."
"Stupid."
"We know."
She kisses you then — not on the cheek this time, but on the mouth. Brief. Sweet. Tasting like strawberries and something floral from her drink.
When she pulls back, Louis is standing at the edge of the row with three glasses balanced in his hands and an expression of exaggerated patience. "Am I interrupting?"
"Yes," Olivia says.
"No," you say at the same time.
Louis hands you both your drinks and slides back into his seat, thigh pressing against yours. "Good. I'd hate to miss the show."
———
The second match is tighter. More aggressive. The players are younger, hungrier, and they go after every point like it's the last one they'll ever play.
You're on the edge of your seat, fingers digging into Louis's knee without realizing it, your whole body tracking the ball like you're the one out there on the grass. "Relax," Louis murmurs.
"I can't."
"Your shoulders are up by your ears."
"That's because his shoulders should be up by his ears — he's not rotating through his core at all —"
Louis exchanges a look with Olivia over your head. You can feel it, even if you can't see it.
"Should we be concerned?" Olivia stage-whispers.
"She's always like this," Louis says. "Remember the US Open final? She nearly threw my phone across the room."
"That was one time."
"You called the chair umpire a word I'd never heard before."
"It was a bad call."
Olivia laughs again, and this time, a few people in the row ahead turn to look. You see one woman nudge her husband, nodding in your direction. See a younger guy — early twenties, maybe — pull out his phone and angle it, not even trying to be subtle.
Your first instinct is to shrink. To hide your face, turn away, become smaller.
But then Louis's hand lands on your thigh, warm and grounding. And Olivia leans her head against your shoulder, her hair tickling your neck. And you think: this is mine. This is real. This is not something I have to apologize for.
Instead, you lift your chin. Let the camera catch whatever it's going to catch. And go back to watching the tennis.
———
Later — much later, after the matches are over, after the sun has started to dip toward the horizon and the crowds have thinned out — the three of you walk back to the car.
Louis has his arm slung around your shoulders. Olivia has her hand in your back pocket, because she knows it makes you squirm.
"You know," Olivia says, "we should do this more often."
"Do what? Get photographed by fifty different tabloids?"
"No. Go out. Be normal. Well — our version of normal."
Louis hums in agreement. "It's nice, isn't it? Not hiding."
You think about it. About the looks, the whispers, the comments you'll probably never read because you have better things to do with your time. About the way Olivia's fans — your fans now, weirdly — have already started making edits of the three of you, set to her songs, set to songs that aren't hers, set to songs you've never even heard before.
About the way none of that actually matters, compared to this: the three of you, walking through a London evening, tired and happy and together.
"Yeah," you say finally, squeezing Louis's waist with the arm you've got around him. "It is."
Olivia grins. Louis presses a kiss to the top of your head.
And somewhere behind you, you swear you hear the faint click of a camera shutter.
Let them watch.
end notes: based on the wimbledon 2025 appearance + the bbc interview where olivia said her wedding song would be "i melt with you" by modern english. reader plays tennis because i said so. title from the same song because i'm nothing if not predictable. 💕
Chat with Louis and Olivia: ✭ | love means nothing (not a game). Powered by an industry leading, AI large language model (LLM).
warnings? Psychological trauma, morally gray dynamics, mentions of violence, mentions of bullying. consensual throuple
summary. After an unspoken vow binds you together, the three of you choose devotion over innocence, and silence over forgiveness.
The night hangs low over Seoul, heavy and bruised, like it remembers things it never healed from. Streetlights smear across wet asphalt, stretching themselves thin on the hood of the car. The engine hums quietly, steady, patient, the kind of sound that doesn’t ask questions. It just stays.
Inside the car, the air smells like rain that hasn’t fully left yet, mixed with Yeo-jeong’s clean, expensive soap and something faintly bitter, like coffee that’s gone cold. And then there’s you. Warm. Alive. Carrying a scent that isn’t perfume, just proof that you’re here.
Moon Dong-eun sits in the passenger seat, spine straight, hands folded in her lap like she’s holding something sharp and familiar. You’re in the backseat, leaning forward slightly, elbows on your thighs, watching both of them through the rearview mirror. It’s funny how mirrors tell the truth when people don’t mean to. The tension in their jaws. The way no one’s really relaxed.
The silence isn’t empty.
It’s loaded.
Rain starts again, light taps against the roof, soft but insistent. Dong-eun speaks without looking at him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her voice is calm, controlled, the kind that comes from rehearsing a question too many times. Yeo-jeong doesn’t answer right away. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, precise, deliberate. You notice everything about him. You always have.
“About Myeong-oh?” he asks, already knowing.
Dong-eun nods. Her gaze drifts to the window, follows a raindrop sliding down the glass.
“Did you think,” she pauses, just barely, “that I did it?”
The question lands hard. You feel it in your chest, like a bruise being pressed. Myeong-oh lives in all of you, whether anyone says his name or not. You know that better than anyone.
The car keeps moving. Yeo-jeong finally speaks.
“Executioners don’t question the people above them.”
Flat. Simple. No drama. And yet, devotion hums underneath it, quiet and terrifying. You feel it. Dong-eun feels it too. That’s why she finally turns to look at him.
“So you don’t care,” she says. “What I did. Or what I want.”
He exhales through his nose, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m here to do what you ask.”
Your throat tightens.
Because you know that answer isn’t just for her.
Dong-eun studies him like he’s a variable she didn’t account for. Something dangerous. Something sincere.
“Who am I to you,” she asks, “that you’d go that far?”
The car slows at a red light. The glow washes over all three of you, painting everything blood-warm. Yeo-jeong takes the moment.
“When my life was falling apart,” he says quietly, “when everything in me was just anger with nowhere to go… I met you.”
He looks at her. Then at you, in the mirror. He doesn’t look away.
“Tutoring you made me feel like I mattered,” he continues. “Like I was useful. Like maybe… I was being saved too.”
Your fingers curl into your palm. Because you were there. Watching. Carrying your own version of the same damage. Different scars. Same source.
“I chose to be your partner in crime,” he finishes. “Both of yours.”
Dong-eun lets out a short, breathless laugh.
“You’re insane.”
“I know,” he says easily. “You just have to let me be.”
The light turns green. The car moves again.
Something shifts after that. You feel it, in the way Dong-eun finally relaxes her hands, in the way Yeo-jeong adjusts the mirror, casual, intimate. Like this is already settled in his mind.
“And me?” you ask before you can stop yourself. It’s not jealousy. It’s truth.
Yeo-jeong answers immediately.
“You always knew who I was,” he says softly. “And you stayed anyway.”
Dong-eun turns to you then. Her gaze is sharp, searching, but not cold. Recognition lives there.
“We were all broken,” she says. “Not the same way. But enough.”
The car pulls over at a lookout above the city. The rain has stopped. The air is damp, cool, heavy with electricity. Yeo-jeong turns off the engine.
You step out first. The wind kisses your face, clears something inside your lungs. Dong-eun comes to stand beside you, close, not touching, but close enough to matter. Yeo-jeong joins you, solid at your back.
“This isn’t normal,” you say quietly.
“Good,” Dong-eun replies.
Yeo-jeong reaches for your hand. You take it. Dong-eun hesitates for only a second before lacing her fingers through both of yours.
The touch isn’t dramatic. It’s steady. Certain.
Under a city that doesn’t know your names, the three of you stand there
summary. After Yeo-jeong’s intense promise to Dong-eun, you step back, feeling out of place in their world. Disappearing from their lives, you find yourself lost in the silence of your absence.
sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language.
The rain starts soft, almost polite, like it’s asking permission before touching the window. It turns into a steady tapping soon enough, uneven, persistent. The apartment smells like cold coffee and old books, paper that’s been handled too many times, notes folded and unfolded until the creases stay forever. The lamp is on, low and warm, not enough to light the whole room. Just enough to cast long shadows that stretch across the floor.
You’re there.
But not fully.
The moment is still living inside you, pulsing like a fresh bruise.
Moon Dong-eun sitting straight-backed, as always, not out of confidence, but discipline. A body that learned early that softness invites damage. Her face calm, unreadable, like frozen water hiding something lethal underneath. She didn’t ask for help. She never does. She laid out the plan the way she always does, quietly, cleanly, as if it were already inevitable.
And Joo Yeo-jeong…
You remember the smile first. Not the bright, boyish one he wears like armor, but the other one. The crooked, dangerous one. The one that appears when something inside him finally clicks into place. His eyes were sharp, curious in that unsettling, clinical way.
“I’ll do it.”
The words land heavy. You feel them in your stomach before your mind catches up.
“I’ll be your executioner. I’ll join the hunt. Just tell me. What should I do first? What do you want next? Who can I kill for you right now?”
He says it calmly. No theatrics. No hesitation. Like someone who’s finally found purpose.
You’re there.
And he looks at you too, brief, almost accidental, like he’s checking if you’re still standing where you were moments ago. Like he wants you inside that invisible line now binding the three of you.
And that’s when it hits.
Dong-eun and Yeo-jeong fit together in that specific shape of darkness. They recognize each other in the wound. In the patience. In the way hatred can be cultivated instead of exploded. You feel love there, real, intense, but you also feel the shift. Like standing inside a ritual that was never meant for you to lead.
You smile. Small. Tired. Real.
“I wish you both happiness.”
Your voice doesn’t shake. You don’t dramatize it. You don’t ask questions or demand reassurance. You step back with the kind of grace that only comes from understanding when love means letting go.
And then you disappear.
Messages go unanswered. Calls ring until silence. Your usual places miss you. Your name turns into absence. And your silence becomes loud.
Dong-eun has always lived in waiting. Waiting for the right timing. Waiting for cracks. Waiting for pain to sharpen into something useful. But your absence doesn’t belong in the plan. She notices it in the small things, the empty chair, the coffee going cold untouched, the way her eyes drift to her phone without reason.
She doesn’t ask right away. She never chases. Still, there’s an irritation she can’t name. Something off. Something unresolved.
Yeo-jeong feels it faster.
He feels it in the kitchen that’s suddenly too quiet. In the automatic habit of making three cups of coffee and freezing halfway through. In the urge to share something meaningless and having no one to turn to. Your absence doesn’t anger him, it unsettles him. And that bothers him more.
“Do you think I crossed a line?” he asks one night, too casual.
Dong-eun knows exactly what he means.
“No,” she says after a pause. “But I think we hurt someone without meaning to.”
She doesn’t say your name. She doesn’t have to.
The rain returns later that week, heavier. Yeo-jeong drives without a clear destination until the streets start to look familiar. The building is old, narrow hallways, smells like damp concrete and cheap cleaner. He takes the stairs. His heartbeat feels louder than it should.
He knocks.
You take your time. When you open the door, cold air rushes in with him. Your eyes widen for half a second, surprise, quickly buried.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, not unkind.
“I know,” he replies. “But we are.”
Books scattered. A blanket on the couch. A mug still warm. You weren’t hiding. You were just… living without them.
Dong-eun arrives soon after. Quiet, as ever. She observes before speaking, your guarded posture, the tiredness in your eyes, the way your arms cross instinctively.
“You disappeared,” she says.
“I needed air,” you answer. “And I thought you did too.”
The silence that follows is thick, but not hostile.
Yeo-jeong steps closer. Not invading. Just enough for you to feel his warmth, the faint scent of rain and soap.
“You thought there was no place for you,” he says, honest in that sharp, dangerous way of his. “You were wrong.”
Dong-eun moves closer too. She doesn’t touch you right away. When she does, it’s careful, cold fingers wrapping around your wrist.
“I don’t know how to love gently,” she admits. “But I know when something matters more than it should.”
Your throat tightens. The ache loosens just a bit.
“I didn’t want to intrude,” you confess. “What you have… it’s deep. It felt sacred.”
Yeo-jeong smiles, soft, sad.
“There’s nothing sacred without choice,” he says. “And I chose you too.”
Dong-eun tilts her head, eyes steady on yours.
“We did.”
The rain outside slows. The world feels suspended, waiting.
You don’t cry. You don’t overthink it. You step forward, and that’s enough.
The touch is slow. Hands meeting. Shoulders easing. No rush. No grand promises. Just the strange, quiet relief of alignment.
Three lines. Not competing. Connected.
By the end of the night, there’s fresh coffee, shared blankets, comfortable silence. The pain isn’t gone. Neither is the plan. Neither is the darkness.
But something real has settled between you.
And for the first time in a while,
you don’t feel like you’re standing in the wrong place.
I've watched The Glory several times and never found any fanfiction featuring my husband and wife, even without self-insertion. Think I'll have to do it 🤔.
I mean both at the same time, long life to the throuples.
edit: I actually write for them now. click here or just in the tag (#joo ye jeong x reader x moon dong eun) to check my works 🫶. I have oneshots and character ai bots.
summary: Just you, your girlfriend, the water, and the slow realization that love can be this easy.
warnings: none. relationship already established.
(sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language.)
The sun is already sliding slowly across the sky when she steps outside, like even the daylight is too tired to move fast today. The pool looks almost unreal, that quiet shade of blue that feels like someone poured liquid sky into a rectangle and said here, rest in this.
You’re already there, toes dipped in the warm water, hair still damp from the chaos of this morning’s photoshoot. Your shoulders ache in that annoying way that comes from holding too many poses while pretending they’re effortless. The world feels slightly buzzy behind your eyes, leftover adrenaline mixed with the exhaustion you only notice once everything stops.
But then she shows up, and the buzz turns soft.
Lily walks out of the house wearing one of those breezy skirts she “accidentally stole” from the shoot, pleated, too pretty for its own good, slightly wrinkled, giving her that effortless LA-French-girl-morning-after look. Her hair’s wet and messy and perfect in that way she never tries for. Sun hits her cheekbones like it’s obsessed with her.
She sees you. And she grins.
Not the public smile. Not the red-carpet smirk. Something tiny, lazy, warm, like she just woke up from a nap and you’re the first soft thing she sees.
“Hey, baby,” she says, voice still sleepy, raspy in a way that makes your spine soften. She flops into the lounge chair like a cat who has decided gravity was invented purely to annoy her.
You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. She gives you that look, that come here, I missed you even though we were together all morning look, and it spreads through your chest like warm honey.
You slip into the pool again, letting the water swallow your body slowly. Everything loosens. The sunlight paints shimmers across your arms; your heartbeat syncs with the lazy hush of water. You float for a moment, eyes half closed, feeling the world melt down into something soft and manageable.
When you look up, she’s watching you.
Head tilted. Lip caught gently between her teeth. Fingers playing with the hem of that stolen skirt.
“You look cute,” she says. “Like… stupidly cute.”
You snort and splash water at her, and she gasps dramatically like she’s in a silent film from the twenties. “Wow. Abuse. Wow.”
“You’ll live,” you whisper.
She slides off the chair and crawls toward the edge of the pool, her knees pressing into the warm stone. The tips of her hair almost graze the water. She’s close enough now that you can see tiny droplets clinging to her collarbone.
“Come here,” she says quietly.
You don’t even try to resist. You swim until your elbows rest on the ledge and her hands find your face, soft, warm, sliding from your cheeks to your neck like she’s memorizing the shape of you all over again.
She leans in and kisses you.
Slow. Easy. Like she’s not kissing you for the first time today but kissing you again just to remind herself that she can.
The world goes warm and blurry.
When she pulls back, her lips brush yours in this ghostlike way that makes your breath hitch.
“You wanna get out?” she murmurs.
You shake your head. “Get in.”
She laughs, a soft little giggle that feels like sunlight breaking. “Fine. But if this skirt dies, I’m blaming you.”
She steps into the pool, still wearing the skirt, because of course she does. It floats around her like a cloud that forgot how physics works. Her hands find your waist underwater, pulling you closer, legs brushing yours in slow, lazy motions. Her skin is warm against the cool water, the contrast making you shiver.
“You’re cold,” she whispers.
“I’m under water,” you mumble back.
“Okay, fair.”
She kisses your forehead, then your eyelids, then the tip of your nose. Every touch feels small and intimate, like she’s speaking in a language only your body understands.
After a few minutes she sighs dramatically and drapes herself over you. Full weight. No mercy.
“Lily,” you laugh, “I’m drowning.”
“You’re fine,” she mumbles into your shoulder, refusing to move. “Shhh. Let me be clingy. I had to share you with like seven people and three cameras today.”
You hold her up, giggling, and her arms wrap around your neck, tight, needy, possessive in that adorable way she only lets herself be when you’re alone.
“God, you’re warm,” she whispers.
“You’re heavy.”
“You love it.”
You do. More than you’d ever admit out loud.
Eventually you guide her toward the edge, both of you sliding out of the pool and collapsing onto the lounge chair together, not gracefully, not elegantly, just two tired girls falling into a pile of limbs and laughter.
Her head drops onto your chest. You smell sun, chlorine, her perfume, something soft and sweet and familiar.
You start tracing shapes on her back. Lazy hearts. Tiny circles. She hums against your skin.
“I missed you,” she says suddenly.
“You saw me all day.”
“Yeah, but you were in work mode. I wanted you-you.”
You kiss the top of her head. “I’m here.”
She cuddles closer, throwing one leg over your thigh, entire body melting into yours. “Good.”
The two of you stay like that for long minutes, maybe hours, breathing together, watching clouds drift like shy ghosts across the late afternoon sky. A dragonfly buzzes by. The pool water makes soft, slow sounds, like it’s whispering secrets you’ll never need to decode.
Lily’s fingers start playing with the hem of your bikini top absentmindedly.
Not sexual. Just soft. Sleepy. Comfortable.
She looks up at you with those eyes, hazy, warm, a little mischievous.
“Wanna take a nap with me?” she murmurs.
You smile, already half asleep. “Yeah.”
She grabs a towel, spreads it messily across the chair, and pulls you down with her. The heat of her leg intertwined with yours makes your chest ache in that gentle, stupid way love does.
Her breathing slows.
Her fingers stay tangled in yours.
The sky turns gold around you, then pink, then a pale shade of lavender that looks like it fell straight out of a Sofia Coppola film.
Before she falls asleep completely, she whispers, barely audible, “Promise you’ll stay when I wake up.”
You squeeze her hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She smiles. small, satisfied, soft. The kind of smile that looks like a secret only the two of you share.
Olivia Rodrigo × fem reader × Louis Partridge (c.ai bot)
Fluff | semi-smut
word count: 5.783
summary: You, Olivia and Louis, after a Grammy and a BAFTA, meet in the dark corner of a VIP afterparty — all three glowing, sweaty with desire and victory. Amidst laughter, glances, and raised glasses, a collective kiss happens... and a flash immortalizes it.
warnings: semi-smut I guess? (it's just a kiss between a throuple). Throuple relationship already established.
(sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language. I'm really obsessed with them, god.)
The buzz of the afterparty was electric—an intoxicating blend of laughter, clinking champagne flutes, and the pulsing beat of an invisible DJ. Velvet ropes opened into a cavernous loft, its walls draped in shimmering sequins and strands of fairy lights that cast a soft, dreamy glow over the VIP crowd. Celebrities drifted by in glittering gowns and impeccably tailored tuxedos; cameras flashed, and the air smelled of expensive champagne and anticipation.
You stood tucked against a pillar near the bar, your heart fluttering like a caged bird. You’d flown in from a whirlwind tour supporting Olivia after her Grammy win, still buzzing from her radiant speech. Louis had just taken home a BAFTA for his breakout role, and now the two of them—your two loves—were laughing together by the champagne fountain, their joy as bright as the sequins on the wall.
Tonight wasn’t about red carpets or acceptance speeches, though. Tonight was about you three.
You smoothed the bodice of your slinky, blush-pink dress—soft tulle layered over a silk slip—and took a sip of champagne, the bubbles a fizzy relief on your tongue. From the corner of your eye, you watched Olivia —her long, brunnet hair gleaming under the lights, her eyes alight with triumph— beckon Louis nearer. He obliged, his dark curls bouncing as he laughed at something she whispered.
A thrill pulsed through your chest. You set down your flute and wove through the crowd, feeling like a secret star navigating the galaxy of VIPs. A cluster of paparazzi at the entrance angled their lenses, but you slipped past their gaze, hearts racing. You drew close to Olivia and Louis, who parted just enough for you to step into their orbit.
“Hey,” you murmured, voice low and warm. Olivia turned first, her Grammy statuette still cradled in her hand. She smiled —a soft, glowing curve of her lips— as she met your eyes. Louis’s gaze followed, dark and tender.
“Perfect timing,” Olivia whispered, dipping a hand into yours. “We were just talking about you.”
Louis wrapped an arm around both of you, his eyes lingering on your lips before darting back to yours. “I think the real celebration hasn’t started yet.”
The DJ’s beat softened for a breath, and in that sliver of quiet, the world contracted down to the three of you. Olivia’s fingers splayed across your hip, Louis’s thumb brushed your wrist. Heat hummed between your bodies, a silent current of desire. You could feel it pulsing in your veins, calling you closer.
“Let’s get out of here,” you breathed.
They nodded, their smiles conspiratorial. Olivia led you past a curtain of beaded strands into a private side chamber—an intimate lounge draped in velvet, lit by a single chandelier that scattered diamonds of light across the dark walls. A plush chaise sat against one wall, a low table held untouched flutes of champagne.
Louis closed the curtain behind you. And then, without a word, the three of you gravitated together, as inevitable as magnets.
First, Olivia’s lips found yours —soft, confident, the taste of Champagne and triumph. Her hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, and your breath hitched. Next, Louis leaned in, his lips brushing your neck, then flicking softly against your jaw, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. You melted into him, your fingers pressing into his chest, feeling the rapid roll of his heartbeat.
They moved in unison —Olivia tracing soothing patterns across your back, Louis’s warm breaths teasing your ear. Your fingers threaded through theirs as you sank onto the chaise, tulle pooling around you. Louis settled at your side, Olivia curled against your other arm, and for a moment, the three of you were perfectly entangled —bodies and hearts entwined, a single constellation of desire.
Then, with a gentle pull, Olivia drew Louis down beside her, and she turned, brushing her lips slowly, deliberately against his. You traced the arch of her back, feeling the silk of her gown beneath your fingertips. Louis moaned softly, tilting his head back to open himself to her kiss. The three of you became a y-shaped symphony of longing and tenderness, each kiss a verse in a poem only the three of you would understand.
When you finally broke apart, breathless, the lights from under the curtain glinted on the camera lens of a lone paparazzo who’d slipped in. His flash went off once, twice, snapping: CLICK! CLICK!
Time stopped. You three froze, breaths suspended. For a heartbeat, panic fluttered—until Louis laughed, a low, delighted sound. Olivia giggled, draping an arm across your shoulder. You raised your champagne flute in a salute to the lens.
“Worth it,” you whispered, voices overlapping in a harmonious chorus.
Louis winked at the camera. “Totally.” Olivia lifted her trophy as if toasting it. You clinked flutes, champagne splashing, and a second wave of flashes lit the room.
Outside, the shutter-clicking frenzy built into a roar —but inside your velvet cocoon, it was electric and tender, vulnerable and bold. In that stolen moment, you were triumphant too: lovers, equal parts fierce and fragile, celebrated not despite your love but because of it.
The paparazzo’s flashlight bobbed as he retreated, and you let the curtain fall. The world outside spun on its glamorous axis—contracts, headlines, gossip columns—but here, you three had each other. Champagne lingered on your tongues; soft laughter wove through the air like warm silk. Fingers intertwined, hearts aligned, you melted into each other once more, ready to dance through whatever tomorrow might bring.
Because tonight, in a dark corner of a VIP afterparty, you chose love—unapologetically, electrifyingly, worth every flash.
