#//you might have to just look up a review ^^;

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Running To You

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, control, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Sister series to Just What I Needed

Summary: You're rescued by a man who you don't even know is a real hero.

Characters: nomad Steve Rogers

Note: a stressed out steve rogers plus a cutie. it bloomed from the theory of Steve's beard being a symbol of his darker side, or a darker state of mind. In the wat that he would usually pride himself on a neat appearance but lets himself go a bit when he's not at his best.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stumble up over the curb as you check the list on your phone. Oops, you should really look where you're going. You steady yourself and giggle at your own clumsiness. For how precise your inventory is, the rest of you is a bit of a clutter.

You dodge through the onslaught of pedestrians and apologise a deep 'hey, lady' thunders through at you. You quickly dip into the store and shield yourself with the door. You gasp and catch your breath, smiling at the associate nearest to you. The organic shop probably isn't the most exciting place to shop but it has most of the ingredients you need. Raw honey, tallow wax, essential oils...

You greet them with a small wave and 'hi' and turn to look at the shelves along the wall. They don't acknowledge you. Most people don't, not that you mind. You keep to yourself.

The door jingles and another customer enters. They pause by the door and look around. They might be lost. It's not unusual for one more person to wander in but usually they don't stay long.

He clears his throat and you do your best to focus on your list. You're going to need a basket. As you go to grab one from the stack, the man faces you. You shy away and stop short of latch onto one of the mesh baskets.

"Excuse me, miss," he holds up a familiar item; a red wallet with white polkadots. It's yours! "I think you dropped this."

"Oh, my, I did," you give a sheepish smile to his chest. He's an awfully big man. "Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem," he hands it over.

You accept it and hold it to your chest. You give a tiny shimmy, "thank you so so much!"

You dare to look up and meet his eyes. They're blue but reticent. He scratches his beard as he nods and backs up.

"I think I'm in your way," he grabs one of the baskets and offers it to you.

"Oh, no, but yes, thank you, I need one," you take it.

"Mm, yeah," he smooths out the tuft in his beard that he was pulling on. The hair is thick and coarse; the locks on his head are just as dense, pushed back away from the face, though his chin-length strands try to droop past his ears.

You put your head down and turn back to the shelves. He lingers, seemingly lost as he looks around. What's the odds that in a city like this someone would do something so nice? You look at the list again then peek over at him. He squints at a jar of sourdough starter.

"What do you use in your beard?" You ask then cover your mouth. "I'm sorry, that's not... polite, is it?"

He shrugs, "hm, I just use shampoo, I guess. Face wash?"

"Right. Well, it's pretty shiny." You scrunch up your face. "I'm sorry." You chew your lip in embarrassment. Your cheeks are ablaze. "I'm working on my beard oil. I make it. Um, sell it. But..."

"Beard oil," he repeats thoughtfully. "I don't... I guess maybe I should."

He touches his beard again, a crease between his brows.

"I don't meant to-- I... I'm not... it's cute. I mean. Suits you. I was just--" you show your teeth nervously. "I don't have a beard so..."

"Yeah," he agrees awkwardly and tucks his hair back behind his ears before it can fall forward.

"I ramble..." you drift off and face the shelves again. "I'll stop bothering you."

He inhales and backs up. He turns to the door then stops. You sense his gaze.

"It's a bit busy. Rush hour," he says. "You don't mind if I hide in here with you?"

You glance over. You shrug. "Um, yeah, sure. It's not my store. Not sure how interesting it is."

You fumble between the basket and your phone. You hum and scour the shelves with your eyes, scrunching your nose in concentration. He comes closer.

"What are you looking for?" He asks.

"Soybean oil."

"Soybean oil," he nods. "For..."

"Soap," you cheep.

"Ah. In my day, ma just used fat and lye."

You give his statement a thought. You've seen some recipes from way back. Like long ago. Almost a hundred years now. A lot of people prefer the gentler ingredients.

"Oh, that's cool that she made her own stuff," you muse as you take a canister and tap your spreadsheet to mark off that item.

"Yeah," you feel him trying to see the screen. "You're really organized."

"Can't forget anything," you say.

"Sure." He lurks and looks around before he focuses on you again. "I'm Steve, by the way."

You look at him. He's just as big as the last time you looked. His blue eyes seem uncertain. He can't be afraid of someone like you. You give your name.

"Nice to meet, you, Steve."

"You too," he agrees. "Can I help?"

"Oh, sure. What do you prefer? Rose or Gardenia?"

"Rose is nice," he says.

"I agree," you say and pluck up the small bottle.

"You said you sell stuff?"

"Sure do," you chime. You tuck the bottle into the basket. "You know, you don't have to pretend to care."

"What? I... I'm curious."

You eye him, "well, Steve, I'll believe you, but there's not much to be curious about."

His brows furrow, not so much in agitation, but intrigue. "The beard oil. How much?"

"Oh, you know, I could get you a sample from my hoard. Since you got me my wallet back. You don't have to do all that."

"I want to. I think you right," he runs his hands over his beard. "Needs a bit of taming."

You laugh, "looks good to me. Oh, you can try coconut oil. It's real easy and you can use it in your hair too."

"Coconut oil," he says. "I'll add it to the list. What about yours?"

"Soy wax," you look at your list. "I can use that for lots of things."

He lifts his heads, shoulders wide and straight, looking around on a mission. He strides around the rack behind him and you watch him search a shelf. He picks up two jars. He comes back to you. "Which do you prefer?" He holds up to two different sellers. You take the one in his left hand.

"Thank you," you grin.

"Next," he looks down at your phone.

"Jeez, you sure are helpful," you check again.

"They sell wicks. I need the long ones. Like this." You hold the basket and phone at a length.

He nods again, "on it."

You point him to the corner where they keep the candlemaking stuff and you go back to your own search. He's too quick for you. He has a hole bunch in hand. You have him put half in your basket and he takes the rest back.

Huh, looks like you made a friend.

🎀

Steve holds the door for you. It's so nice you thank him for what must be the dozenth time since you met. Maybe only even an hour ago.

As you get outside, you turn back to him, certain to keep away from the pedestrians who pay no heed to obstacles. "I can take that bag too."

He looks down as the door shuts behind him. "Pretty heavy," he says.

"Oh, I always do that. I forgot my little rolly bag," you shrug. "I can handle it."

"Wouldn't feel right letting you carry it all. Mrs. Rogers didn't raise a punk."

"Is that your mom? I bet she's nice too," you say. "It's alright, Steve. You've done enough. I owe you. My wallet would've been gone with the wind and I never coulda bought all this."

He stares at you, then once more peeks down at the fabric bag. You always bring the reusable; they're much stronger than the paper ones supplied in-store. He chews his lower lip.

"If you owe me, well, you wanna have a coffee? Together?" He asks.

You blink. That's so nice of him too.

"Coffee?" You press your lips together. You feel bad saying no. Not that you want to. It wouldn't be so bad to have someone to sit with. For once. "I don't drink it."

He nods, "tea? Hot chocolate? Water?"

You laugh.

"I'll have a cookie," you offer. "Um," you look up and down the street. "Where..."

"I saw a place. Never been in. Wanna give it a try?"

"Oh, cool. Yeah. I love new places, even if they're scary," you say.

"Here," he takes the other bag from your hands before you can argue. "It's a block back."

"Wait, Steve! I can carry that."

"Not if I'm around," he insists, "come on."

He rolls his shoulder in a gesture for you to follow. You huff and hop into motion. You walk next to him, wary of the oncoming people along the sidewalk. A man nearly bowls you over and you knock into Steve's elbow.

"Oof, I'm sorry."

"Get on the inside of me, doll," he says. "Used to be that people took their hat off when they passed a lady. Now they don't care if... well... you move."

He stops and lets you step across his path. He keeps you between him and the storefronts as he strides on undaunted. You wish you were as brave as him.

"Ah, there it is." He tilts his chin up.

You look ahead. You see the sign sticking out in the shape of a coffee cup.

"Oh, I see it," you hurdle ahead. "My turn."

You pull open the door as he follows. He stops to let another customer out before he enters. You follow him.

"There's a table," he nods.

You follow his gaze to the wall. You lead the way and he trails you. He puts the bags in one of the chairs.

"How about you sit?" He suggests. "What kind of cookie do you want?"

"Oh, Steve, uh," you pull out your wallet, "if they have oatmeal--"

"My treat." He insists.

"You can't do that," you argue.

"You gonna stop me?" He challenges. You gulp and blink at him. You don't think you could stop him from anything. He's quite the figure.

"I guess not." You murmur.

His expression softens, "hey, I'm kidding. I didn't... scare you, did I?"

"N-no," you force a smile. "I appreciate that. Thank you. Oatmeal. That's all."

"Alright. I'll be back." He turns and you see his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath.

You sit and jiggle your leg as you look around. You avoid the coffee shops, even the bakeries. They're always so busy. You are methodical in your ventures but today's seems to have gone off the rails. Not in the worst way. One time, you tried to take the subway and ended up lost in the rain.

There's women who look like they could be on a TV show with their fabulous dresses and perfect waves; a man in a suit with his laptop and a single earbud in, and an older couple near the door. There are many others in the line to get a treat of their own.

You turn in the chair and press your palms to the table. You stare at the wood between your hands. You feel the heat speckling over your scalp, that sense of suffocation burrowing into your chest, the voices swirling around you like a raging wind.

"Here," Steve interrupts your internal panic. He places a large cookie before you and mug. "They had this strawberry cream thing. No coffee."

You look at the pink concoction with a dark red swirl in the middle. "Mmmm," you lean forward to admire it. "Wow. It looks good."

He puts his own coffee down and moves the bags under the table. He sits and unzips his jacket to let the tension out of the fabric. You smile and pick up the cookie. You hide behind it.

"I can't eat this alone. It's as big as my face." You giggle. 

You break it in two and offer him half. He eyes it for a moment then accepts it with a thanks. You take a bite then round your eyes at him. He's staring. Oh no. Is that rude? You chew and swallow quickly.

"What?" You hide your mouth behind your hand.

"Nothing. It's just..." he glances around the shop. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" You make googly eyes and cross them. "Is there something on my nose?"

He snorts. "No. There's not." He sighs. "Just haven't had a nice quiet coffee in a while. It's nice."

Your brows pop up and you smile big. "I'm sorry I'm not a big coffee person. I tried it once and it made my belly gurgle."

"It's fine. Bad habit," he taps the handle of his mug with his index finger. "Are you gonna try that cup of sugar?"

"Not much better, is it?" You pick up the mug and blow over it. You put your lips over the brim and taste it cautiously. You hum. "Mm," you pull it away. "Delicious! This is a tummy ache worth having."

His cheek dimples as he watches you. You fidget against his gaze. He's nice but you never had anyone stare at you so much.

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 with high maintenance s/o

A/N: Lost that ask in the void probably but this was requested by an anon 😭

Seungcheol: He’s high-key into it. He’ll really buy you five perfumes for one outfit because he knows how you love to have options. Carries your bag, memorizes your skincare steps, and pre-orders your faves before you even ask. The man lives to spoil you.

Jeonghan: Master manipulator meets diva energy; a match made in heaven. You want all the attention? He’ll give it, but he expects it back. He’s playful about it, teasing, “You’re so high-maintenance, how do I even keep up?” But he still loves being your only person. Lovesssss to buy you random things and loves how you take care of yourself.

Joshua: Smiles through it but definitely needs a manual at first lol. He adjusts quickly though. You want to look fancy for brunch? He’s coordinating his outfit. You’re picky about your drinks? He’ll memorize your order. If it makes you happy, he’s down, becaussseeeeeee, you’re his priority. He loves it that you know what you deserve and don't settle for anything less.

Jun: He actually finds you fascinating and loves you for iy. You take two hours to get ready, you'll find him watching you get ready. He’s supportive, maybe even starts copying you lmao. You want to look like royalty? Let me help you pick your crown; prime example of this behaviour.

Hoshi: In the beginning of the relationship, he was very confused but committed. “Wait… we’re late because your lashes weren’t symmetrical?” He’s learning on the job but he tries so hard. Gets overly proud when he finally gets your coffee right. Always enthusiastic: “You look like a queen!!” his queen.

Wonwoo: Ykw? Chill king with the drama [slaying] queen 💅🏻 Your energy overwhelms him a bit, but he secretly likes that you bring noise and color into his monotonous world. He’ll listen patiently to you rant about hair serum vs oil like it’s life-or-death. Buys you gifts with zero complaint [and he actually wants to buy you things you like].

Woozi: Internal screaming intensifies. You’re the opposite of his minimalist lifestyle, but he adapts because he cares. “Why do you need thirty throw pillows?” But he’ll fluff them anyway. He’ll get grumpy sometimes, but his love language is lowkey acts of service. Expect him to custom-make you a personalized closet system just because he can 🤷🏻‍♀️

Dokyeom: Thinks it’s adorable, will hype you up so much. “You’re so picky about everything… that’s so cute!!” He loves and so into pampering you and making you happy. Carries your shopping bags, takes outfit pics from every angle, and sings to you while you do your 10-step routine.

Mingyu: He’ll do your skincare with you. He’s got the patience for your outfits, the taste for your aesthetic, and he lives to treat you like royalty. “You want another lip gloss? Cool, let’s get six.” He’s your chauffeur, chef, stylist, and biggest fan. He's a loser for you fr, mark my words.

Minghao: Absolutely supports it—as long as it’s within lines. He doesn’t mind your preferences, but if it’s for show or insecurity, he’ll call it out. “If this makes you happy, I’ll support it. But don’t feel like you have to be perfect for anyone, not even me.” Will treat you with respect and spoil you in his refined, minimalist way.

Seungkwan: Overwhelmed, but will do it all anyway. You want to go to three stores for the right nail polish shade? “I—okay, let me grab my bag.” Complains like a sitcom husband, but deep down he loves being needed. Will absolutely turn into your glam team. “You want curls or waves today, baby??”

Vernon: Baffled, blinks a lot, He’s like, “You need four lip oils? What do they even do?” But he’s chill. He won’t always understand the need, but he’ll support you. Might even help you compare filters for selfies. “You like the third one? Cool, post it.”

Dino: You confuse the hell out of him at first, but he adapts. This man is willing to learn. You want luxury, so he’s reading reviews. You like constant attention? He’s there. High-maintenance doesn’t scare him, instead, it motivates him. If that’s what you need, he'll figure it out.

[vicorices]

www.hotdozed.com/missdeath_zvika

18+ mdni, pure filth, firefighter!sevika, cam!girl reader, she masturbates to your underwear, sexting and nudes yehaaaaw, phone sex, guided masturbation, perv!sevika forever.

this is an special three-part cool multiverse celebrating 800 followers, they work on their own, but you can also check out ellie's side and make me happy if you'd like to — www.hotdozed.com/missdeath_spacemoth.

her control was currently hanging on by a thread.

sevika must have lost the plot somehow when her entire life paralyzes as the yellow envelope comes to meet her eyes and she stays there for a second, finally resting from a long night putting up with the fire on a residential building outside the city.

she happens to know what's in it. but she keeps staring at it until suddenly kneeling to pick it up from the floor, collecting her house keys and closing the door behind her back: privacy. she needs privacy.

she's quick to tear apart the top of the paper-like textured package, letting the waste fall to the floor before her breathing hitches on her throat and she stays there, planted in the entrance in dead silence.

her muscles are sore, she's tired after a 24-hour shift and she's grumpy, craving to sleep her whole time away from duty — a plan that fails miserably when her mind drifts back to something entirely different that catches her full attention: underwear.

this important package here is indeed, your underwear.

there's a pair of polaroid pictures inside she holds between her fingers for a moment, and the scent of your arousal is simply intoxicating, filling the air of her living room as she tosses her gym bag to the floor, unbuckling her uniform jacket to reveal a fitted white shirt tucked inside her working pants: well this was unexpected.

the air is hot all sudden and she has to search for her reading glasses before she has a good look of the picture, the sight of you wearing the same panties that were on her left hand made sevika's head spin, mouth dry when she sees you're there bending on the waist giving her a nice view of your ass, a warmth sensation going down her spine when she catches up the second one, someone else's fingers shoved inside your mouth while your tits are shown for the camera, and the black underwear you're pulling to the side is more than evident as a trophy almost cause you did, in fact, had more than just a good time using the pair she received in her mail.

you're a luxury clearly. a 200$ dollar luxury she can afford even when it might be a little breach to her economy. does not matter when she can feel her own underwear dampening against the image of you, unbuckling her pants despite the pain on her limbs, lazily dragging herself to bed.

it takes a while to notice the numbers written in black marker on the back of one of the photos, but sevika's breath turns hollow when she's aware that's a phone and a code area, pretty calligraphy, polished when she reads: write me for the review, send pics if you want x

you fucking kissed it with red lipstick.

it's been a while since the last time she felt so good like this — perverted behavior to it's finest when she's smelling on your underwear, pressing the lacy fabric against her nose just to take a sniff at it so she's finally aware of how you really smell after so many times imagining it.

the scent clings to the cotton even when it must be a while since you last used them, she can recognize you sprayed them with your perfume so it's a mix between this intense, fruity scent with subtle notes of citrus in it, and a musky one that is unexpectedly good in her nose. and in that moment sevika knows she would text sooner or later, find out if that was a real number there that you gave her, yet she's too busy now, fixating in something else entirely when her flesh hand goes down and pushes past her pants just to tease herself from over the fabric of her own already-soaked underwear.

laying in the comfortable space of a king-sized mattress, she doesn't need much more than your photos. it's enough to have her panting, fingers moving on their own against the slick folds of her cunt unable to get off her uniform, her shoes or anything at all as sevika takes care of that ache that pools in her stomach, that need that trespass beyond her own being.

so her index and middle finger rub consistently against her clit now, fast, sometimes messy movements: she's tired, can someone blame her? you're the one thing driving her insane to this point only by holding a simple g-string in her hand — and despite any torture sev fucking loves it to the core. how the whole scene turns dirty all sudden, the dry traces of your arousal visible in the fabric as she gives a deep breathe and there it is again.

"fuck-" she curses silently in the middle of a lonely room, hips jerking against her own hand in seek of a more direct contact just because unlike any other time; she’s not able to edge herself, tease like she usually do when seeing one of your streams or your saved videos on your profile in hotdozed. sevika’s quick and she goes straight to the point when filling her own cunt using her thick, long fingers until she's moaning in the privacy of an small apartment in the suburbs, door wide open as she ground her hips against her hand and fuck, she's so needy for it.

a coppery taste leaks into her mouth and she didn't know she was biting on her lower lip so hard it draw blood out of it, but it makes nothing more than spur her on to the point she can hear the wet sound her pussy makes each time she's thrusting herself, sweating, there in the edge, she can still feel her own smell after a whole day of being hard working, her white shirt hanging dirty on her own frame, over her stomach as she has a great view of her fingers stuffing herself until there's no space for more and you're there, there in her mind, under her fucking nose, in her memories — written all over like a damn poem.

your scent mixes so well with her's it's enough to make her cum, it drips between her legs and stains on her damn pants and she knows it's just chaotic, you only cause disorder as she lays on bed for a moment trying to catch on her breath for a second. your underwear now rests on the edge of her pants, barely shoved inside her own soaked-through hip huggers, but not enough to be fully in contact with her fluttering cunt.

and if sevika was intelligent, she would be taking a shower and relishing every single hour of her much-needed days off now, but instead of moving from bed to do so, she's just reaching her phone cause she's been dumb as fuck lately, cleaning her fingers with the tissue papers she keeps on her nightstand before she's saving your phone in her contacts and taking a huge fucking risk she would never even take if being rational.

matter of fact, she shouldn't be allowed near a phone while being this horny. not even technology itself, but she's opening up the camera app and before even fucking checking if it's really you, she's taking this photo of her opened pants and her stomach, happy trail clearly showing since she knows — fucking knows girls get off from it. your underwear is half shoved inside, visible in the shot and before she thinks it twice she's fucking sending it as she writes down:

nice panties. kinda thought your pussy would smell this good.

you don't answer until she's finishing her shower like an hour later or so, about to get some sleep now that she has satisfied herself enough to survive until the next morning, but it's clearly an interrupted plan again as her phone buzzes and sevika's forcing herself to open her eyes: too much curiosity to wait to the next morning, at least, that's the poor excuse she'd be giving to her brain before she sees your name in the screen.

glad you like them, you think a lot about me?

next time you should finger yourself with them on your cunt so you can feel me closer- sevika right? nice view.

and to be fair, she caught you in a bad moment, a weak one. it's late at night, you're binge-watching this series you're so invested in until the phone you set up specifically for work buzzes and your mouth is watering at the sight of a good, satisfied client and you're debating with your very own self whether if you should answer or fucking not.

she got you hooked clearly, even if it's late — the firefighter pants, the hair on the lower part of her stomach, your panties lose inside her underwear: doomed cause when you zoom in, you swear to fucking heaven you can see her bush there peaking out ready to have some fun and it’s all it takes for you to respond, guilty of all charges.

you're breaking your own rules, the ones you put some good effort in following cause she keeps texting you and suddenly, you're turned on as ever while exchanging fucking texts for free just cause you're attracted to this client who happens to be a pervert who gets off from buying your used underwear.

got well fucked in this, peach? seems you enjoyed yourself on the photos you sent me.

thing is, sevika won't really show it much, but she knows how to flirt. the words roll out of her tongue easily as she's quick to pick up on a girl's attribute, so she's flirting with you until she's slipping another photo this time of the mirror in front of her bed — she had the need to turn up the lights of the room now and you thank her mentally for it as you stare at the picture, sharp angles of her face, she's not wearing anything else on top more than a silver chain that hangs in her neck and lands between her tits, holding the phone between her fingers to show her reflection.

you know that kind of people, the dangerous one — cause you expected a whole weirdo behind the screen, yet you're quickly ashamed of your poor judgment as you have to eat your words cause sevika's indeed fucking hot.

it's different from the other photo. while the first one was messy and dirty, sevika don’t show her face; however now is nothing but the opposite, wet hair that sticks on the sides of her bone structure, wearing a clean, cropped tank top and briefs now that were dangerously low on her belly, at least enough so you can peak a little for the intrinsic lines of her body without even fucking zooming in.

she's playing, you're playing. it's not like you really do that all the time anyway, but your fingers are tapping on the camera app too before wiggling comfortable in bed only to lift up your own shirt �� it's simple and effective as you squeeze your tits together, biting on the fabric of your shirt only to pull it slightly upwards, you want to show some as well, tease like she does.

it's far from the complex shit you upload on hotdozed but god — turns sevika on more than ever.

maybe it's the normal factor to it, she can see the wrinkled sheets beneath you, a band shirt she does not recognize, plump lips; you're not wearing make-up and fuck's sake: each photo it's better than the last one. it's just flesh, simple skin but it makes sevikas mouth water, her body stiffens and her muscles ache, burning beneath fatigue and lust.

escalates quickly cause you're sending her an audio of your moans next and sevika cannot fucking believe it, not when she's been masturbating to your stuff months from now. she's pressing the play button before turning on the volume to hear it clearly, low moans that fill out her solitary room, the wet sound of your drenched cunt on the background, barely audible but enough to make her chest explode: you're touching yourself.

you send videos not longer than ten seconds after, fucking riding your pillow and moaning out her name. playing dirty, fucking dirty because that's special content for her only, her favorite so far and she saw plenty already — either way, it fucks her up entirely as the message slips from her fingers without thinking about it: fuck weirdness. if so, sev's been always attracted to it, to the unconventional and the rather unexpected. hope you did too.

free to call ??

she didn't expect your reply either. it seems to take eternal seconds before she can read another one of your texts on her lockscreen again when she's about to forget about it.

yeah, go on.

simple and effective, she needs you to put a final stop on her misery. the phone rings one, two- three times before you're picking it up, voice rough and still panting for air before you talk on the other side of it — it seems she interrupted something important when she's greeted instead, with silence.

"already starting without me?" sevika asks, and her own voice seems to travel throughout her entire apartment, strained, rough as she's already thinking now about her own release, how she should be getting off her uniform before it needs to be double cleaned.

"shit-your voice sounds so fucking nice" you say at the other side, and she recognizes your tone already from your videos, the moans that don't differ much from the ones you're holding on as you speak "i don't really do this- so don't get any weird ideas, i won't answer your calls in the middle of the night. this is special."

"i wouldn't even dream on it, peach" sevika teases, resting her sore back against the head of the bed as she holds the phone against her ear: special, this is special — "now that you settle the basics, are you going to tell me what you're doing right now or do i have to ask you so you start on spilling me the details, huh?"

"i uh- i'm riding my pillow" the tone you use to say it fucks her right in the brain, it's not all so confident and cocky like she usually sees, you're fucking shy as you're moving again and she can feel the sound of your bed creaking as your breathing becomes heavy again "got so turned on- s'all your fault."

"good, so you now you can feel just a bit of what you've been doing to me for months now" sevika spats on the other side, and you let out a moan against her words as you move again and the friction in between your legs sends a shiver down your spine when your folds drag across the usual soft fabric now rough against your sensitive core — "does it feel good baby? does the friction feel nice?"

"yes," you breathe out as you're now moving faster, a wet trace now over the pillow marking up the constant back and forth movement you've been following non-stop "yes, kind of need more-"

"so use your fingers then," she suggests, mushy brain at the idea "i know you have some nice toys doll, stuff your pretty pussy so i can hear."

"pervert," you chuckle on the other side, laughs that are interrupted by the pleasure you were being a victim on, how quick your fingers seem to assault your own clit as you begin to move faster — "fucking pervert wanting to hear me cum- ah shit."

"the things i'd do to go down on you and taste that cum too," you're not putting an end to her misery but only aggravating it all, making sevika's hand sweat as she's sniffing on your fucking underwear again and she cannot get a grip from it, not when it's the closest thing she has to your smell, that same scent that must be coating your pillow now as she can hear the moans that each of your movements elicit "keep moving c'mon, don't stop rubbing on your clit and keep talking to me."

thing is, you cannot really talk after a few seconds. you're reaching your peak and dragging it slowly with each roll on your hips, your fingers rub perfectly against your puffy clit, swollen labia, the friction is fucking killing you to the point your legs are shaking on each side of the pillow, mumbling incoherent words now unable to hold on the phone.

"ride it out," sevika says, biting on her thumb as the pain seems to ground herself — "please doll, don’t stop moving. soak up your sheets and make a mess for me, you deserve it for being so good."

you comply without making her beg, even when you think to do so as you move your hips slowly, her voice sounds awfully nice when she says please, but the friction’s already overstimulating when your folds seem to open up to the form of the pillow now lubricated enough to just slip between your legs and in return, you have no voice to ask for anything at all.

your eyes roll backwards and you know you're in deep trouble when sevika keeps talking you through it, convincing you to grab the dildo in your nightstand, to let the pink head of it kiss your entrance before she reminds how you need to be gentle, rub it slowly in your sore pussy cause that's how she'd do it with her strap before slowly pushing it inside your welcoming hole until you're full, so you’re unable to think about anything else but her cock.

outstanding. you never let a former watcher call you. the phone number was set up for a way of making more money, but you want this from the bottom of your stomach, a desire that much rather feasts on your guts.

and sevika keeps up her promise cause she don't call you the week after, surprisingly good when it comes to follow your rules cause she doesn't push your boundaries but instead, she's letting you call her first — in the dead of the night, when she's least expecting it:

you always call her first.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Ruggie Bucchi - Room Relaxation Vignette

"Happy Birthday"

[Exterior Hallway 2F]

Ruggie: Oh hey, Floyd-kun! Perfect timing. I've been lookin' for ya.

Floyd: Hm? You need me for something, Sharksucker-chan?

Ruggie: Remember how I told ya the other day that my birthday's tomorrow?

Floyd: Mmmm… Now that'cha mention it, kinda sounds familiar, but I'd completely forgotten 'bout that.

Ruggie: I thought so. I'm glad I came to remind you, then.

Ruggie: Sooooo I'M COUNTIN' ON YA TO GIVE ME A PRESENT TOMORROW!!

Floyd: Your birthday's got nothin' to do with me, though?

Ruggie: IT DEFINITELY DOES! I DID SO MANY OF YOUR CHORES FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY!!

Ruggie: Although, I bet you forgot that, too… ANYWAY, SERIOUSLY, DON'T FORGET MY PRESENT!!

Floyd: Ahah, you're really wantin' one, huh.

[Classroom]

Ruggie: Might've been a bust to try'n get somethin' outta Floyd-kun. But who knows, he might come in clutch.

Ruggie: I gotta find a buncha other people to remind, I guess～ Hm? What's that bag of candy that guy's holdin' over there…?

Ruggie: Hey, you, that snack looks pretty tasty. Can ya give me one?

[Diasomnia student speaks]

Ruggie: Ehhhh～ Then, what about the sticker on the bag? Oh, I can have that? Thanks!

Ruggie: Nice, that went well. The sticker's the thing I wanted from the start, anyway.

Ruggie: If I scan the code on this sticker with my phone, I could win a prize worth 30,000 Madol [300 Thaumarks] in their giveaway!!

Ruggie: Then, if I win something, that's a profit at no cost. I'll hafta thank that guy if that happens… in spirit, that is!

Ruggie: Next is… That guy that's about to leave the classroom with his wallet out!

Ruggie: Hey, y'know, tomorrow's my birthday～! I hope you'll be givin' me a gift in return for the one I gave you.

Ruggie: But anyway, putting that aside, you're up next in history class, right? You got everything prepped already?

[Scarabia student speaks]

Ruggie: Not yet, but you're wantin' to head to the Mystery Shop first? Oh hey, then I can go shopping for ya, then. Not sayin' I'm payin', though.

Ruggie: You want the new soda that just dropped, and a cheese-flavored snack? You're good with whatever I pick for that? Okay, gotcha.

Ruggie: He gave me 500 Madol [5 Thaumarks] for that… This should be enough plus a little tip for me, sheeheehee!

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Walkway]

Ruggie: Did some shoppin', helped with some chores, cleaned up the clubroom… Sheeheehee, I made a bit of spare change today, too.

Ruggie: Guess that's enough workin' for now. I'll go hop in the shower now.

Ruggie: Who'd've ever thunk there'd come a time where I'd get to shower every day like it's nothin'～

Ruggie: There's no way I'd've ever been able to splash around in the shower like this back home.

Ruggie: I love living in a dorm at school! Can't believe there's guys complainin' about there not bein' a bathtub, or havin' to share a shower room.

Ruggie: Whew, that was refreshing. I've toweled off good enough, and my hair'll be fine like this.

Ruggie: Oookay, it's study time. I ain't got the time to be failing my classes!!

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Ruggie's Room]

Ruggie: Ancient Incantations homework starts on this page of the textbook, huh. Uhhhhh… Yup, I don't get it at all.

Ruggie: What's even the point of learnin' 'bout these dead languages, anyway? Can't really get excited to learn 'bout somethin' I can't find a use for.

Ruggie: Hey, you're pretty good at ancient incantations, right? Can you translate this sentence from the textbook for me?

Ruggie: Of course, I'm not askin' for it for free! I'll help you with your Animal Linguistics assignment in return.

[Roommate speaks]

Ruggie: …All right, deal! Wheew, it's nice havin' a roommate I can count on.

Ruggie: Man, why do uppity schools hand out so much stuff to do? There's no way one person could do all this homework and classwork review all on their own…

Ruggie: …Right, ancient incantations is doneee!! I should hurry and get my other assignments outta the way too.

Ruggie: Whew, finally, I'm done～ That's seriously waaay too much work, man.

Ruggie: Now, then… Guess I'll get this done too, while I'm still at my desk.

「Survey on Quality of Life Improvements for the Student Body」

Ruggie: I'd be more thrilled to fill it out if they'd give us some money or a prize for answering it～

Ruggie: Not like we'd even know if or when they'd do anything. I'll just quickly throw somethin' together.

Ruggie: I only have one thing I want. "GIVE ME TIME TO WORK SOME GIGS!!"

Ruggie: There's waaay too much homework, and most of the classes are hard to get through without reviewing and prepping for the next class…

Ruggie: Plus, joinin' a club's mandatory, so we got practice or matches on weekends which cuts into what little time I got to try to find a job!!

Ruggie: It's not hard findin' temp jobs, but this basically means that I can't really make money unless it's a long break.

Ruggie: …Oh, you're heading to bed? Yeah, I'm pretty much done with this survey, so I'm gonna sleep too. ''Kay then, night～

Ruggie: Sheeheehee, I can hear his soft sleep breathing. Alright… Now it's my "fun" time.

Ruggie: I'll pull the cover all the way around me, then turn on my phone light…

[flips through banknotes]

Ruggie: Sheeheehee! Ever since I came to Night Raven College, my savings've been slowly goin' up.

Ruggie: I got a ton of coins now too, so I should go deposit these soon. It's scary just having cash lay around unprotected.

Ruggie: Even if I can't really find part-time gigs, thanks to living in the dorm, I don't gotta spend stuff on food or other small things here and there!

Ruggie: Plus, there's times people'll split stuff with me, or give me things they don't need anymore. There's so many ways to build up more cash.

Ruggie: I should be able to pick up another job over the next break, too. What if my savings hits another digit…!!

Ruggie: Haaaaah～ …I get such a good feelin' when I can just gaze at my bankbook like this. I gotta keep on workin' hard tomorrow, too.

Ruggie: Ah, I should sleep soon. I should do my usual thing.

Ruggie: Y'never know what can happen on campus at any time. Gotta stash my bankbook and wallet under my pillow and wrap it all with a towel…

Ruggie: After that, pull the cover allll the way over my head and I'm ready to conk out! Now I can sleep soundly.

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Ruggie's Room]

[alarm rings]

Ruggie: Yaaaaawn～～～

Ruggie: Yay, it's morning! First things first, gotta wash my face and get ready!!

Ruggie: I need ta quickly finish all the stuff I gotta get done, then go gather up all my birthday gifts. I ain't got time to dawdle!

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Washroom]

Ruggie: …Ooh, hey! Someone left behind some face soap. Mine now.

Ruggie: Wheeew～ that was a nice find. I gotta thank whichever dummy left that in a shared room!

[splash, splash…!]

Ruggie: That's washing done. Usually I just use water, so it feels super refreshing to use soap once in a while.

Ruggie: After wipin' all the water off with a towel, next I gotta moisturize. Just gotta spread this wildebeest brand oil on my hands…

Ruggie: Then I gotta rub it all over my face, rub it into my ears, and comb it through my hair with my fingers… Nice, all done.

Ruggie: Man, this oil is the best! I can use the just one thing on my skin, hair, hands, and even my ears.

Ruggie: Honestly, I find all this upkeep a pain, but it's cheaper in the long run to take care of myself now, instead of waiting until somethin' happens and I gotta go to the hospital or somethin'.

Ruggie: For 300 Madol, one bottle of this stuff can be used anywhere on my body, the effectiveness-to-price ratio is way in my favor. I wanna use these guys forever.

Ruggie: All right then… It's my birthday, so I guess I'll throw on a bit of makeup. I'll just consider it an investment to help get more lively responses from all the well-wishers.

Ruggie: I'll use some of the free sunscreen samples first… And as for eyeshadow, I think I'll use some of my special stuff.

Ruggie: Ta-da, the super high brand-name stuff that Leona-san gave me! Or, more like, the stuff I got to keep after I dropped it on the floor and all the powder went everywhere.

Ruggie: I couldn't sell it anywhere, since it looked like this, so I guess all I can do is use it myself.

Ruggie: Mm, but I'm starting to see the bottom of the container 'cause I've been using it too much… No, wait, I can still get some up if I rub my finger in the corner like this…!

Ruggie: Just gotta rub it neatly on my eyelid without wasting a speck… Ooh, lookin' good. All that's left is…

Ruggie: Oh yeah, I can use the eyeliner that I got from a classmate for my birthday last year.

Ruggie: Couldn't sell this either, 'cause it was an old version, or something like that. I should use it before it goes bad, I guess.

Ruggie: Nice, now I'm ready to get goin'! Now I just gotta go wake up Leona-san, and maybe I can wring somethin' outta him while I'm at it!

[Main Street]

Floyd: Hey, Sharksucker-chan. Happy Birthday～ I brought you a present.

Ruggie: You did!? Awesome, Floyd-kun! I knew I could count on ya to come in clutch.

Floyd: I just suddenly felt like clearing out all the stuff in my room I didn't need anymore, sooo～

Floyd: Here ya go, I'll give you this fashion magazine. It's way old now, so there ain't really a point to readin' it anymore.

Ruggie: An old magazine, huh. Eh, I guess it's better than getting noth… Hm? WAIT, THIS ISSUE…!!

Ruggie: FLOYD-KUN…! THANK YOU! THIS IS THE BEST!!!

Floyd: You're that happy to get trash as a gift, huh. Don't really get it, but good for you.

Ruggie: I guess you didn't know what this magazine is really worth.

Ruggie: It's been the talk of the town how this issue's got some photos of an idol that's been super hot right now from a photoshoot before their debut!

Ruggie: If I sell this, I should get at least 10,000 Madol! [100 Thaumarks] Or, maybe more…!? Sheeheehee, this is a dream come true!

Ruggie: I gotta get it out there 'fore their popularity wanes. Plus, I gotta go 'round and get more birthday stuff from everyone else, too…

Ruggie: Wheeew～ Today's lookin' out to be a busy one. THIS IS AN AWESOME START TO THE DAY!!

Requested by Anonymous.

[tsukkishoney]

ʜᴀɪᴋʏᴜ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ! ᴘᴛ.1

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ꜱꜰᴡ

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ: ʜɪɴᴀᴛᴀ, ᴋᴀɢᴇʏᴀᴍᴀ, ᴛꜱᴜᴋɪꜱʜɪᴍᴀ, ʏᴀᴍᴀɢᴜᴄʜɪ

ʀᴇqᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ ᴏʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴘᴇɴ!⋆˚࿔

enjoy!

Hinata Shoyo

"Anywhere’s fun as long as we’re together!"

Hinata's ideal date? FUN. It has to be full of movement, laughter, and at least one moment where he ends up yelling, “THIS IS AWESOME!!”

Think: beach day, biking adventure, spontaneous mini road trip to the countryside — anywhere he can hold your hand and point excitedly at everything like it's the first time he's ever seen it.

He brings way too much food (his mom probably helped), sunscreen in your favourite scent, and exactly one broken pair of sunglasses he insists on wearing because he thinks he looks cool.

Gets ridiculously competitive at silly games — water balloon fights, sandcastle contests, arcade games — but immediately lets you win if you pout.

Loves taking selfies with you and posts the blurriest ones with captions like, “Best day ever!!”

At the end of the day, he’s lying on the grass or sand beside you, cheeks flushed and heart racing from more than just the sun. Quietly murmurs, “I hope we can do this again soon… like, all the time.”

Kageyama Tobio

"I’m not good with words… but I want you to know I care."

Kageyama’s ideal date is quiet, intentional, and kind of awkward in the most endearing way. He’s not flashy — he just wants time with you, where he doesn’t have to think about volleyball or being perfect.

He takes you to a peaceful spot: maybe a picnic in the park, a quiet riverside walk, or even a little café that sells milk bread and iced coffee (he definitely orders plain milk though).

The date probably starts with him being way too tense. He rehearsed what to say like a million times. But the moment you smile at him? He relaxes, just a bit.

He listens more than he talks, but his eyes never leave you. He’s soaking up every word like it matters — because to him, it does.

If you say you’re cold, he’ll give you his jacket without thinking, then panic when you actually take it like, “Wait–! I mean– yeah. You can.”

Might not initiate physical affection right away, but if you do? He melts. Like, internally screaming but also absolutely refusing to let go of your hand once you hold it.

After walking you home, he hesitates a long time before saying goodbye — then blurts out something like, “Today was fun. I wanna do this again. With you. Only you.”

Bonus: You’ll get a random late-night text from him that says, “You looked really nice today.” No emojis, no punctuation. Just pure sincerity.

Tsukishima Kei

"It’s not that I don’t like you. I just like teasing you about liking me."

He swears he doesn’t do dates. “They’re cheesy,” he says. “A waste of time.” And yet… somehow you’re walking beside him on a quiet Sunday afternoon, heading toward the city’s modern art museum. (He read the reviews. He checked ticket prices. He’s been planning this for a week.)

The museum is quiet, sunlit, and full of weird, abstract sculptures that he pretends to be unimpressed by—until you catch him staring at a piece way too long, lips slightly parted in curiosity. “Don’t read into it,” he mutters when you point it out. “I was just wondering how it was made.”

He never says it out loud, but he loves how peaceful it is. The silence. The way you lean in to whisper thoughts. How you grab his sleeve when something catches your eye. (Your hand lingers. So does his.)

Afterward, he takes you to this café tucked into a side street—books on the walls, quiet jazz playing, drinks with little bear latte art. You tease him about the aesthetic, but he rolls his eyes and mutters, “You like cute things. I was being thoughtful.”

He drinks his coffee black but steals bites of your dessert without asking. You pretend to protest, but he just smirks. “You weren’t going to finish it anyway.”

On the walk home, your arms brush. Once, twice. The third time, he links your pinkies together like it’s not a big deal. His hand is warm. His ears are red.

That night, he sends you a link to a new playlist called “it’s not like i like you or anything.mp3” with no context. The first track is your favourite song.

Yamaguchi Tadashi

"You don’t have to impress me. I just… like being around you."

Yams’ dates are the sweet, thoughtful kind that show he pays attention. He picks places that are cozy, a little quieter — where you can really talk.

Think: nighttime walk around a lantern-lit festival, grabbing dango or takoyaki from food stalls and sitting on the steps of a shrine while watching the crowd.

He lets you pick what to do, but has a few backup ideas written in his Notes app just in case (with panicked little scribbles like: “Plan B — cat café??”).

Blushes SO easily when you compliment his outfit, or if your fingers brush. If you link pinkies, he just about short circuits, but tries to keep it cool.

Loves dates that let him listen to your stories. Will look at you like you’re the most fascinating person alive and smile softly at everything you say.

Walks you home and lingers a little, trying to find the courage to ask for another date. You’ll probably have to kiss him on the cheek first — and then he stammers something like, “C-Can we do this again sometime? I-I mean, if you want to!”

ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪʀᴅ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ⋆˚࿔

ᴘᴛ.2 ꨄ︎

[goldenmetstli]

Seto Kaiba as a Friend

NOTES: It's been a while since I wrote about my sweet cursed child. This one is pretty long and includes "What it is like to hang out with him". Let's dive in!

✮ Pretty obvious, but he doesn't know how to have friends, and if he ends up having one, it will be in extraordinary circumstances. Like with Yugi and everyone else, there needs to be an external reason why you two are in the same room (a tournament, business meeting, waiting for someone else, etc), and even then, he is not fond of just socializing for the sake of it; there are more important things in his mind and schedule than talking to strangers.

✮ In general, you need to catch his attention (it could be positive or negative) and have lots of forced interaction/proximity for Kaiba to consider you something more than a faceless, unimportant person. From then on, it is just luck lol

✮ I don't think he has a specific person he befriends because his idea of intrapersonal relationships is so distorted that they just happen in extraordinary situations. But one essential thing is that he needs to respect you.

✮ For example, Jounouchi made a bad first impression; it wasn't until his battle with Marik that he respected him as a duelist. From then on, he kind of acknowledged him and wouldn't mind hanging out with him if they were in the same room.

✮ But it's not like he would start chatting with Jounouchi; it is more like if Jounouchi started a conversation, he wouldn't ignore him and would even engage. They have also known each other for so long that it just happens that they are now what other people might consider friends.

✮ Like I say, it is very specific and circumstantial.

✮ A way to know if you two are friends is if he shows interest. Did you invite him to play some games at your house? He would ignore or mock them for having such an outlandish idea if it were anyone else. But with you, he would be silent for a second and then offer a better place to play the game or check his calendar to see if he has any available time.

✮ Would Kaiba say you are his friend? Never in his life. He just doesn't mind your company. And that is the biggest compliment: he is okay with your presence. That's all it takes lol

✮ Still, you simply cannot expect him to answer you in a timely manner. If you are not his brother, a stakeholder, or an employee, he will read your message and answer in four business days.

What does it look like hanging out with him?

✮ I believe hanging out with Kaiba would involve games (board games, video games, DnD, etc.). He would give his undivided attention and expect you to take this seriously as he does, and do your best to beat him. If it's DnD, he would get very involved, acting the scenes, adding music, just the whole immersion.

✮ Kaiba doesn't have a lot of free time, so the fact that he takes time out of his day to spend time with you is HUGE. Because of his serious face and intense personality, it might not seem like he is having a good time, but believe me, the fact that he is immersed in the games with you is his way to have fun.

✮ If he starts to taunt you that you might lose, or is a little mean, he is having a great time lol

✮ The more time you spend together, the more you will unlock other ways to hang out with Kaiba. His favorite is to exist together in the same space, while the other works on a project/homework/etc.

✮ You will have to be the one who proposes it at first, but over time, he will ask you about your work/school, comment that you should work on it, look at his watch, say he has to review a business presentation, and suggest stopping at an expensive cafe. This is his way of saying, "Let's spend time together."

✮ Kaiba doesn't mind silence. But if you want to chat, please don't make small talk. He feels you two are way past the point of talking as if you were coworkers or strangers, so he would find it odd. Ask about his work; he loves to talk about it. Anything related to his interests (new technology, his company, games, etc.) would be great conversation ideas.

✮ He is kind of obsessive, so the more he considers you a friend or someone relatively close to him, the more he will observe you. He will remember details about you; your favorite colour, the beverage you always ask, your game style, little quirks, etc.

✮ Kaiba would store that information without even noticing it.

✮ After a while, if you ever told him that your computer broke or your car needed to be fixed, he would help you. In his head, he convinces himself that you need those to work or go to school; it is a need, not a luxury. He doesn't do it for the goodness of his heart; it just happens that he has the means to fix it so you will stop moaning about it. Just that, nothing more.

��・・・・・・★

Well, that is all for now ε(´｡•᎑•`)っ 💕!! Thank you so much for reading!!

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Waiting for the Good | Ten. One

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 14.9k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, intense emotional intimacy, longing, slow burn tension, that sense of breathless anticipation when everything you’ve been hoping for is finally about to happen, and two people moving closer without even realizing they’re already there.

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open

Author’s Note:

Some moments are loud.

This one isn’t.

This chapter is all about the quiet before everything changes—the slow, almost imperceptible shift from waiting to knowing. It’s about how the air in a room can feel different when you’re expecting someone who matters. About how time contracts, stretching and collapsing around you until it’s just you, and the breath you hold without meaning to, and the sense that something is already moving toward you, even if you can’t see it yet.

For Riley, it’s about the soft, aching hope of making space—for someone else, for something bigger than herself. It’s the instinctive way she starts preparing without realizing it: the fresh towels, the extra charger, the jasmine blooming a little brighter on the porch.

For Joe, it’s about the steadiness of movement—the way he doesn’t need to say much because he’s already coming closer with every mile, every quiet certainty that Riley is a place he wants to land.

This isn’t about fireworks or declarations.

This is about the space between heartbeats—the part where you stop bracing for the fall because you already know you’ve jumped.

It’s a quieter chapter. A breath before the rush. But sometimes those quiet moments are the ones that change everything.

Also, just a quick note that my posting schedule may vary a little over the next few weeks as the school quarter winds down and final assignments pick up. I’ve had a lot of this story prewritten (and have been writing pretty steadily behind the scenes), but with the way the end of the quarter is shaping up, I may run out of prewritten chapters temporarily. I’ll keep updating as consistently as I can, but just wanted to give you a heads-up that life might throw a few delays into the mix. Thank you for being patient and amazing. 💜

I’m also planning to spend some time this weekend responding to asks! Sorry I haven’t gotten to them sooner — things have been a little hectic. Feel free to drop some in if you want to chat, scream, theorize, or just say hi. I love hearing from you. 💬✨

Thank you, as always. 💛🏈

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9@starsyoongi@amiets2@palmettogal508@throwaway12356123@lilfreakjez

---

Joe’s kitchen was dark except for the low glow from the under-cabinet lights. He sat at the counter with a protein shake, still in his training gear, his phone propped up in front of him. Riley’s face filled the screen, blurry at first as she adjusted her angle.

“Better?” she asked, voice a little hoarse. She looked tired in a way that wasn’t unattractive—makeup smudged, hair pulled into a high knot, wearing one of his old hoodies he hadn’t even realized was missing yet.

He smiled. “Yeah. Better.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Riley stretched, her bare legs disappearing under a blanket. “I’m gonna crash after this,” she said. “Tomorrow’s a long one.”

“What’s on deck?” Joe asked, leaning back against the counter.

“Mastering. Then a mix note review with Nick. Then we’re trying to wrap two shoots for the video content,” she said, closing her eyes for a second. “You?”

“Lift early. Might throw a little with the guys after, but keeping it light. Mark wants to sit down about scheduling too.”

She cracked one eye open. “Scheduling nightmares. Now featuring me.”

Joe smiled, small and easy. “Something like that.”

She breathed out a laugh, barely there. “He’s not gonna love that.”

Joe didn’t look away. “Doesn’t matter.”

Riley blinked at him, something soft catching in her chest.

He didn’t look away.

"You’re the quiet in all of it,” he said.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then she sighed, soft and amused. “Don’t say shit like that before bed, Burrow. You’ll mess me up.”

“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it.

Her eyes traced his face. “You miss me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I miss you.”

She smiled, small and tired. “Good. I miss you too.”

“When do you fly out?”

“Wednesday. Scout booked the late flight.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Good.” Her voice dropped a little. “I’m tired of wanting.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just watched her, soaking in the way she looked at him like she already had his coordinates mapped in her bones.

She shifted under the blanket. “Hey,” she said, a flicker of that teasing smile pulling at her lips. “Want me to leave you with something to think about?”

His eyes darkened a fraction. “Yeah.”

Riley tilted the camera just enough to show the edge of the gray T-shirt lifting at her thigh. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make his jaw clench.

Then she was back in frame, laughing softly. “Okay. That’s all you get.”

Joe blinked, leaning forward like he could pull her closer through the screen. “Wait,” he said, voice low. “You sure I can’t see a little more?”

Riley’s smile sharpened—slow, wicked, knowing. She didn’t say a word. Just tilted the camera down again.

More this time. Way more.

Long, bare lines of her. The shirt barely hanging on. No artifice. Just her, confident and unbothered and very aware of what she was doing to him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, already leaning forward.

But she was laughing now, shameless and sweet. “BUYYYEEEE,” she said, sing-song, and hung up.

Joe sat in the dark, jaw slack, one hand still on the screen.

Totally wrecked.

He sat there for another minute, like if he stayed still enough, the call might rewind itself. Play again. Let him see her one more time, hear her laugh.

But the screen had gone black, and she was already slipping into sleep two time zones away.

Joe finally stood, stretched out his back, and padded over to the fridge. The kitchen was quiet but not empty—not with her voice still echoing in the corners. Not with the faint trace of her teasing still on his skin.

He opened the fridge out of habit, then closed it without grabbing anything.

His eyes caught on the magnet.

“Love from Louisiana,” bold and unapologetic in red and blue. A crawfish with its claws up, an alligator stiff and mid-stride, the whole thing shaped like the state. It looked like something picked up at a roadside gas station—cheap, plastic, too proud of itself.

It hadn’t meant anything when he took it. The magnet had been stuck to her cluttered fridge—half-buried under flyers, old photos, a faded festival pass. He’d taken it without thinking. A dumb little thing to hold onto. He figured she wouldn’t notice.

Now it was stuck to his fridge in Cincinnati.

He reached out and tapped it once, like it might tap back. Like it might make her closer.

* * *

Joe was lying flat on the training table, a bag of ice strapped to his shoulder, scrolling mindlessly through film cut-ups when his phone buzzed.

Riley: [Photo attachment]

He tapped it open—and froze.

She was standing in front of her mirror, golden-hour light cutting across her body like it was in on the game. No clothes. Just skin and shadow, her waist turned so he could see the slope of her back, curve of her hip, a hint of breast. Her face was in the shot too—chin slightly tilted, eyes locked on the reflection like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Because she did.

The message underneath read:

“Three things you’d be doing if you were here right now. Go.”

He blinked, throat tightening.

The ice bag suddenly felt like a joke.

Joe glanced around the empty training room, thankful no one was there to see the flush creeping up his neck. 

Three things.

It was never just the words with her. She wanted the real things—the ones he usually kept locked up, the ones that made him feel like he was handing her something breakable.

Finally, he typed:

"1. Hands on your waist."

Simple. Direct. True.

2. You looking at me like that.

He swallowed hard. That one cost him a little.

"3. No talking for a while."

He hit send, then placed the phone screen-down on the table. Joe didn't overthink things on the field, and he wasn't about to start now. But with Riley, his usual calculated control felt increasingly difficult to maintain.

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Buzz.

Riley: Wish I could get my hands on you right now, lovey.

Joe’s jaw flexed.

Buzz.

Riley: But you’ve got ice on your shoulder and people walking around, so… I’ll be good.

For now.

He couldn’t even lift his head. Face half-pressed into the table, body still pinned under the ice wrap, arms hanging down like deadweight. The worst possible position to be in when someone like her was on the other end of his phone, casually detonating his nervous system.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to breathe through it.

Did not succeed.

* * *

Joe answered on the second ring.

He was in bed, one arm folded behind his head, the room dim except for the soft blue glow of the TV—muted, forgotten. Riley’s face filled the screen, her curls damp and pulled back, her skin clean, collarbone bare, one strap slipping slightly off her shoulder. No makeup. No posing. Just her.

“Hi,” she said, voice low, the kind of low that only came out after a long day.

Joe’s mouth twitched into something close to a smile. “Hey.”

They looked at each other for a second, not saying much.

“You survive the ice?” she asked, tugging the blanket up over her knees.

“Barely,” he said. “You ruined any shot I had at recovering.”

She grinned, pleased with herself. “Good.”

He let his eyes drift across her face, slow. “You look tired.”

“I am.” She moved on the bed, the screen slipping sideways for a second, flashing the suitcase behind her. “Everything’s too much this week. I just… need out.”

“You still leave tomorrow?”

“Yup. Should be back in the city by dinner.”

She didn’t say it, but he could feel it, the need to be home, to get closer to stillness. To something that felt more like them.

He nodded. “Good. You’ll feel better there.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I always do.”

Another beat of quiet. Not heavy—just familiar.

She looked at him again. “I don’t like sleeping without you.”

Joe exhaled. “I don’t like anything without you.”

Her mouth curved, eyes flickering down like she didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“You always say the exact right thing,” she murmured.

“I’m only like this with you. You make it easy.”

She shifted onto her side, tucking the phone into the pillow next to her. The screen tilted slightly, gave him a closer view of her—just her cheek, the edge of her mouth, the soft line of her neck.

She didn’t look right at him when she said it.

“What would you do if you were here?”

He let out a breath through his nose. Thought about playing it off. Thought about saying something easy, like kiss you or make you forget your name.

But she was quiet. Not teasing.

“I’d just want to lay with you,” he said. “Stay close. Be quiet for a while.”

That made her glance at the screen.

She didn’t say anything, but she tucked her face into the pillow like she couldn’t quite look at him straight-on.

Joe looked down, a quiet smile pulling at him. “Not a big plan. Just… you.”

“It is,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

His chest tightened a little. He didn’t reply.

Riley’s voice dropped as she settled deeper into the pillow. “I’m gonna fall asleep if I stay like this.”

“Then stay,” he said. “I’ll hang on ‘til you do.”

She didn’t look away this time. Just stayed there, eyes soft, like she was trying to memorize him.

“I like you like this, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Soft,” she murmured. “Even when it’s not natural for you.”

He stayed still, like moving might break whatever was happening between them

“I just… I love that you let me see it.”

Joe stared at her for a second, throat tight. Thought about deflecting. Didn’t.

Instead, he shifted just slightly on the pillow, voice low and rough:

“I am trying, Birdie.”

A pause.

“I’m trying really hard.”

That made her smile, soft and certain. Like she knew—but still needed to hear it.

She closed her eyes, her voice barely a breath now. “It’s enough.”

He watched her breathing slow, body relaxing into sleep.

And he stayed.

Just watching her breathing slow, screen dimming as the light around her shifted. Her face soft, mouth relaxed, fingers curled loosely under her chin like she’d been holding the day and finally let go.

Joe lay there, phone in hand, heart pulled tight in his chest.

I’m trying really hard.

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But it was true.

Maybe the truest thing he’d said in a while.

She made it feel possible. Not easy. Just…worth it.

He stayed on the call long after her breathing evened out, long after her screen stilled.

* * *

Riley woke to a slant of light cutting through the curtain and the faint buzz of a plane overhead.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Her body felt heavy, the way it always did after too many days in the studio—stretched thin, nerves still humming underneath. But her chest wasn’t tight anymore. Something inside her had eased, like a quiet she hadn’t been able to find all week.

She blinked at her phone still propped against the pillow.

The call had ended sometime in the night. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep on him, but she knew he’d stayed. Knew it the way she knew other things about him now—without needing proof.

She reached for the phone, screen lighting up in her hand. No new messages, just the soft glow of it against her fingers, and the quiet he’d left behind.

Riley stared at it for a moment anyway, then locked the screen and got up.

The house was soft around her, sun warming the rugs, the lingering smell of incense from the night before still curling through the air. Laurel Canyon always felt like it was breathing—like her house shifted with her.

She moved through the morning slowly—making coffee, feeding the plants, throwing her last few things into the suitcase. She didn’t rush. There was no reason to.

She was going home.

Riley's flight home wasn't until the afternoon, giving her time to move through her morning rituals without the usual rush. She dug into her bag until her fingers brushed the talisman she’d been carrying since Mardi Gras. The weight of it against her palm felt like a promise.

She abandoned her half-packed suitcase and wandered onto the deck, coffee mug warming her palms. The canyon stretched below, morning haze still clinging to the hills. Los Angeles had never quite felt like home, not the way New Orleans did. She'd bought this place because she needed somewhere to land between tours, somewhere to write that wasn't a hotel room. But it remained a way station—beautiful but temporary.

New Orleans pulled at her, especially now. The crawfish boil with her family was this weekend, and she'd promised to help with prep. Joe would fly in Friday night. The thought sent a flutter through her chest that wasn't entirely comfortable. Bringing him home felt big in a way she didn’t have words for yet.

Her phone buzzed again. Joe this time.

Joe: Good morning. How'd you sleep?

She could picture him, probably already finished with his morning workout, protein shake in hand, methodically moving through his day.

Riley: Like the dead after you talked me to sleep. Ready to be headed home today.

His response came quickly: Text me when you land or if you get board?

Riley: Yes sir.

Riley set her phone down and leaned against the railing. Home. The word carried more weight now, like it was expanding to include more than just a place. She wasn't sure when that had happened or what to do with it. But as she looked out over the canyon, she felt something settle inside her—a certainty that whatever came next, she was ready for it.

* * *

She slid into an open seat by the window, backpack thumping against her feet, iced coffee sweating against her knee. The terminal buzzed — babies crying, boarding calls echoing, someone’s voice sharp on speakerphone — but inside, she just felt… still. Like she was waiting for something to break.

One AirPod in. Dylan LeBlanc in her ear, low and scratchy. Her phone was face-up in her lap. She didn't think. Just picked up her phone and texted Joe.

Riley: Made it to the airport. Text me if you can—keep me occupied while I wait on this damn plane.

She hit send, then leaned her head back against the wall behind her and closed her eyes.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Riley felt a small smile tug at her lips.

Joe: Perfect timing. I was just thinking about you.

Riley: Yeah? Good thoughts, I hope.

Joe: The best kind. How long until your flight?

Riley glanced up at the departure board, fingers absently tracing the edge of the LSU bracelet on her wrist.

Riley: About an hour.

Joe: Who’s picking you up?

Riley: Egan. She offered before I even asked. Said she misses my face.

There was a pause.

Joe: Lucky her.

She didn't answer right away. Just sat there, feeling it settle in her chest.

Riley: You’ll see me soon.

Joe: Not soon enough.

Joe: Send me a picture?

Riley smiled, wider this time. He didn’t usually ask for things but she loved when he did.

Riley: Of what? This glamorous airport scene?

Joe: Of you.

She glanced around, suddenly self-conscious in the crowded terminal. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, no makeup, just oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head. She was wearing an LSU sweatshirt she'd grabbed from his place in Cincinnati when she was there. She hadn't told him.

Riley: I look like a disaster right now.

Joe: I doubt that.

She hesitated, then switched to her front camera. She didn't pose, didn't try to find her angles or fix her hair. Just held the phone up, half-smile, tired eyes, vintage LSU gold visible in the frame. She looked at herself for a second, she looked exhausted, but she sent it anyway.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Joe: Is that my sweatshirt?!

She could practically hear the surprise in his text. Busted.

Riley: Maybe.

Joe: When did you even take that?

Riley: Busted

Riley: I may have borrowed it when I was packing up at your place. It smelled like you.

She watched the three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Joe was choosing his words carefully.

Joe: Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, letting herself feel enveloped by the soft, worn fabric that somehow still carried traces of his cologne beneath the scent of her own perfume.

Riley: You sure? It's kinda a classic.

Joe: I'm sure.

She smiled, small and real. Pulled the sleeves down a little tighter, like it might bring him closer.

Around her, the terminal carried on—boarding groups called, luggage rolled past, some kid screaming in the distance—but it all felt a little farther away now.

Her phone buzzed again.

Joe: I like knowing you’ve got something of mine.

She stared at that one for a second, throat tightening.

Riley: I just saw it and… took it. Didn’t want to leave without something that felt like you.

Three dots. Pause. Disappear.

She pulled the sleeves down over her hands, head tilting slightly against the terminal wall.

Joe: Been trying to come up with something clever, but seeing you in my sweatshirt might be the best thing I've seen all week. There’s just something about knowing you’ve got a piece of me with you.

Riley stared at the screen.

The buzz of the terminal faded—boarding announcements, rolling luggage, someone asking for directions on speakerphone. All of it moved around her.

She didn’t overthink it.

Riley: I didn’t realize I needed it until I had it.

Her thumb hovered. Then she sent it. No extra punctuation. No backspace. Just truth.

Joe: I know exactly what you mean.

Simple. Direct. But it stopped her just the same.

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker, cutting through her thoughts: "We'd like to begin boarding Flight 1873 to New Orleans, starting with our first class and priority passengers..."

Riley glanced up at the boarding screen, then back at her phone.

Riley: They're calling my group. Gotta go.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. There was more she wanted to say, but the line was already forming at her gate.

Joe: Text me when you land.

It wasn't a question this time. She smiled at that—his quiet certainty, the way he'd slipped from vulnerability back to his usual steady self.

Riley: I will.

She stood, slinging her backpack over one shoulder, phone still in hand. The message notification lit up as she joined the boarding line.

Joe: And Riley?

Riley: Yeah?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then:

Joe: I'm glad you took it.

Riley tucked her phone into her pocket without responding, but the smile stayed on her face as she handed her boarding pass to the gate agent. Some things didn't need a reply.

As she walked down the jet bridge, she pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over her hands again, feeling the weight of something shifting between them—something neither of them had put into words yet, but both felt just the same.

* * *

Riley squinted against the bright New Orleans sunshine as she stepped out of Louis Armstrong Airport. The air hit her like a wall – thick, heavy, and familiar. Home. She inhaled deeply, feeling the humidity wrap around her like an old friend.

"There she is!"

She turned to see Egan leaning against her battered blue Jeep, sunglasses pushed up into her wild curls, grinning widely.

“Get your ass over here,” Egan called, pushing off the car.

Riley laughed, dragging her suitcase across the pickup lane. “Your chariot looks as reliable as ever.”

“Hey, don’t insult Stella. She’s been through enough.” Egan reached for Riley’s bag, tossing it into the back. Her eyes flicked to Riley’s sweatshirt as she did, brow raised.

“That new?”

She glanced down at the sweatshirt, sleeves swallowed around her hands. It still smelled a little like him.

“Sort of.”

Egan’s grin sharpened. “Sort of as in not yours?”

Riley didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“That’s what I thought,” Egan said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “How's the quarterback anyway?”

As they pulled away from the curb, Riley felt her phone in her pocket. She'd promised Joe she'd text when she landed. She'd meant to do it the moment the plane touched down, but the chaos of deplaning and baggage claim had distracted her.

She pulled it out now, typing quickly while Egan navigated through airport traffic.

Riley: Landed safe. Egan's already giving me shit about wearing your sweatshirt.

Joe's response came almost immediately.

Joe: Tell her it was a gift.

Riley smiled, looking out at the familiar landscape passing by. New Orleans stretched before her, wild and chaotic and completely different from Cincinnati's tidy neighborhoods or LA's sprawling highways.

Riley: Was it?

Joe: It is now.

She tucked the phone away, still smiling, as Egan launched into stories about what Riley had missed while she was gone. But part of her attention remained on the weight of her phone in her pocket, and the man on the other end who was somehow becoming a constant in her unpredictable life.

They turned onto her block just as the sun dipped low enough to spill amber across the rooftops. Riley sat up a little straighter as the familiar silhouette of her house came into view—painted lilac with coral shutters and cream trim, still somehow managing to look both proud and soft beneath the arms of the big oak tree that shaded the porch.

The garden had flourished in her absence. Green everywhere—ferns brushing the iron fence, climbing jasmine curling around the gatepost, red blooms nodding in the breeze like they knew her name. Everything looked exactly how she’d left it, only more alive.

Egan pulled up in front and cut the engine. “Damn,” she said, looking at the house. “She’s showing off today.”

Riley smiled, already reaching for her bag. “She knows I’m back.”

She stepped out into the thick, sweet air—jasmine and earth and the faint metallic hum of the city settling for the night. Her boots clicked on the slate path. She ran her fingers along the gate latch, brushing a spot of rust, then pushed it open and stepped through like she was crossing a threshold in her own skin.

The porch creaked beneath her as she climbed the steps, the old swing shifting slightly in the breeze like it remembered her. She didn’t rush to unlock the door. Just stood for a second, one hand on the railing, eyes on the plants that framed the stairs—neat rows of herbs in ceramic pots, glossy elephant ears fanning wide near the steps, the fountain gurgling low near the corner.

Egan came up behind her. “Place feels calmer with you here."

Riley turned the key and pushed the door open. The air inside was cool and still, laced with the scent of lavender and cedar from the incense she’d burned before leaving. Light filtered through the lace curtain in the parlor, catching on old records, picture frames, and the curl of a half-finished setlist taped to the fridge.

“I’ll hang for a bit,” Egan said, brushing past her and collapsing onto the couch like she owned the place. “But I want drinks and a breakdown of every spicy FaceTime you’ve had with the quarterback since we last spoke.”

Riley let out a low laugh, rolling her eyes as she dropped her bag by the door and followed her friend into the kitchen. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm-hmm. And you’re in his sweatshirt.”

Riley glanced down, pulling the hem reflexively. “Maybe.”

Egan leaned over the counter, smirking. “Girl.”

Riley just shook her head, busying her hands and making cocktails.

* * *

Riley mixed two gin fizzes with practiced hands, adding a splash of elderflower liqueur that wasn't in the traditional recipe but that she knew Egan loved. The familiar motions grounded her, even as Egan's knowing gaze followed her around the kitchen.

"So," Egan said, accepting the drink Riley slid across the counter. "Scale of one to ten. How bad do you have it for Cincinnati's golden boy?"

Riley took a long sip from her own glass, the bubbles fizzing pleasantly against her tongue. "I don't rate these things."

"That means at least an eight." Egan stretched her legs onto the coffee table. "You've never been this tight-lipped about someone before."

Riley dropped into the armchair across from her, folding into herself without meaning to. The sweatshirt—Joe’s—was warm against her skin. Her hand found the sleeve and stayed there.

"It's different," she finally said. "With him, it's just... different."

Egan's eyebrows shot up as she leaned forward, suddenly interested. "Different how? And don't give me that 'you wouldn't understand' crap. I've known you since you were stealing my eyeliner in high school."

Riley swirled the ice in her glass, searching for the right words. How did you explain someone who didn’t fit into any category you’d known before? The steady way he looked at her. The careful consideration behind everything he did. The feeling that he saw past her stage persona to something real underneath.

"He listens," Riley said finally. "Not just waiting for his turn to talk, but actually hearing me. And he remembers everything—not in that creepy way Ethan did to use against me later, but because he's genuinely paying attention."

She took another sip, feeling warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"He's structured and disciplined in ways I never could be. His entire life runs on this color-coded calendar, and at first I thought we'd drive each other crazy. But it's like..." Riley paused, staring into her drink. "It's like he brings this calm to my chaos. And maybe I bring a little chaos to his calm. But in a good way."

Egan studied her face. "I've never seen you like this before."

"That's what I'm saying. It's different." Riley pulled her knees up to her chest. "When I'm with him, I don't feel like I need to be 'on' all the time. I can just exist. And he doesn't want me to be anything other than what I am."

"Even with the distance? The schedules? The whole 'he plays football and you're a rock star' thing?"

Riley nodded slowly. "We're figuring it out. He's worth figuring it out for."

Egan watched Riley with a mixture of surprise and concern. In all the years she'd known her, Riley had never described anyone as "worth figuring it out for." There had been passionate flings, creative partnerships, and of course the disaster with Ethan—but this quiet certainty was new.

“Shit,” Egan said, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You’re really gone for him, huh?”

Riley rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile.

“Maybe I am,” she admitted. It's just... I don't know. He challenges me."

"Challenges you how?"

Riley set her glass down on the coffee table, searching for the right words. "He makes me think about what I actually want, not just what feels good in the moment." She tugged at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "And he's not impressed by any of it—the fame, the music, none of that matters to him."

"Of course not. The man's got his own spotlight," Egan pointed out.

"That's part of it. But it's more than that." Riley ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "He sees the real stuff. The stuff I don't show everyone."

Egan leaned forward, her expression softening. "Like what?"

"Like how sometimes I need quiet. How I get scared about losing myself in all this." Riley gestured vaguely around her. "He notices when I'm tired before I even say anything. He'll just... create space for me."

"And the sex?" Egan wiggled her eyebrows dramatically.

Riley threw a decorative pillow at her, laughing. "None of your business."

"That good, huh?"

Riley felt heat rise to her cheeks, grateful for the dim lighting in the living room. "That's definitely not a complaint I have," she admitted, taking another sip of her drink.

"I knew it." Egan's triumphant smile stretched across her face. "I could tell there was something about him, even during Mardi Gras when you two were trying to be all casual."

We weren’t trying to be casual,” Riley protested.

Egan gave her a look, the kind that said sure, babe, without needing to say anything at all.

Riley sighed, setting her glass down. “Okay. Maybe I was. For like, five minutes.”

“And then?”

“And then he looked at me like he already knew where I’d end up,” she said quietly. “Like he wasn’t in a rush, but he wasn’t going anywhere either.”

Egan’s grin faded into something softer. “That sounds serious.”

Riley traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip, surprised by how easy it was to admit this to Egan when she'd barely admitted it to herself.

“I didn’t think I had it in me to do this again after Ethan,” she said, voice low. “I was just… supposed to focus. Keep my walls up.”

"And then Joe Burrow happened," Egan supplied.

Riley nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "And then Joe happened. One minute we're awkwardly flirting on a talk show, and the next..."

"The next you're wearing his clothes and getting that dopey look on your face when your phone buzzes."

"I don't get a dopey look," Riley protested, but even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

Egan just raised an eyebrow.

"Fine. Maybe a little dopey." Riley pulled the sleeves of Joe's sweatshirt over her hands. "But it wasn't supposed to go this way. We were just going to have dinner. One dinner."

"And?"

"And then he cooked for me. He was nervous about it—Joe Burrow, nervous about cooking dinner." Riley shook her head at the memory. "Not about facing three-hundred-pound linemen trying to crush him, but about whether I'd like his pasta."

Egan smiled. "That's actually kind of sweet."

"It was. And then we talked for hours, and it was just... easy. Like we'd known each other forever." Riley took another sip of her drink. "I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to say something awful or be controlling or just—I don't know—turn out to be another disappointment."

"But he didn't."

"No." Riley's voice softened. "He didn't. Instead, he showed up. He keeps showing up, even when it's complicated. Even when it would be easier not to."

Egan studied her friend's face. "You're falling in love with him."

It wasn't a question.

Riley felt the words hit her like a physical force. The glass in her hand suddenly seemed too heavy, and she set it down with a shaky hand, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"Oh my god." Her eyes widened as the realization crystallized. "Oh no. Egan, I think I am."

She pressed her palms against her face, the soft material of Joe's sweatshirt brushing her cheeks.

"What do I do?" she groaned through her fingers. "How am I even supposed to talk to him later knowing this? We have a call scheduled in like three hours."

Egan leaned back, clearly enjoying Riley's sudden panic. "You could just tell him."

"Tell him?" Riley's voice pitched higher. "Are you insane? We've barely been together for—" She counted mentally. "We haven't even been together that long!"

"Since when do you care about timelines?"

"Since now! Since this!" Riley gestured wildly at herself. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Not with him. Not with anyone."

She stood up and began pacing the living room, her bare feet silent against the wooden floors. "Do you think he'll be able to tell? I'm terrible at hiding things. He's going to look at me through the screen and just know."

"Would that be so bad?" Egan asked, watching Riley's frantic movement.

Riley stopped pacing, hands still braced against her face like they might hold her together.

Riley let her fingers slide down, eyes meeting hers across the room. “It would be terrifying.”

Egan nodded. “Yeah. But maybe also… kind of beautiful?”

Riley didn’t answer. She just stood there, heart rattling in her chest, that ridiculous sweatshirt swallowing her whole. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or call him right then and there.

Instead, she sat back down.

The couch cushions exhaled under her weight. She pulled her knees up again, arms wrapping tight around them. Her voice came out quieter this time.

“I feel everything with him,” she said. “All at once. And it scares the fuck outta me.”

“I know,” Egan said, like she felt it too.

Riley stared down at the curve of her glass on the table. Her chest felt too full. Like if she moved too fast, it might all spill out.

“I think I need to calm down before the call,” she said eventually.

Egan smirked, but gently. “You gonna write a song about it first?”

“I might write five.”

They both laughed, but it was softer now. Muted.

The moment hung there, not fully resolved—but more settled. Like the truth had landed and they were just learning how to hold it.

Egan stood and stretched again. “Alright. I’m leaving before I say something too heartfelt and ruin my street cred. Call me after the call.”

“You know I will.”

She walked her friend to the door, gave her a long, quiet hug on the porch. And then it was just her again—the garden humming outside, the house breathing steady around her, and the screen on her phone showing 2 hours, 47 minutes until their call.

* * *

Riley closed the door behind Egan and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. The house settled around her, familiar creaks and sighs that had always been a comfort. Now they only emphasized how alone she was with this new, terrifying knowledge.

She was falling in love with Joe Burrow.

The thought sent another wave of panic through her chest. She pushed off from the door and moved to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water and drank it in long gulps. The clock on the microwave blinked at her: 2 hours, 42 minutes until their call.

Riley wandered into her living room, fingers trailing along the spines of vinyl records that lined the shelves. She pulled one out—an old Etta James album—and set it on the turntable. The needle scratched, then the warm, rich voice filled the room.

She needed to get her head straight before talking to Joe. Her gaze fell on her notebook sitting on the coffee table. Writing had always been her way of processing feelings, of making sense of the chaos in her head.

Riley grabbed the notebook and a pen, curling up in the window seat that overlooked her small garden. Outside, the evening light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the ground. She opened to a blank page and let her pen hover above it.

The words didn't come immediately. Instead, she found herself sketching little stars in the margin, thinking about Joe's smile, about the way he'd looked at her in the studio, about how his voice sounded when he was half-asleep.

She didn’t mean to write anything. Just needed to move her hand, keep from unraveling.

But somewhere between the sketches and the half-formed thoughts, it slipped out—quick, instinctive, truer than she meant it to be.

He’s golden like daylight

I gotta step into the daylight and let it go

Riley stared at the words.

She didn’t read them back. Just felt them. They sat there on the page like a held breath, like something that had been waiting for her to name it.

She closed the notebook before she could second-guess it, tucking it beneath the stack of books on the coffee table like burying it made it less real.

Then she stood, moving through the house like someone walking off a dream. The record had long since stopped spinning. Outside, the sky had gone that dusky watercolor blue-gray, the kind that made everything feel a little softer.

Riley glanced at the microwave clock.

1 hour, 18 minutes.

She pressed her palm flat against the center of her chest. Just to feel her heart still working.

Riley stared at the notebook for a long moment after she closed it, fingers resting lightly on the cover. The words still echoed in her head, quiet but insistent.

He’s golden like daylight

I gotta step into the daylight and let it go

Her phone was on the table beside her, screen dark. She picked it up, hesitated, then tapped into her favorites. Her thumb hovered over Joe’s name for a second before sliding to the one several below it.

Laura.

She pressed call.

It rang once.

“Hey, Riles,” came the soft voice on the other end—warm, familiar, a little sleepy. “You okay?”

Riley exhaled through her nose. Of course Laura would know.

“I think I’m in love with him,” she said, no lead-in, no buildup. Just the truth.

She was quiet for a moment. “You sound scared.”

“I am.”

“Okay,” Laura said gently. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Riley shifted in the window seat, pulling her knees close again, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. After Ethan, I promised myself—”

“—that it would never feel this big again,” Laura finished quietly.

Riley closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

There was silence on the line, but not the kind that made her anxious. The kind that said I’m here, take your time.

“It’s not about what he says,” she said. “It’s just… how he is. The way he notices things. The way he looks at me like I’m enough already.”

Laura hummed. “That sounds like peace.”

“It is,” Riley said. “And it terrifies me.”

She paused, the words catching in her throat before they slipped out.

“Because what if I can never give him peace, Laura?”

Her voice was smaller now, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Laura was quiet for a moment, and then: “That’s not something you owe him, Riley.”

Riley stared at the far wall, blinking back the pressure behind her eyes.

“I know. But he makes things quiet for me. Like I can actually breathe. What if all I do is make things louder for him?”

“Then he’ll tell you,” Laura said gently. “But I don’t think that’s what this is.”

A pause.

“You feel big, I know. But you’re not too much. You’re you. And I think he sees that for what it is—something good.”

Riley didn’t say anything right away. She just sat there, letting the words wash over her like warm water—soft, steady, unflinching.

She blinked hard once, then again, swallowing the knot in her throat.

“Thanks,” she murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I didn’t know I needed to hear that.”

Laura’s voice was calm, no rush in it. “You don’t always have to hold it all by yourself.”

“I know,” Riley said. “I just forget sometimes.”

“Well,” Laura said, a hint of a smile threading through, “you’ve got people to remind you.”

They stayed on the line for a few more breaths—no pressure to fill the silence. Just the sound of the evening settling in on both ends of the call.

“I should go,” Riley said eventually, glancing toward the clock. “I need to pull it together before he calls.”

“Don’t pull it too far,” Laura said gently. “Let him see you.”

Riley exhaled, the smallest smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

They said their quiet goodbyes, and the call ended with a soft click that left the house feeling still again—but not as heavy.

Riley set the phone down on the arm of the chair and stretched her arms overhead, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. She could still hear Laura’s voice echoing in the quiet.

You feel big, I know. But you’re not too much.

She stood and moved through the house without hurrying—brushed her teeth, splashed cool water on her face, lit the candle on the windowsill. The air smelled like lavender and lemon peel.

When she checked the clock again, there were twenty-three minutes left.

She didn’t pick up the notebook. Didn’t touch her guitar. Just curled up on the couch in Joe’s sweatshirt, feet tucked under her, phone facedown beside her knee.

And waited.

* * *

Time dragged. Riley's fingers fidgeted with the cuff of Joe's sweatshirt, rolling and unrolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. The silence pressed in, filling all the spaces she usually knew how to live inside.

She reached for her phone, checked the screen—nineteen minutes left—and set it back down.

The confession sat in her chest like a stone. I think I'm in love with him. Not something she could take back once spoken aloud. Not something she could pretend wasn't there, either.

Riley pulled her knees closer, burying her nose in the collar of the sweatshirt. It still smelled like him—that clean, sharp scent that wasn't quite cologne but something distinctly Joe. Her eyes drifted closed.

What would his face look like if she told him? Would his expression shift in that subtle way it did when something surprised him—the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes, the slight pause before he spoke?

The thought made her stomach flip.

She'd spent years building walls around herself, crafting songs about heartbreak while keeping the deepest parts locked away. Then Joe had walked in, no dramatic entrance, just steady and present, and suddenly those walls felt paper-thin.

The phone buzzed against her knee.

Riley's eyes snapped open. She stared at it for a long moment before turning it over.

Her phone buzzed. Joe's name lit up the screen, fifteen minutes early, no warning.

That was so like him. Plan for eight, arrive at seven forty-five. Just in case.

Riley stared at the screen, heart suddenly drumming against her ribs. There was no way he could know what she was thinking—what she'd realized today. The screen kept buzzing, insistent.

She swiped to answer, not bothering to fix her hair or find better light.

His face appeared, shadowed—dark bathroom tile behind him, hair slightly damp from a shower. His eyes found hers immediately, that quiet laser focus that never wavered.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

Riley pulled her knees in tighter. "You're early."

"Meeting ended faster than I thought," Joe said. No apology, no unnecessary explanation. Just fact. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah," she said. Then, "You're all showered. I'm a disaster."

Joe didn't immediately counter with reassurance like most people would. His eyes just moved across her face, taking her in.

"You look tired," he said finally.

"I am," she admitted. "Talked to Egan today. Then Laura."

"How are they?"

"Good. Egan's already giving me shit about us, and Laura's being all wise and supportive as usual."

Joe smiled, lazy and low, like it was just for her.

Riley didn’t rush to fill the silence. With Joe, she didn’t have to. He waited, steady as ever, until she was ready.

"I've been in my head," she said finally, her voice quieter. "A lot."

"About what?"

She started to speak, then stopped. Started again.

"About us. About Vegas."

Something shifted in Joe's eyes, a flicker of recognition. He didn't move, didn't stiffen. But she could see his focus sharpen.

"It wasn't—" She paused, searching for words. "It's not that I need you to do some big public declaration. I just didn't like feeling like..."

Joe waited.

"Like a liability," she finished.

"You're not a liability." There was a firmness in his voice that wasn't there before. No hesitation, no qualification.

"In Vegas, it just felt like... I don't know." Riley ran a hand through her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck before letting it fall again. "Like I was complicating things just by being there."

Joe was quiet for a minute — the kind of quiet that meant he was working for the right words. Riley had learned to tell the difference.

“I keep things separate,” he said finally. “Football. Family. Relationships. It’s easier that way. Cleaner.”

She nodded, unsurprised. This wasn't news.

"But you don't fit in a box, Riley."

That made her look at him more directly.

"I didn't know what to do with that in Vegas." Joe's jaw tensed slightly. "I'm better when I've had time to... to think through all the angles."

It was as close to I panicked as Joe Burrow would ever get.

"You don't have to have it all figured out," Riley said, the corner of her mouth lifting. "That's kind of my whole approach to life."

"I know," Joe said, and there was almost something fond in it. "but one of us has to have some structure."

Riley laughed, soft and surprised by the gentle teasing. It eased something in her chest.

"I didn't need you to introduce me to everyone," she continued. "I just needed to know where I stood with you."

Joe nodded, once. "You stand with me." Simple, direct. Not poetry, but somehow better for its clarity.

Riley felt warmth spread through her chest at the certainty in his voice. This was why she kept coming back to him—to them. The steadiness that she'd never found anywhere else.

"I don't always know how to trust that," she admitted, her voice softer. "Especially after Vegas."

The words hung between them, honest in a way that cost her. After Ethan, she'd built walls so high she wasn't sure how anyone would climb them. Then Joe had come along, steady and certain—until Vegas had shown her that even he had moments where she became something to manage rather than someone to stand beside.

"Vegas wasn't my best," Joe said after a moment. His jaw tightened slightly—the closest he came to showing regret. "It won't happen again."

Three words, no elaborate explanation. That was Joe—economical even with his promises. But there was something in his eyes that made her want to believe him, despite the voice in her head that remembered how Ethan's pretty words had evaporated when tested.

Riley looked down, twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers. "It's hard for me to know that for sure."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady even through the screen. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, more certain.

"Then I'll prove it to you."

He didn't elaborate with flowery promises or detailed plans. That wasn't Joe's way. But there was a quiet determination in those five words that felt different from Ethan's practiced declarations—solid where Ethan had been all flash.

Riley looked up, meeting his eyes. "Okay."

One word that carried the weight of everything they weren't saying. A cautious opening, not a guarantee.

It surprised her, that simplicity. Most men would rush to differentiate themselves, to prove something. Joe just... waited. Like he understood time would matter more than words.

Riley let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The miles between them still stretched, but something about his steady gaze made them feel less insurmountable.

"Tell me something good," Riley said, softer now. "Something from today."

Joe's mouth quirked. "You're wearing my sweatshirt. That's pretty good."

Riley glanced down, suddenly aware of the faded LSU across her chest. She'd put it on after her shower without thinking. "Oh. Yeah."

“Yeah,” Joe said, voice low. “And I’ll be there Friday.”

Riley pulled her knees closer, settling deeper into the window seat. "What's your schedule tomorrow?"

“Meetings most of the morning. Lift after. Might run a couple routes if my shoulder’s good. I’ll be free by afternoon.”

They talked for a while longer—easy, winding conversation about nothing significant. How the jasmine had taken over her garden. A perfect pass Joe had thrown at practice. The étouffée disaster story her grandfather was planning to tell.

The house darkened around her as they talked, but Riley didn't move to turn on lights. There was something intimate about the soft blue glow from her screen, about being half-hidden in shadow while still letting him see her.

"You nervous?" Joe asked after a lull. "About me meeting them?"

Riley considered deflecting with humor, but something in his eyes made her answer honestly.

"Not nervous," she said. "Maybe a little... heightened."

Joe's brow lifted slightly. "Heightened?"

"It's crawfish on the bayou with my family. It's loud, and messy, and a little overwhelming if you're not used to it."

"Riley," Joe said, with the barest hint of a smile, "I played for LSU for two years. I know what a Louisiana family gathering looks like."

She laughed, soft and surprised. "Okay, fair."

"I know what I'm walking into," he said. "And anyway—" he paused, eyes steady on hers. "I work best under pressure. You forget what I do for a living?"

Riley let out a quiet laugh. "You say that now..."

"I got this," he said, voice low. "And I got you."

The words weren't loud or poetic. Just quiet, certain.

Riley looked down, trying to steady her breathing. The inside of her chest felt too full, like something might spill over if she moved too quickly.

"I know," she said after a moment. "I just needed to hear it."

Joe didn't respond with more reassurance. He just nodded, once, like he understood exactly what she meant.

Riley shifted, pulling a blanket higher around her shoulders, fatigue suddenly washing over her. The screen stayed propped against her knees.

"Don't hang up yet," she murmured, eyes already growing heavy.

"I wasn't planning to," Joe replied.

She closed her eyes. "Just... talk a little. Doesn't matter what."

Joe settled back against his headboard. "Alright," he said. "Today Sam dropped a weight on his foot during training. Didn't tell anyone for an hour because he didn't want to admit he was limping..."

His voice continued, low and steady like a current underneath her breathing. No flourishes, no dramatic storytelling. Just that even, measured cadence that somehow made everything feel more manageable.

Riley didn't answer. Her breathing slowed, deepened.

Still, Joe kept talking.

Just in case.

* * *

Morning came soft and warm, the way it always did in New Orleans this time of year. Riley woke to sunlight filtering through lace curtains, casting intricate patterns across her bedroom floor. For a moment, she just lay there, letting the familiar sounds of home settle around her—distant church bells, birds in the oak tree outside her window, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan circling above.

Her phone lay beside her pillow, dead. She must have fallen asleep during the call with Joe, the phone's battery draining quietly in the night. The realization brought a small smile to her lips, remembering his voice as she'd drifted off.

Riley stretched, then padded barefoot through the house, plugging in her phone before heading to the kitchen. The routine was automatic—coffee first, always. She moved through the familiar motions with her eyes half-closed, the rich scent of chicory gradually pulling her fully awake.

When the coffee was ready, she poured it into her favorite mug—chipped at the handle but too sentimental to replace—and carried it through the front room to the porch. The screen door creaked in protest as she pushed it open with her hip, the sound as familiar as her own heartbeat.

The morning air hit her skin like a warm breath—thick, sweet, already heavy with humidity. Her porch swing beckoned, its faded cushions still bearing the slight indentation from where she'd last sat. Riley settled into it, tucking one bare foot beneath her, the swing groaning softly as it accepted her weight.

From here, she could see most of her block—the neighbor's wind chimes swaying lazily in the breeze, Mrs. Guidry already sweeping her sidewalk across the street, the community garden on the corner bursting with life. Everything exactly where it should be, down to the tabby cat watching her suspiciously from beneath the hydrangea bush.

"Morning to you too, Max," she murmured, taking a slow sip of coffee.

Her street was waking up — the slam of a screen door, the low rumble of a truck a few blocks over, a burst of laughter carried on the thick morning air. Somewhere, faint music drifted from an open window — brass and drums, bright and lazy.

Riley closed her eyes, letting her head rest against the back of the swing. The confession from last night still sat in her chest, no less true in the morning light. I think I'm in love with him. The words didn't feel as frightening now, here in the soft morning air of the place that had always held her truest self.

Her phone buzzed inside the house, the sound barely audible through the screen door. Probably Joe, awake and already finished with his morning workout. The thought made her smile again—their different rhythms somehow finding ways to align.

She would go in soon. She would call him back, tell him about the neighbor's cat and the church bells and how the morning light turned her garden gold. But for now, she let herself sit a moment longer, feet pushing gently against the porch floor, setting the swing in motion.

The movement was hypnotic—forward and back, the subtle creak of chains, the world rocking gently. Riley took another sip of coffee, eyes drifting to the edge of her porch where she'd planted jasmine last spring. It had nearly taken over the railing now, white flowers nodding in the breeze, filling the air with sweetness.

Her grandfather had always said plants bloomed best for people who talked to them. She'd never been sure if she believed him, but found herself doing it anyway.

“He’s coming on Friday,” she told the jasmine quietly. “Make sure you show off for him, yeah?”

The jasmine didn't respond, but a breeze ruffled through it, sending a trace of fragrance her way. Riley smiled into her coffee.

Her phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. With a soft sigh—not of irritation, just of transition—she rose from the swing and padded back toward the screen door. The wood was warm beneath her bare feet, still holding yesterday's sunshine.

As she reached for the handle, she paused, turning back to look at her little corner of New Orleans one more time. The morning light caught on the wrought iron of her fence, the dew on the elephant ears, the wind chimes swaying lazily in the corner.

"We're doing this," she whispered to no one in particular. "We're really doing this."

Then she pulled open the door and stepped inside, ready to start her day in earnest—ready to call him back, ready to face whatever came next.

The house seemed to sigh around her in agreement.

* * *

Riley padded back inside, the screen door clicking shut behind her. The house welcomed her with familiar creaks and whispers—old wood settling, ceiling fans stirring the air. She moved through the front room, fingers trailing along the edge of her record collection, the vintage guitar propped in the corner, the stack of books that never seemed to get any smaller no matter how many she read.

Her phone buzzed again from where she'd left it charging on the kitchen island. She picked it up, the screen lighting to reveal three missed calls and a string of texts—all from Joe. The last one had just come through:

Joe: Phone dead?

She smiled, thumbing through the earlier messages.

Joe: You conked out during the call. I stayed on until your breathing evened out.

Joe: Finished workout. Thought you might want to see the damage.

And then, surprisingly, a photo.

Riley's eyebrows rose slightly. Joe rarely sent selfies—a stark contrast to how often he asked for them from her. It wasn't that he had anything against them; he just didn't think to document himself the way she did naturally. But when he did send one, it always felt like a small gift, an unspoken acknowledgment that he was thinking of her enough to break his usual patterns.

But there he was on her screen. Hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion, gray workout shirt clinging to his shoulders. He wasn't smiling exactly—Joe never gave a full smile in photos—but there was something soft around his eyes, something private in the slight curve of his mouth. Behind him, the early morning light of the training facility cast everything in a clean, bright glow.

He looked... happy. And a little tired. And very much like someone who'd been thinking about her while he went through his routine.

Riley leaned against the counter, something warm unfurling in her chest. She tapped the image, studying the details—the slight shadow of stubble he hadn't yet shaved, the barely visible scar above his eyebrow from a college game, the way his hair stuck up slightly at the crown where he'd probably run his hand through it.

He looked good. Of course he looked good—that was never in question. But this wasn't the polished, media-ready Joe Burrow that most people saw. This was just... Joe. Her Joe. Sweaty and rumpled and real.

She tapped reply, suddenly eager to connect.

Riley: Sorry for the radio silence. Woke up and took my coffee to the porch. Phone was dead from our call.

She hesitated, then added:

Riley: You look good all sweaty. Send these more often.

Riley set the phone down and moved to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and the remains of a bell pepper. She'd need more than coffee if she was going to face the day—especially a day that included a visit to Papa.

The phone buzzed again as she was cracking eggs into a bowl.

Joe: Don't get used to it. Just happened to look decent today.

She laughed out loud, nearly dropping the whisk.

Riley: Decent is an understatement. Any chance of seeing more next time?

Three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Appeared again.

Joe: Maybe. If you ask nice.

Riley grinned, setting the phone down to continue making her breakfast. The morning light streamed through the kitchen window, catching on the copper pans hanging above the island, the collection of vintage concert posters on the far wall, the plants crowding every available surface.

She moved through the familiar space with practiced ease, whisking eggs, chopping vegetables, the rhythms of home coming back to her body without conscious thought. The house felt different this morning—lighter somehow, like her confession to Egan and Laura had shifted something inside her that the walls could sense.

I think I'm in love with him.

The words still sent a flutter of panic through her chest, but it was softer now. Less sharp. More like anticipation than fear.

Her phone buzzed one more time as she was plating her eggs.

Joe: Plans today?

She picked it up, typing one-handed while she carried her plate to the small table by the window.

Riley: Breakfast. Then Papa at the retirement home. Need to prepare him for your arrival.

Joe: He need preparing?

Riley smiled, thinking of her grandfather's endless stories and embarrassing photo albums.

Riley: Let's just say he's got 25 years of Riley stories and zero filter. Damage control is needed.

Three dots. A pause.

Joe: Looking forward to it.

Riley took a bite of her eggs, considering her response. She could warn Joe more specifically about Papa's tendency to overshare, tell him how the sweet old man had no concept of boundaries when it came to his "songbird." But that wasn't how they operated. Not anymore.

Riley: He'll talk your ear off, but he's the best person I know. Just need to remind him which stories are off-limits.

Joe: The more embarrassing, the better.

She set the phone down, focusing on her breakfast for a few minutes. The eggs were perfect—just the right amount of pepper, the way her mother had taught her. Through the window, she could see the garden coming alive with morning activity—a hummingbird darting between flowers, the neighbor's cat stalking through the bushes, sunlight catching on dew that hadn't yet burned away.

One more day until Joe arrived. Two until the crawfish boil. Her world was about to collide with his in a way they hadn't yet experienced—not the careful boundaries of their separate cities, not the controlled environment of a weekend visit. This was her home, her family, her deepest roots.

She should be terrified. Part of her was.

But mostly, she just wanted him here—wanted to see him in her space, sitting on her porch swing, talking with her grandfather, his hand steady on the small of her back while chaos swirled around them.

Riley finished her breakfast and carried the plate to the sink, glancing at the clock on the microwave. If she left now, she'd have plenty of time to stop for beignets before reaching Magnolia Gardens.

* * *

The Magnolia Gardens Retirement Community sat on three lush acres just outside the city limits, close enough to New Orleans to feel connected but far enough to escape the constant noise. Unlike many of the sterile facilities Riley had toured, this one had character—garden plots for residents who still wanted to grow their own tomatoes, a music room with instruments available day and night, and a bar that served actual drinks during happy hour. It was the only place Willis Carter had agreed to even consider.

Riley pulled into a visitor spot, grabbing the bag of fresh beignets she'd picked up on the way. She didn't bother checking her reflection—her grandfather had seen her in every possible state and never once commented on her appearance, except to say she looked like her grandmother when she smiled.

The receptionist brightened when she walked in. "Miss Carter! Your grandfather's been up since dawn waiting for you. He's checked his watch about twenty times in the last hour alone."

Riley laughed. "That sounds like him. I'm not even late."

"Try telling him that," Darlene said with a fond shake of her head. "He's out in the garden pavilion. Said something about the light being better out there for showing you some new photos his brother sent."

Riley stepped through the sliding glass doors into the garden pavilion, where sunlight filtered through the latticed roof, casting dappled patterns across the wooden tables. She spotted her grandfather immediately, his silver hair catching the light as he bent over a photo album.

"Papa," she called, and Willis Carter looked up, his weathered face breaking into a smile that transformed him from stern patriarch to delighted grandparent in an instant.

“Well, there she is,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I was just about to go hunt you down.”

“I’m on time,” Riley said, grinning as she walked over.

“Didn’t say you weren’t. Just said I was about to come get you.” He leaned in, kissed her temple, then zeroed in on the bag in her hand. “Tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“Still warm,” she said, holding out the beignets like a peace offering.

Willis made a satisfied sound deep in his throat. “That’s my girl.”

She sat down beside him, setting the bag between them as he pulled one out and bit into it like it was the first real food he’d had in weeks.

“They don’t make ’em like this in the cafeteria,” he said around a mouthful. “Tastes like the Quarter. Before they ruined it.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.” He dusted sugar from his hands and nudged a photo album toward her. “Now come look. Your uncle finally mailed those pictures from their trip to Orange Beach. Took him long enough. I already had to call and pretend I was dying just to get him to send ‘em.”

Riley snorted. “You really did that?”

“Course not,” he said, flipping the album open. “I just sighed real heavy on the phone. He got the message.”

She leaned in to look. There were sun-faded snapshots of Uncle Teddy grinning in front of a shrimp boat, a picture of the two brothers standing in matching fishing shirts and holding up a stringer of redfish.

“This one,” Willis said, pointing at a blurry shot of the horizon. “That’s where we used to go crabbing with your mama when she was little. You’d have loved it out there.”

“I remember the stories,” Riley said softly, brushing her finger over the edge of the photo.

“You look good, Papa.”

“I feel good,” he said, like it wasn’t a given. “They let me tend the tomatoes out back. I talk to ‘em like Gram used to. Helps ‘em grow.”

“I talked to my jasmine this morning,” she said, voice soft. “Told it to show off.”

Papa chuckled, a low, familiar sound.

“I bet they will,” he said.

He nudged her gently with his elbow. “And how’s my baby?”

She didn’t answer right away. The sunlight had shifted, warming the back of her neck. She kept her eyes on a picture of two boys fishing—one clearly Willis, maybe ten years old, holding a catfish longer than his arm.

Riley looked up from the photo, meeting her grandfather's expectant gaze.

"I'm good," she said, then after a pause, "Really good, actually."

Willis studied her face, his eyes sharp despite his age. "That have anything to do with the quarterback coming to my crawfish boil this weekend?"

Riley felt warmth rise to her cheeks. "Maybe."

"Only maybe?" Willis raised a bushy eyebrow, his mouth quirking up at one corner. "Girl, you're practically glowing. I haven't seen you look like this since you got your first record deal."

She laughed softly. "It's different, Papa."

"Course it's different. That was business. This is—" he gestured vaguely with one sugar-dusted hand, "—something else entirely."

Riley nodded, not bothering to deny it. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Lay it on me," he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes twinkling. "You need my blessing? Want me to have a man-to-man with this Burrow boy?"

"God, no," Riley said quickly. "The exact opposite, actually. I need you to promise not to..." she searched for the right word, "...overwhelm him."

"Me? Overwhelming? I'm offended, darlin'." But his smile grew wider, showing he was anything but.

"Papa, I'm serious. Joe is..." She paused, trying to articulate what made Joe different. "He's more reserved. He thinks before he speaks. Plans everything."

"Sounds boring," Willis said, but his eyes were kind.

"He's not boring," Riley insisted. "He's steady. Solid. But he's also private, and I just don't want him to feel ambushed by the full Willis Carter Experience within five minutes of meeting you."

Her grandfather raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. No baby pictures. No stories about how you used to make me take you to jazz clubs when you were ten because you wanted to see the horn players up close."

"Exactly," Riley said. "And no interrogations about his family or his plans or—"

"What's the fun in that?" Willis interrupted, but he was smiling. "Alright, I'll behave. For the first hour, at least."

"Two hours."

"Hour and a half, and I reserve the right to tell the story about your first attempt at crawfish étouffée. That one's non-negotiable."

Riley groaned. "Papa, I was fourteen and nearly burned down the kitchen."

"And future generations deserve to know this information," he said solemnly, though his eyes danced with mischief. "It's historical record at this point."

She shook her head, but couldn't keep from smiling. "You're impossible."

"That's what your grandmother used to say." Willis's face softened with memory. "She'd have liked this one, I think."

"You haven't even met him yet."

"Don't need to," Willis said with the certainty of a man who trusted his instincts implicitly. "I can see it in your face. The way you light up when you talk about him. That tells me everything I need to know."

Riley felt something catch in her chest—that particular ache that always came when her grandfather showed just how deeply he saw her.

"He makes me happy, Papa," she said simply.

Willis nodded. "Good. That's what matters." He reached over and patted her hand. "The rest is just details."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sunlight warming the table between them, the sounds of the garden a gentle backdrop to their conversation.

"So," Willis said finally. "Tell me something about him that I won't read in those sports magazines. Something real."

Riley thought for a moment, her fingers tracing the edge of the photo album. "He listens," she said. "Not the way most people do, where they're just waiting for their turn to talk. He actually hears what I'm saying."

Willis nodded approvingly. "That's rare."

"And he's not impressed by any of it—the fame, the music, none of that matters to him. He sees me, not Riley Carter the singer."

"Smart man."

"He stayed on the phone with me last night," she continued, her voice softening. "I fell asleep, and he just... stayed. Kept talking so I wouldn't feel alone."

Willis's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now that," he said, "is something worth holding onto."

Riley looked down at her hands, suddenly self-conscious about how much she was revealing. But this was Papa—the man who'd taught her to fish and make roux and stand up for herself. If she couldn't be honest with him, who could she be honest with?

"I think I'm falling in love with him," she said quietly.

The words hung in the air between them, more real now that she'd said them to Papa than when she'd confessed them to Egan or Laura.

Willis didn't look surprised. He just nodded slowly, his weathered face creasing into a gentle smile. "About time," he said.

"That's it? 'About time'?"

"What'd you expect me to say?" he asked, spreading his hands. "That it's too soon? That you should slow down? Baby, you've never slowed down a day in your life. Always jumping first, asking questions later."

"Not always," Riley protested weakly.

"Always," he countered with absolute certainty. "You get that from me. Your grandma used to say we were both born without brakes. The number of times I had to fish you out of trouble because you decided to follow your heart without a second thought..." He shook his head, though his eyes were fond.

Riley laughed despite herself. "You saying Joe's my brake system?"

"I'm saying everybody needs someone who balances them out," he said, suddenly serious. "Sounds like maybe you found yours. Someone steady to match your wildfire."

The words settled over her like a blessing. Riley reached across the table and squeezed her grandfather's hand. "Thanks, Papa."

"Don't thank me yet," he said, mischief returning to his expression. "I still reserve the right to tell that étouffée story if he asks where you learned to cook."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me, darlin'."

Riley shook her head, smiling despite herself. "One condition. You have to show him the photo of you with James Booker first. The one where you're wearing that ridiculous hat."

"That hat was the height of fashion in 1972!"

"It looks like something died on your head, Papa."

Willis laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the garden pavilion. "Deal. My embarrassment for yours. That's fair."

He closed the photo album and set it aside, then reached for another beignet. "Now, tell me about this album you're working on. I hear things. People say it's your best yet."

Riley settled in, her heart lighter than it had been in days. This was home—her grandfather's laughter, the sweet scent of beignets, sunlight filtering through the lattice above them. And soon, Joe would be here too.

For the first time, the thought didn't scare her at all.

* * *

The restaurant was buzzing, the kind of local spot where the waiter didn’t write anything down and the ceiling fans were older than the building permits. Riley spotted them right away—Tomas nursing a Bloody Mary, Egan mid-story, Jen and Jeremy tucked into opposite corners of the weathered wooden table, all of them halfway through drinks and deeply in their rhythm.

“There she is,” Egan said, lifting her glass like a toast as Riley slid into the open seat. “Miss You’ve-Got-A-Glow.”

“I swear to God,” Riley said, reaching for a menu, “if one more person tells me I’m glowing, I’m going to light something on fire just to stay consistent.”

“Oh, she’s feisty,” Tomas said. “Definitely saw Papa this morning.”

The restaurant was buzzing, the kind of local spot where the waiter didn’t write anything down and the ceiling fans were older than the building permits. Riley spotted them right away—Tomas nursing a Bloody Mary, Egan mid-story, Jen and Jeremy tucked into opposite corners of the weathered wooden table, all of them halfway through drinks and deeply in their rhythm.

Riley smirked. “I fed him beignets and he gave me emotional clarity. It’s a powerful combo.”

“And how is our dear Willis?” Jen asked. “Still charming? Still plotting your social downfall via embarrassing childhood stories?”

“Absolutely,” Riley said. “He’s pacing himself for Saturday. Said he’s saving the étouffée disaster story for just the right moment.”

“That man is a menace,” Jeremy said fondly. “I love him.”

There was a lull as a server stopped by to take Riley’s drink order. Once they were alone again, Tomas leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Alright then, big weekend. You ready?”

“I think so,” Riley said, then added, “He’s coming to the boil.”

Jen blinked. “The boil?”

Egan leaned back, a big smile on her face. “I told her last night that's not a casual introduction.”

“You sure he knows what he’s walking into?” Jeremy asked. “Because I remember our first boil with your family, and I’m still recovering.”

“He doesn’t know,” Riley said. “Not really. But he wants to.”

“And this’ll be the first time he’s meeting any of them?” Tomas asked, sounding it out like he needed to hear it twice.

Riley nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know,” she said more quietly. “I didn’t plan for it to happen like this, but… it feels right.”

“You want us hovering nearby?” Egan teased. “Incognito support group? Code names? Backup plan if Cousin Laney tries to convert him to her homemade moonshine religion?”

Riley laughed. “No, I think I want it to just be family. As in, y’all stay far away.”

“Rude,” Jen said, lifting her glass.

“But fair,” Jeremy added.

“You’ll tell us everything after,” Tomas said.

“Of course,” Riley said, smiling. “If he survives.”

Tomas sat back in his chair, arms folded. “You know he’s gonna be fine, right?”

Riley arched an eyebrow. “Fine how?”

“Fine as in your family already thinks he walks on water. He could show up late, mispronounce étouffée, and still get a standing ovation just for being the boy from LSU.”

“Exactly,” Jeremy said. “The man’s basically a folk hero. Your aunties are gonna be feral.”

“They are not,” Riley said, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Oh no, they will be,” Egan said. “You know how many women in your family sat in that living room in purple and gold, screaming at the TV like it was church?”

“I hate this,” Riley muttered, hiding behind her tea.

“You love it,” Jen said. “You just hate that we’re right.”

“Okay, sure. The football thing helps,” Riley admitted. “But he’s quiet. Not shy, just… intentional. And y’all know my family. It’s a lot.”

“You’re a lot,” Jeremy said with a wink.

“Exactly. So imagine that but forty more of me, and half of them are drunk.”

“Oh, he’s toast,” Tomas said.

“I’m serious,” Riley said. “I just want him to feel like he can be himself. Not some version of what they expect.”

Egan tilted her head. “So let him.”

Riley looked at her.

“Let him be himself,” Egan said again. “Not football-Joe, not your-boyfriend-Joe. Just… Joe. If he’s who you say he is, he’ll handle it.”

“He will,” Riley said quietly, almost to herself.

Jen reached over and squeezed her wrist. “And if not, we’ll stage a rescue and blame it on a football emergency.”

“No rescues,” Riley said, grinning now. “He wants to be there.”

“Then he’ll be fine,” Tomas said. “Honestly, I’m more worried about you. You’ve never let someone this far in before.”

Riley’s smile dimmed, just slightly.

“Not like this,” she said. “But it feels… different. Like it’s not about proving anything. I just want him there.”

“Then that’s the whole thing,” Jeremy said. “That’s the sign.”They sat with that for a moment, sunlight sliding across the table as a server dropped off the check.

“You telling Papa how serious this is?” Jen asked as they stood.

Riley nodded. “He already knows. He said Gram would’ve liked him.”

Egan smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Then I guess that’s that.”

* * *

Joe checked his watch. He had about forty minutes before he needed to be at the facility for a meeting with Coach Taylor. Just enough time to pick up his grandfather's watch from Ashford's downtown.

The repair had taken longer than expected—something about a custom part that needed to be ordered—but the timing worked out perfectly. He'd have it back before heading to New Orleans on Friday.

The afternoon was bright but not too warm, Cincinnati showing off its best spring weather. Joe kept his head down anyway, ball cap pulled low, sunglasses on. Not that he minded being recognized, but sometimes a ten-minute errand could turn into an hour of selfies and small talk. Today, he just didn't have the time.

The bell chimed softly as he pushed open the door to Ashford Jewelers. The shop was small but elegant—dark wood cabinets, discreet lighting, the subtle smell of leather and polish. It had been in the same family for generations, the kind of place that still kept handwritten records in leather-bound books.

"Mr. Burrow," the older man behind the counter greeted him with a subtle nod. No fuss, no fanfare. Just the quiet acknowledgment that came from mutual respect. It was one of the reasons Joe kept coming back here. That, and the fact that they'd never once leaked a word about his purchases.

"Mr. Ashford. Just here to pick up my grandfather's piece."

"Of course. I have it ready for you." He disappeared into the back room.

Joe waited, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the display cases out of habit more than interest. Watches, cufflinks, tie clips—all carefully arranged under glass. Then his gaze shifted to the women's section.

A bracelet caught his eye.

Not the flashy diamonds or statement pieces that dominated most of the case. This was tucked in a corner, distinct from the others—a slender gold band, textured to resemble snakeskin, with a delicate clasp that reminded him of a serpent's head.

It wasn't something he would have normally noticed. But it reminded him immediately of Riley—elegant but with an edge, the golden scales catching light in a way that seemed alive. He could picture it on her wrist as she played guitar, the gold warm against her skin.

"That's a unique piece," Mr. Ashford said, returning with a small leather box. He'd caught Joe staring. "Python design. Eighteen karat gold. We just received it last week."

Joe nodded. "Can I see it?"

If Mr. Ashford was surprised, he didn't show it. He set the watch box on the counter and unlocked the display case, carefully removing the bracelet.

Joe found himself studying it longer than he intended. The craftsmanship was exceptional—each scale meticulously detailed, the whole piece flowing like water when it moved.

"It's from a French designer," Mr. Ashford explained. "Very limited edition. The texture is quite remarkable."

Joe held it in his palm, feeling its weight. It wasn't heavy, but it had substance. The scales caught the light from every angle, creating a subtle shimmer that reminded him of the way stage lights played across Riley's skin when she performed.

He hadn't planned on buying Riley anything. They hadn't discussed gifts, and he was careful not to push the relationship faster than either of them was ready for. But something about this piece felt right—like it had been waiting here for him to find.

It wasn't showy or presumptuous. It wouldn't overwhelm her or make her feel obligated. It was just... her.

"How much?" he asked.

Mr. Ashford quoted a price that would have made most people flinch. Joe just nodded.

"I'll get this too," he said, handing the bracelet back.

He didn’t know if she’d wear it every day. But he knew, without question, she’d understand exactly what it meant.

Mr. Ashford nodded, carefully returning the piece to its velvet cushion while he processed the purchase. He boxed both items with practiced precision—the watch in its leather case, the bracelet in a slim black velvet box.

“You picked well,” Mr. Ashford said, setting the watch and the bracelet in front of him.

Joe nodded, tucking both boxes into his jacket pocket.

As he pushed back through the door into the Cincinnati sunshine, Joe felt a lightness in his chest. The impulsive purchase wasn't like him—he approached most decisions methodically, weighing options, considering consequences. But with Riley, sometimes instinct just took over.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A calendar reminder for his meeting. Joe quickened his pace slightly, but his thoughts remained with the bracelet—with the way the gold scales would catch the light as she moved.

As he slipped the boxes into his jacket pocket, his phone buzzed with a text from Riley:

Riley: You at your meeting yet?

Joe glanced at the time, thumb already moving.

Joe: Almost. Walking over now.

Riley: Just checking. Not trying to interrupt your grind or whatever.

Joe: You’re not. Can I call you after?

Riley: Yeah. I’ll be home.

He tucked the phone back in his pocket. The velvet box was warm now from being close to him, nestled beside the watch he came to pick up.

He’d call her after.

* * *

Riley moved through her house with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, pulling fresh sheets onto the bed with quick, practiced movements.

"Tell me again what time you land?" she asked, tucking a corner under the mattress.

"Noon," Joe replied. She could hear the soft rustle of clothing on his end. "You sure you don't mind picking me up?"

"Of course not," she said, smoothing the sheets with her palm. "Though I won't be holding any embarrassing sign with your name on it."

Joe chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Appreciate the restraint."

"The house is excited you're coming back," Riley said, glancing around. "The jasmine's practically taken over the entire front porch for spring. I can't wait for you to see it."

"Last time I was there, I remember how everything smelled," Joe said. "Different from anywhere else I've been. Like something alive."

"It's a full-on ambush," she replied, smiling at the memory of showing him her home for the first time. "Though I'm pretty sure you can handle a little overgrown garden."

"Besides comfy clothes," he said. She heard a zipper close on his end. "Anything else I should pack?"

"Nah, just stuff to be comfortable in."

Riley paused, surveying the room. "I'm trying to decide if I should clean more or if that'll just make you uncomfortable. Like you'll know I cleaned for you."

"I already know you're cleaning for me," he said. "I can hear you moving around."

Riley stopped mid-motion, a second pillow suspended in her hands. "That obvious, huh?"

"It's not a bad thing," Joe said. "I like that you care enough to do it."

She set the pillow down and moved to the window, drawing back the curtains to let in the evening light. "My approach is very strategic. Clean enough that you're impressed, but messy enough that you know I'm still me."

"Sounds perfect." A brief pause. "Should I bring anything for your family?"

Riley leaned against the windowsill, watching the shadows lengthen across her garden. "Just you," she said, softer now. "Just show up. The rest will figure itself out."

"That's it?" There was something careful in his voice.

"That's it," she confirmed. "Papa's not big on gifts. He just wants to size you up in person."

She moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge and drawing her knees up. "You nervous?"

The question hung between them—simple, direct.

"About meeting your family? A little," he admitted after a moment. "Not in a bad way."

"Papa's already planning his best stories," she warned. "I've negotiated him down to only moderate embarrassment."

"Looking forward to it," Joe said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I like learning pieces of you I don't know yet."

Riley's throat tightened unexpectedly. "Yeah, well," she said, trying to keep her voice light, "just remember that when he starts showing childhood photos."

Another pause, this one comfortable. She could picture him moving methodically around his bedroom, carefully selecting what to pack, everything organized and deliberate.

Another pause, this one comfortable. She could picture him moving methodically around his bedroom, carefully selecting what to pack, everything organized and deliberate.

"You know," Joe said, his voice dropping lower, "I was thinking about that first night in New Orleans. At the hotel."

Riley settled back against her headboard. "What about it?"

"I didn't want it to end," he said simply. "Had this moment where I was sitting there, watching you talk about the city, thinking about asking you to stay. But I got stuck in my head about it."

"You never said anything."

"Didn't have to," he said. "You very awkwardly asked me to come home with you instead."

Riley laughed, surprised. "I wasn't awkward!"

"You were," Joe said, amusement threading through his voice. "Started talking fast, wouldn't look at me. Then just blurted it out."

"God," she groaned, covering her face even though he couldn't see her. "It was that bad?"

"It was perfect," he said quietly. "Made it real."

The confession lingered between them, somehow both casual and significant in the way only Joe could manage.

"Sixteen hours," she said after a moment.

"Yeah, not long now," he replied.

Neither of them spoke for a few beats. Just the low hum of the line, the subtle nearness of the other’s breath.

“Alright,” Riley said quietly, shifting onto her side. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

“I’m trying.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, then, “See you soon.”

She smiled, small and real. “Yeah. Night, Joe.”

“Night.”

She waited until the line went quiet before setting her phone down beside her. The screen went dark, but the stillness didn’t feel empty. Just full of everything that was coming.

* * *

Riley woke early, even before the sunlight had finished climbing the shutters. The house was quiet in that specific, charged way it got before something changed—still, but waiting.

She moved slowly. Poured coffee, barefoot on the cool tile. Let the jasmine-sweet air drift through the kitchen windows. Her phone sat on the counter, untouched, but she felt it the way you feel another person in a room.

Sixteen hours had become eight. Then six.

By the time she’d showered and thrown her hair up, the house felt different—like it already knew who was coming.

She set fresh towels in the bathroom. Tucked an extra charger into the outlet beside her bed. These were not dramatic gestures. Just small, quiet ways of saying this space is yours too.

Her phone buzzed as she was buttoning up a shirt.

Joe: Boarding now.

Riley smiled. Tapped out a quick reply.

Riley: I’ll be there when you land.

She tucked the phone into her back pocket, the smile lingering longer than she meant it to.

Then she went to find her shoes — and something to do, anything to fill the hours until it was time to pick him up.

[ryuyejiho]

"Drinks and Desires" Jungkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Smut Warnings: 18+, Smut, Fingering, Sex Summary: A bartender and regular customer, Jungkook, share a playful flirtation that turns into an intense, passionate night, changing their relationship forever. Word Count: ~2.7k

Working at the bar on night shifts was not one of the best. But it always became survivable thanks to that one regular customer.

He came here almost every day. He would have either one drink or countless drinks getting drunk. He would always sit at the bar and watch me work. At first I found it annoying and uncomfortable, but since the first time he spoke we liked each other, and every time I'm glad when I see him at the doorstep.

We may not have been best friends, we knew each other as much as a late-night conversation and never saw each other outside the bar, but I could safely say we were drawn to each other by something. We got along well, and even though we didn't know anything about each other, we always had a multitude of topics to talk about.

I knew Jungkook was a singer but I had never heard his songs or heard him sing. I wasn't from around here and my life only revolved around work and studying at a Korean university.

I was just wiping the glasses dry when a man walked in. He had a huge black jacket, a black hat and a black mask over his face. I immediately knew who it was, it was his standard look. He walked up to the bar, sat down on a stool at the bar across from me and pulled off the mask which he put in his jacket pocket before unzipping it. He looked at me and smiled such a forced smile and when I burst into laughter he laughed lightly himself. I handed him the drink he always drank and leaned on the countertop behind me watching him drink it in one gulp.

"What's so late today?" I asked, taking the glass from him.

"I had to stay longer at training today. And I had singing lessons. But I came to see you," he smiled stupidly.

"Do you want something else?"

"Make me something good. Something I haven't drunk yet" he leaned forward and made such puppy eyes. I shook my head with amusement and reached for new glass.

"Give a review if it's good," I said, hoping he'd like it. Sometimes I caught myself making myself weak for him. That I do everything he wants and do everything to make him happy.

"I think it's a little too sweet for me," he stated, holding his glass up and eyeing the pink color of the drink.

"Why?" I asked slightly disappointed.

"Because it's nothing compared to how sweet you look today," I took a moment to digest what he said. I rolled my eyes and turned my back to him at which I heard him laugh out loud.

For the next hour he threw around such texts and had a great laugh about it. I was fed up with him, at the same time I looked at my watch with pain and how time was passing quickly. Jungkook sat quietly for a while until I handed him the same drink again.

"You're good at this.... But you know what would make it even better?" he asked raising his eyebrows .

"What?"

"If you served me you on the side" I took a deep breath to cool down at which he laughed. I looked at him, leaned forward against the bar and replied in a quieter tone.

"Careful, that might be a little too much for you," at my words, he parried a gentle laugh with a smirk.

"You'd be surprised at what I can handle" he put the glass to his lips and drank the rest of the drink to the end in one gulp. Saying nothing, I walked away from the bar and went to the last three guests to inform them of the closing.

While they were gathering to leave I started wiping down the tables and setting up the chairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jungkook take one of the bottles of wisky by himself and pour himself a glass. I was lucky that there were no cameras around. Then he suddenly appeared next to me looking at what I was doing.

"I'm not sure if you're cleaning .... or teasing me," I looked at him surprised and laughed.

"Wouldn't you like to find out?" I replied jokingly to which he leaned against the table and sighed.

"Trust me, I really would," I shook my head and walked away.

I went to the door to close it and then headed to the storage room to grab a mop to clean the floor. I started from the bar and moved closer towards him. All this time he stood in the same position and watched me without saying a word.

"You're doing a good job with that mop."

"Thanks?"

"It's not the only thing I'd like to see you handle.... properly," he said in a flirty tone, coming up to me. Half the night I heard such texts from him, but I began to notice that they had ceased to be one hundred percent just jokes.

"Do you want to stay and help me?" I asked to which he immediately shook his head in denial.

"Tell me to go," I looked at him surprised.

"Why would I?"

"Because if I stay any longer, I'm not helping you clean. I'm helping you make a mess" I lowered my hands in helplessness and walked back to the bar to put everything in its place and clean up there. After that I would be free and could go home.

But before I could get behind the bar the boy grabbed my hand and leaned me against the counter. He stood facing me, a little too close, and rested his hands on either side behind my back. He lowered his face so that it was at my height.

"Last chance. Say it now... or don't say it at all," he said quietly, in such a sexy tone, alternately looking into my eyes and peering at my lips. Now for him to go was the last thing I wanted. Thinking nothing of it, I joined our lips in a kiss, and before I realized what I had done, Jungkook reciprocated it without hesitation. 

In a split second, everything became several times more passionate, appealing. His hands wandered over my bare skin under the shirt I was wearing, our tongues fought a battle for dominance over each other. But as I mentioned earlier, I was very weak to him. Even, apparently, in this regard.

In one nimble movement, he lifted me up and planted me on the counter next to some empty bottles that had fallen over creating a loud clang. He stood between my thighs and pulled me closer so that our bodies pressed against each other.

"I warned you," he said between kisses.

"And did I say anything to make you go," I replied sarcastically, breathing deeply. He smiled cocky and started kissing me again. After a moment, he straightened up slightly pulling away from me, looking straight into my eyes, as if he wanted to say something, but held back. Instead, he moved his fingers down my thigh to my knee and sighed with a slight smile.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been thinking about this?" I tilted my head, feigning innocence at his words.

He clamped his fingers quite firmly on my thigh, close to my intimacy, and there was a spark in his eyes. He moved his hand down and up again, on the inside of my thigh, without taking his eyes off me. I felt my breathing quicken and my body tighten under his touch. His lips returned to mine, more greedily, more confidently this time.

He didn't kiss like someone who asks permission - just like someone who finally got what he wanted.

I felt his fingers weave into my hair pulling on it to make my head tilt back, and he began to move his lips along my neck. The warm breath on my skin made me shiver and the tip of his tongue left a wet, steamy trail.

I slid my hands under his T-shirt, mussing his belly with my fingers as I felt his hard muscles tighten under my touch. His hips moved closer until there was nothing left between us. He sucked, nibbling at the skin on my neck until a quiet moan escaped my lips, barely audible, but he reacted immediately - he raised his head and looked at me as if that very sound was all he wanted to hear.

His breathing was hot and uneven, and his eyes were dark with desire.

With one hand he embraced me tighter, and with the other he slid down to my neck, kissing me deeply - no longer sensually, but desperately. At that moment we stopped caring about anything. We moaned into each other's mouths, my hands roaming all over his torso.

He unbuttoned my shirt but halfway through he aggressively ripped the buttons which fell to the floor, then, almost immediately, his lips moved to my breasts. I pulled my shirt off completely and weaved my fingers in his thick hair, tilting my head back and sighing in pleasure.

At one point he straightened up and his fingers tightened on my waist. Harder. More securely.

And then, kissing me again briefly and greedily, in one motion he slid me off the counter and pressed my front against the cool surface of the bar. His lips were on my neck and his hands on my hips, which he lifted slightly and pressed me even closer to him. I felt his body pushing against mine, felt his bulge on my buttock.

He moved his fingers upward along my waist until his full hands caught my breasts. I entwined my fingers around his wrists tilting my head back and resting it on his collarbone. Jungkook let out a satisfied purr and moved one hand to my neck tightening his fingers on it. With the other he moved down to my pussy pressing his hand against it.

"The way you let yourself be led makes me unable to stop wanting you," he whispered in a low tone of voice and bit the lobe of my ear. I smiled cocky, as if showing how much I liked it.

"Shameless submissive" after those words he pushed me onto the bar to lean over, put his hands on my hips and pressed his hips against my buttocks. I moved my ass from side to side at which he quietly moaned and slapped my buttock with his full palm.

At one point he grabbed the hem of my skirt and in one motion pulled it upward so that it was now rolled down over my waist. He moved my panties to the side and without hesitation, without warning, slipped a finger inside me. Not for long because he immediately pulled it out, but the movement made me shiver. I involuntarily let out a loud moan, bending my head down.

Jungkook grabbed me by the hair and pulled hard, so that I was now holding my head high. Then, again without any warning, he slipped two fingers into me this time and began to move them at once, quickly and sharply. The whole room was filled with my desperate moans and the sounds of my already quite wet pussy.

Suddenly he stopped any actions, let go of my hair and pulled his fingers out of me. For a moment there was silence, only my loud breathing could be heard, and after a moment the sound of rustling clothes falling to the floor. Before I could turn my head, Jungkook moved closer to me so that I could gently feel his bare skin rubbing against mine.

He stroked my buttocks for a while, taking turns giving them fairly firm spanks, until after a long while he moved closer and placed several kisses on my back. Then I felt his hand on the center of my buttocks and slipping between his penis. At the thought, I took a deep breath.

He moved back and forth rubbing against me, breathing deeply. I reached back with my hand wanting to touch him but he pushed it away. Instead, he moved away for a moment and then I felt his tip at my entrance. I closed my eyes and let out a long, loud moan as he entered me with his entire length, slowly as if he wanted to feel every millimeter. When he entered fully he remained like that for a while without doing anything. We both breathed faster and faster, and I could feel my heart pounding hard.

I wanted more, I couldn't wait for him to start doing more so I started to move my ass myself but he put his torso on top of mine, pressing me against the tabletop and restraining my movements.

"Slowly... I want you to feel how much I want you," he said and put his hand on my neck, pressing his hips against mine even more.

"Do it, I can't wait, please..." I said in the most desperate voice in my entire life. At my words, he laughed softly and moved his hips away coming out of me halfway. Then he slid back into me, slapping hard so that the edge of the bar poked my ribs.

After a short while he did the same, doing it continuously. Faster and faster, once harder and once lighter. We both moaned like desperados, we were so good with each other that I didn't want it to ever end.

"You will be for me," 'Only mine,' 'You are so obedient,' 'You will do what I let you do,' 'You will not leave me until I let you,' he repeated all the time between moans, curses and kisses.

I could only afford to moan and scream. I wanted to tell him how well he was fucking me, I wanted to scream his name but I couldn't even do that. Tears were dripping down my cheeks, my legs were like cotton wool.

Then, he came out of me, turned my front around, and kissed me. He kissed hard, passionately, all the time he was the one in control. He lifted me up to which I wrapped my legs around him, walked a few steps and sat down on the nearest sofa. I could have started jumping on him but no. He held me firmly slightly raised and, leaning against the backrest, began to enter me hard and fast. I caught his shoulders and leaned back resting my forehead against his shoulder.

"I beg you, don't stop," I said and he pressed his lips to my cheek.

"Please..." I said again, this time in an almost crying voice.

"It's almost there, baby.... let me give it to you," he replied and put his arms around me tightly.

He sped up even more, his movements became chaotic. He hid his face in my hair, in the hollow of my neck. A few moments later we came together, simultaneously.

We sat like this for several minutes, trying to normalize our hearts. With one hand, he lifted my head for me to look at him after which he kissed me. But this time gently, still passionately but gently.

"Remember when I said you should serve me you on the side? Gotta say, tasted even better than I expected" I looked at him amused and punched him in the arm at which he laughed himself.

"Well, I did warn you it might be too much to handle" I shrugged my shoulders confidently.

"You didn't even do anything like that this time" he laughed.

"Then maybe next time"

[axvoter]

Blatantly Partisan Party Review XXIV (federal 2025): Victorian Socialists

Running where: well it’s not going to be Queensland now is it?

(but seriously, they are running in VIC for the Senate and for four seats in the House: Bendigo, Cooper, Fraser, Scullin)

Prior reviews: VIC 2018, federal 2019, federal 2022, VIC 2022

What I said before: “Victorian Socialists are exactly what they say they are. No misleading party name here, just a straight-up socialist platform.” (VIC 2022)

What I think this year: Much like my review of Socialist Alliance, I am broadly sympathetic to the platform of Victorian Socialists (VS), with some specific quibbles. You will probably be favourably disposed towards it too if you are interested in things such as greater taxation of multinational corporations and wealthy individuals, scrapping negative gearing, greater royalties on resources, nationalising essential services (VS focus on energy, telecommunications, and the Internet), investment in a rapid transition to renewable energy, increasing the minimum wage from $24.10/hr to $30/hr, improving the rights of workers (especially casual employees, and restoring rights to strike), and opposing the AUKUS deal.

Certainly some of VS’s taxation proposals might not instantly appeal to more moderate voters, let alone the right (e.g. marginal tax rate of 90% above 300k/pa, scrapping GST, ending tax exemptions for religious institutions). But given the state of tax discourse in Australia, I welcome any attempt to pull the Overton window back towards systems of higher taxation, given Australia's tax-to-GDP ratio is below the OECD average and has been for a long time. We are a low-taxing country and we should have a conversation about all the things we could afford and all the people we could lift out of poverty if we simply taxed at the OECD average. VS’s proposals are a provocative and useful part of that conversation.

My qualms are with VS’s housing policy and, by extension, a certain candidate. If I’m honest, since I began this edition of the reviews, this entry is one I’ve been least looking forward to writing, a stark contrast with my review of Trumpet of Patriots yesterday. It’s great fun to rip into the platforms of unhinged far-right parties whom I can assume my regular readership also scorns unreservedly. In this case, however, I have previously reviewed VS positively and once voted 1 for them, but if I still lived in Victoria I would not do so this year: I’m not hugely keen on Purplepingers, or as he is listed on the Senate ballot, VS lead candidate Jordan van den Lamb. I know my social media circles include fans of him, but he does not excite me. I’m not saying I dislike him: shitrentals.org is great and I contributed a review of one of Melbourne’s very worst agencies, Walshe & Whitelock. Nonetheless, the fact so much of the VS campaign is based around him as if he is a “celebrity” candidate makes me less enthused about the party as a whole.

I like VS’s strong emphasis on renters’ rights—I rent and don’t expect to ever not rent—but I feel that their response to the housing crisis is incomplete. VS emphasises rapid expansion of public housing, which I think is an important part of the response but not the only part or even the main part in the short/medium term. Australia has lower levels of public or social housing than the average advanced economy, so I agree we certainly need more. But I don’t think it can immediately be the leading plank of a response, and it will take time to erode widespread perceptions of public housing as undesirable or an option of last resort (we won’t become Singapore overnight).

As noted in my Socialist Alliance review, I support a mixed economy, and I think there will be (and should be) a role for private housing development for years to come. Hence, for me, VS need to articulate broader policies to foster dense, walkable cities that are accessible and efficient. We should build up, not out, for social, environmental, and economic reasons alike. VS, however, do not have policies for this; at the end of their climate policy is a point about “new regulations for urban planning and design to ensure environmental efficiency and sustainability”, but nothing about ending restrictive zoning or absurd heritage policies that limit housing supply, lock people out from many suburbs, and impede the replacement of mouldy old homes with warm modern ones. I am a professional historian who is not a fan of heritage regulations in their current form; perhaps that is surprising, but urban history shows us that the most vibrant cities are those that grow and evolve, while those put in aspic stagnate.

I see why VS chose Purplepingers as lead candidate. I’ve said before that VS has a younger vibe than Socialist Alliance, and Pingers made his reputation on social media. VS would certainly hope that he brings with him a cohort of socialism-curious voters and reach new audiences. But as well as exposing shit rentals and appalling landlords, Pingers also promotes squatting, which I don’t think is a meaningful solution; it is not pro-housing praxis to occupy dwellings so rundown that they fail paltry minimum standards for slumlords to rent them on the open market. Last week a story broke that a woman found the locks had been changed on her deceased father’s house, the address of which Pingers had shared. What struck me on my socials was that people who were already voting for him thought this was great and spent the day mocking the woman, while many who were not already in his camp found it questionable or distasteful, and saw his "I don't want her to feel bad" response as unserious. So, he’s shoring up a base but I’m not sure he’s the candidate to bring socialism to more mainstream audiences who need persuasion—and I very much want a seat-winning constituency for socialist candidates.

We have too much of the far-right in state and federal parliaments; a socialist MP would be a tonic and expand our political discourse. VS are exactly what they say on the tin and I think they will appeal not just to self-identified socialists but also to other left-wing voters. And despite my reservations above, Pingers and I concur about needing more homes—ultimately, my view is that his activism ironically does not go far enough and that there are more levers to pull. Like him, I want to stop land-banking and negligent landlords, and to ensure good minimum standards. I want more houses, I want them to be part of dense and accessible cities, and I want this yesterday. So, VS has what I consider to be part of the solution, and many of their other policies sit in a similar ideological area to my views. I hope they grow their vote this year.

Recommendation: Give Victorian Socialists a good preference.

Website: https://www.victoriansocialists.org.au/

[wellnoe]

reading a book that is very interesting in its quantitative analysis but is so weird in its tone!! the place the author chooses to insert emotionality is bizarre and his treatment of mortality of the be all end all of suffering is equally so.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Pent Up 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you seek validation through online correspondence with incarcerated men, only for one to lock you down in turn.

Characters: convict/excon!Thor (silverfox)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You peer around awkwardly, unsure of the fine silvery cutlery and which of the forks to use. You can’t help but feel out of place as you’re the youngest at the table; by decades. It’s surreal, like when your mom left you with your great grandparents as a child. She said it would be a few days but it turned out to be a month. They never had you back. 

You fidget and play with the frill along your left shoulder. The asymmetrical cut isn’t your favourite. You’re not sure what high school you was thinking, even if it was only a few years ago. 

“That colour is gorgeous on you,” Frigga preens, forcing you out of your anxious trance. 

You smile sheepishly. “Thanks. I... love your hair pin.” 

She touches the pearl barrette in her hair. “Oh, thank you, dear.” 

He uses the smaller fork, you think, to poke at her salad. You’re not into kale, you find it dense, but you know better to complain or decline. Just like with her son. You gulp and grab your fork. It’s like when your great grandmother made you that olive and cottage cheese delicacy you vomited into her garden. The salad is more palatable. 

You taste it, hoping the task of chewing can save you from talking. They all are exceedingly skilled at that and you don’t have much to offer. If you try, that screaming inside your head might escape to the outside. 

You wince as Thor rests his large hand on the back of your chair. 

“She’s a very clever woman. She works with electronics. Oh, and is she attending classes.” 

You swallow and nearly choke. He’s bragging about the lamest things in your life. Your job is boring and you don’t really do anything with the computers yourself. And classes... you’re just trying to pad your resume. 

“It’s very important to get an education,” Odin intones. “What’s more important is what you do with it. I spent a fortune on two engineering degrees for this one...” he shakes his head. “And look where he ended up.” 

You’re even more confounded by that revelation. Thor? An engineer? What on earth got him put in prison? You try not to delve too far into that riddle. It’s probably best to ignore that. How many red flags did you already ignore? What’s another. 

“It’s nothing special. Just... business admin. Basic stuff,” you shrug.  

Frigga’s eyes narrow and Odin tilts his head. They aren’t impressed and they shouldn’t be. That might be something. If they don’t approve of you... 

“And... I’m stuck with my parents still so... you know...” You add. 

“She is saving money. For us,” Thor assures. “You know things are difficult these days and father always said there is value in hard work.” 

“Mm, so I said,” Odin drawls. “Certainly, I hear your brother took that to heart. I hear he’s hired help.” 

“Oh?” Thor sniffs. “And still he could not come see me?” 

“He has not come to see all of us. Your mother only chanced upon him herself. Hasn’t even the time to pick up the phone for her--” 

“He is busy,” Frigga assures Odin as she pets his hand. “He will be here for your father’s birthday. That is what matters. And his assistant, she was darling. Though he was in a state. You know how he can be. Perhaps you might ask his advice, Thor. He could help you find some work.” 

“Hm, I suppose I could try asking,” Thor shifts, retracting his hand from the back of your chair. “I am not helpless. I have plans...” 

“Yes, son, you have told us the same many times. I believe the day before your sentencing,” Odin scoffs. “A bit old now to be falling back into bad habits.” 

“Father. I’ve turned myself around and she,” he reaches over to take your hand, your fork scraping your plate, “will keep me straight.” 

“Right,” Odin crosses his arms and leans back. “Don’t tell me so, show me.” 

“Father, I--” Thor clears his throat.  

Silence rises with a rippling tension. You look between his parents. You piece together the few clues you have. You can’t really begrudge them their doubt. You have your own. 

“Well, I have one in particular,” Thor pushes his chair back and keeps hold of your hand.  

He slides your fork free and puts it on the table. You peek up at him, confused. He kicks his chair back and he turns, lowering himself to one knee with a grunt. He digs in his pocket with his other hand and pulls out a band with a large diamond sparkling in the light. 

Frigga gasps and you gurgle. Odin sighs. 

“My queen, how I’ve waited so long for us to be together and now I can’t hardly wait for it to be. Please, will you make me your king?” He holds up the ring. You could fold over and evaporate into the floor. Sweat glazes over your face and your scalp itches. What do you say? 

“Um,” you sniff and blink. Your options are many. You really don’t have any. You’re too afraid of even saying no to him. Even with witnesses. “Yes?” 

He squeezes your hand and you let out a fluttery noise. Your heart is thumping, deafening you as the world pinpoints to his grip on you. He opens his hand and slides the ring onto your finger. You stare at the large rectangle diamond framed in smaller diamonds on a gold band. It must be expensive. 

A chair scrapes and you wince. You look over as Odin clucks and turns on his heel. He swipes up his can from against the table and marches out. Not a word, not a look. You look at Frigga as she gives a gentle smile. 

“He’s in shock, I think,” she says. 

You glance at Thor as he stares after his father. His face falls. He lets go of you and gets up, another groan as he does. He sits in his chair and frowns. 

“I thought he’d be happy,” Thor mutters. 

“Oh, of course he’s happy for you, son,” she affirms and reaches across to her son. He takes her hand. “I am. Don’t you worry.” 

“He didn’t say anything,” Thor sneers. 

“Thor, it’s been a lot. You’ve been away from us for so long and now this... it’s all very sudden. We’ve just met this lovely woman.” She looks at you kindly. “What are your plans? For the wedding?” 

“I have my trust,” Thor recoils and crosses his arms, almost petulant. At his size, the bratty demeanour is almost laughable. “I was not entirely unproductive in prison. I only ever did what needs to be done. Mother, you know I am not a cruel person. I’ve made mistakes, I admitted them. And you all hold it against me.” 

“No, we don’t, darling--” 

“You do! But only my diamond forgive me. She is so kind and--” he huffs. “He couldn’t even stay and face me. Congratulate me. Worse, he’s disrespected my future wife.” 

Wife? You could faint. You brace the sides of the chair to keep from doing just that. 

“Dear,” Frigga’s eyes meet yours. “Are you unwell?” 

You shake your head. You lean forward and catch yourself against the table. You reach for the tall glass by your plate. 

“I only need water,” you assure her. 

“Mm, yes, we shouldn’t let all this go to waste,” she tuts. “You know, your father just needs time. He is like you and your brother. You only need simmer in your thoughts then you come to sense. Eventually.” 

🩷

Leaving brings both relief and dread. You are glad to be free of the repressive exuberance of Thor’s family estate but uneasy at the prospect of being alone with him. Again. 

You sit in the passenger seat and stare at your hand. The large stone is as heavy as a boulder. You are not Sisyphus. You’re not sure how much further you can get it up the hill. 

“I am so happy. Are you?” He asks. 

You sit up and suck in a thick breath. You are many things. Afraid, lost, almost mourning. You regret being so stupid. Those idiotic emails were only meant to be... well, an ego boost. You are so pathetic, you wanted desperate men to tell you lies. And you told your own. 

“Thor,” you utter cautiously. “It’s a very nice ring and a very nice gesture but... I’m still very young and I don’t have much. I think maybe--” You pause and weigh your words; does the boulder roll back to the bottom of the hill? “Maybe that’s why your dad wasn’t happy. Because I’m not—not the right person for you right now--” 

He slams on the brakes. You squeal as the seat belt keeps you from hitting the dash. A car honks and serves around him. He ignores them. 

“Not right for me? You are the only one for me,” he insists. “My queen, you said yes to me.” 

“I did. I—I didn’t want to have this conversation there. It’s not that... It’s... I’m... I have to finish school and right now isn’t good for me--” 

“You don’t need school. I will take care of you--” 

“Thor, I can take care of myself--” 

“It is my job to take of you,” he snarls. 

You lean away from him, startled by his deeper tone. In the cabin of the truck, he is even bigger. You wipe your sweaty hand on your skirt. 

“It’s very sweet of you but--” 

“You said yes,” he growls. 

You blink, eyes tinging with moisture. You wet your lips. Your throat is scratchy. 

“Yes,” you nod. “Thor... My parents... you know, I think maybe before we decide anything I need to talk to them.” 

“Oh, I will be speaking with this man, this stepfather of yours. I will not be asking anything of him either. I will be telling him,” he says. 

You gulp. While the idea of him intimidating Andy is on the surface amusing, it’s deeply troubling too. You don’t want your family to know anything about Thor. 

“Well, let me talk to them first.”  

Another car honks and you look out the back window. Thor is unbothered by the roadblock he’s caused. You are about to melt into a puddle. 

“Can I be honest?” You ask. 

He stares and nods. The lines in his face trace his displeasure. Your eyes wander to his rounded muscular silhouette and his thick hands. The intrusive thought of them around your neck make you squirm. What if he killed someone? 

“I didn’t tell them yet,” you blurt out. It’s true but still a lie because it isn’t the truth you kept from him. “My family. I never mentioned you. I... never told them about anyone so I think they might be surprised and, so, er, can’t you let me... tell them first?” 

He looks at you. His forehead wrinkles. He exhales through his nose. Another car lays on their horn. He shakes his head and sits straight. 

“I suppose...” he mutters as he hangs his head. The horn continues to blare. 

He grips the wheel and he face twists in agitation. He peels his fingers off and balls his hands to fists. He hits the steering wheel and snarls. 

Before you can react, he taps the button on his seat belt and it retracts. He swings open the door, mindless to oncoming traffic, and gets out of the car. He lands heavy on his feet and marches along the side of the truck. 

You panic and scramble to untangle yourself from your seat belt. You fall out of the truck as you hear him hollering. 

“You honking at me?” Thor barks as he approaches the other car. “You’re messing with the wrong man.” You sprint around the truck bed as he gets to the driver’s window. He bends to snarl through, “why don’t you open up and face me, eh? Coward!” 

“Thor, please, get back in the car,” you scurry over. “Please, we’re in the way--” 

“No, he has no patience!” He hits the top of the car and leaves a dent. You gasp. It looks as if it took him no effort at all. 

The man in the car is frightened. He curls over his wheel and revs in a futile effort to scare away the raging giant. You grab Thor’s hand and pet his forearm. 

“Thor...” you peek once more at the scared driver. It’s your fault. All of this is your fault. “My king.” You coo at him shakily. “Please get back in the truck and take me home.” 

“He is disturbing us! He could go around--” 

“Thor!” You nearly shriek. “How can I marry you if you are so angry? If you do not listen to me?” 

His eyes round and he twitches as if he’s been struck. He looks at you and his face turns grim. “Marry me?” 

“I didn’t-- I wasn’t saying no. I was just saying—asking for some time,” you look him in the eye, caressing him, calming him like a riled dog. “But I can’t marry someone who does these things.” 

He lowers his head. He actually looks guilty. He nods and turns. He bends and taps gently on the window. He waves his hand. 

“Sorry about that. Bad day,” he gives a sheepish grin. “Here.” He lets you go and takes out his wallet. He takes out a couple of bills; each at least a hundred dollars. “For the roof.” 

He tucks the money under the wiper and stands straight. He latches onto you again and drags you away. He sighs out the tension. 

“You are right, my queen.” He says. “This is why I need you. To keep me in my right mind.” 

[bulbabutt]

no offence to people who genuinely enjoyed james somerton and feel cheated but you could kind of tell he didnt give a shit about anything he ever said. there was no passion or personable anecdotes in anything he ever made, and the fact he was constantly posting videos was crazy. like if you watch your more popular video essayists theyre always coming from a point of 1) education in a field 2) passion in a subject and 3) being open about themselves

like , this man hopped on the video essay train because of the popularity of his peers and just tokened himself into "the gay video essayist" as if so many other people werent already doing that? and the lack of care for intersectionality was obvious. i stopped ever watching him after he took it personally that some marvel show was about black exploitation in america and not about two men kissing each other, cuz it became abundantly clear that was the only experience he gave a shit about (his own)

[wewontbesleeping]

nothing more humiliating than finishing a book and not understanding the ending. if i have to google "____ ending explained" i'm killing myself

[nonsensechemicals]

*thinks about cookie9 again* * LOUDLY FLAILING IN MY SEAT*

[bmpmp3]

the really beautiful landscape/skyscape animation in makoto shinkai's works tends to be the big thing i see focused on and that is understandable and deserved like the weather and lighting effects are unREAL but i do think we should also appreciate how absolute insane the plotlines of his original movies get. at least two movies with in universe catastrophes with major ecological implications. the guns and explosions. theres that one movie i havent seen yet with the guy who turns into a chair (?)

[fingertipsmp3]

Okay I don’t know how this is going to work exactly but I’m not reading book synopses anymore, I’ve just decided