#AND HOW WELL HE ACCIDENTALLY MADE ALL THIS HAPPEN | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goldfades · 3 days ago

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I DON'T WANT YOU LIKE A BEST FRIEND───JOE BURROW

request: Can you write a joe burrow one shot about so high school 🥰🥰 Or if you’ve already done that, then the song dress

ev's notes: this was supposed to be a blurb. keyword: supposed to. i got a bit carried away, but how can you not when it comes to taylor? also, we all love LSU joe

The first time you saw Joe Burrow, he was standing on the edge of a practice field, helmet in hand, a picture of quiet confidence. His buzzcut was sharp enough to catch the late Louisiana sun, and you remember thinking he looked like the kind of guy who had his entire life planned out. It was almost intimidating how effortless he made everything seem—throwing perfect spirals, cracking jokes in the locker room, balancing the weight of a team on his shoulders. But then, somehow, you found yourself next to him during a random group project in Sports Management 201, and everything changed.

You didn’t become best friends overnight. Joe wasn’t exactly the “overshare everything in one go” type, and you, well, you had walls of your own. But there was an ease between you, the kind that turned study sessions into late-night deep dives about life and childhood and everything in between. By the time sophomore year rolled around, you were inseparable. You’d sit on the floor of his apartment during game weekends, surrounded by a haze of pizza boxes and team gear, and think, This is it. This is my person.

But somewhere along the way, the easy edges of your friendship began to blur. Maybe it was the way Joe looked at you during one of those low-stakes nights, his gaze lingering just a little too long. Or maybe it was the time you patched him up after a particularly brutal hit on the field—his voice low and rough as he muttered, “What would I do without you?” Either way, the shift was small but seismic, like an earthquake rumbling beneath your feet before you even realized it was happening.

You couldn’t pinpoint when you started noticing the details. The golden flecks in his otherwise blue eyes, the way his laugh hitched just slightly when he found something truly funny, or the way his voice softened when he said your name. You tried to ignore it at first, chalking it up to some misplaced admiration for your best friend, but the feelings were stubborn, refusing to be tucked away neatly. They buzzed under your skin, electric and impossible to ignore, leaving you breathless whenever he was near.

And then there was the dress. A stupid, impulsive decision born out of frustration and hope, hanging in your closet like a secret you weren’t ready to admit. You’d told yourself you bought it because you deserved something new, something fun. But deep down, you knew the truth.

You weren’t supposed to want him like this. You were supposed to be his confidante, his teammate, his best friend. But every lingering glance, every accidental brush of hands, every inside joke that felt too personal—it all built up, layering itself into something you couldn’t unravel even if you tried. And now, sitting in the dim glow of your shared favorite bar, watching him laugh at something trivial, you wonder if he feels it too.

If he notices the way you can’t quite meet his eyes for too long. If he knows that every smile he sends your way makes your chest tighten. If he realizes that every secret moment you’ve shared has carved itself into your memory like a golden tattoo you’ll never erase.

You don’t want him like a best friend. Not anymore.

The bass from the speakers thrums through the walls of the house, rattling the beer bottles on every flat surface. The air smells like spilled alcohol, cheap cologne, and too many bodies crammed into one space. It's chaos, but the best kind, the kind you’ve come to associate with game days at LSU—sweaty, celebratory, and electric. Tonight, the Tigers pulled off a win that had everyone on their feet, screaming until their voices cracked, and the party is nothing short of a victory lap.

You’re deep in a circle of friends, the buzz of alcohol warming your veins and making you laugh harder than you have in weeks. The strain of classes, late nights, and endless football schedules has melted away, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself relax. Someone hands you a drink—something neon and probably terrible—but you take it anyway, raising it in a toast to nothing and everything. It feels good to let loose, to drown out the noise in your head with the noise of the crowd.

And then you see him.

Joe is across the room, leaning casually against the kitchen counter like he owns the place. His LSU cap is turned backward, and his smile is as easy and devastating as ever. You can tell he’s in his element, surrounded by teammates and admirers, his laugh cutting through the din of the party. You feel it in your chest like a physical thing, a pull you’ve never been able to explain but have stopped trying to fight.

But it’s not just Joe that catches your attention. It’s the girl next to him.

She’s gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous that turns heads and stops conversations. She’s leaning in close, her perfectly manicured hand resting on his arm, saying something that makes him laugh. Not just any laugh—the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes, the kind you thought was reserved for the two of you. Your stomach twists, sharp and sudden, like you��ve just swallowed something bitter.

You try to look away, to focus on anything else—the half-empty drinks in front of you, the sticky floor beneath your shoes, the laughter of your friends—but your gaze keeps drifting back, helplessly tethered to the sight of them. She’s laughing now, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and Joe’s watching her like she’s the only person in the room.

The nausea hits you like a wave. It’s not subtle, not something you can breathe through and ignore. It rises quickly, making your throat tighten and your head spin. You set your drink down on the nearest surface, ignoring the shouts of your friends as you mumble something about needing a break.

The hallway to the bathroom feels like a mile long, each step heavy and unsteady. The crowd thins as you move away from the main party, the noise dulling to a low hum. You push open the bathroom door and lock it behind you, gripping the sink to steady yourself. The fluorescent light overhead is harsh, making everything feel too bright, too real.

You glance up at the mirror, and there it is: the blue dress.

You bought it on a whim, a little too expensive for your budget but too perfect to leave behind. Joe had told you once, in passing, that blue was your color. It had been a throwaway comment, something he probably didn’t even remember, but it had stuck with you. When you saw the dress, you thought of him, of the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, of the way he said your name like it was something special. You’d wanted to impress him, to feel like you could belong in the world he so effortlessly ruled.

Now, staring at your reflection, the dress feels like a cruel joke. The silky fabric clings to you in all the right places, the color vibrant against your skin, but it doesn’t matter. Not when Joe is out there, smiling at someone else like she’s the only thing that matters.

Your hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. The nausea is still there, but now it’s tangled with something else—anger, humiliation, heartbreak. It’s overwhelming, and for a moment, you think you might actually cry. But you don’t. You can’t. Not here, not now.

You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to stand up straighter. The dress still looks good, you think, even if it feels tainted now. You smooth the fabric down with trembling hands, telling yourself that it doesn’t matter, that Joe doesn’t matter. But deep down, you know it’s a lie.

He’s always mattered.

You take another deep breath, the kind that feels like it’s dragging through every nerve in your body, and push yourself away from the sink. The girl in the mirror stares back at you, her lips pressed into a determined line, her eyes just a little glassy. Maybe from the drink. Maybe not. Either way, you’re done hiding in this bathroom like a cliché in some bad movie.

Joe can talk to whoever he wants. He’s not yours. He never has been. But you? You’re not going to let one moment ruin your night. Not when the music is still pumping, your friends are still laughing, and—let’s be honest—you’re in a frat house. There are plenty of boys here who would love to talk to a girl like you, especially in this dress.

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, small but defiant, as you fix your hair and smooth your dress one last time. If Joe wants to waste his night with someone else, fine. You have no shortage of options.

The noise of the party hits you the moment you step back into the hallway, a tidal wave of music and laughter and the unmistakable sound of someone shouting “chug, chug, chug!” You weave your way through the crowd, ignoring the tightness in your chest when you pass the kitchen and see him still standing there, leaning closer to that girl. Instead, you head straight for the living room, where the crowd is thick, the lights are dim, and the music feels like it’s coming from inside your chest.

You position yourself near the edge of the dance floor, close enough to seem approachable but not so close that you’re desperate. It doesn’t take long. It never does at a frat party, especially when you’re wearing a dress like this one.

The first guy approaches within minutes. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and definitely a little drunk. His grin is lopsided as he leans in, yelling over the music. “Hey! You’re way too cute to be standing here by yourself. What’s your name?”

You force a smile, polite but not overly enthusiastic. “Thanks. I’m just waiting for my friends.”

He doesn’t take the hint. “Well, they’re not here right now, are they?” He takes a step closer, the smell of beer and sweat rolling off him in waves. “Lucky me.”

You laugh awkwardly, trying to keep some space between you. He’s not bad-looking, you’ll give him that, but there’s something about the way his eyes linger on you that makes your skin crawl. It’s like he’s not looking at you, but at the dress, the shape of your body, the idea of what you might let him get away with. It’s unsettling, and the longer he talks, the more you want to disappear.

“So,” he says, leaning in even closer, “you here with anyone? Or are you single tonight?”

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. Normally, you’d have brushed this guy off by now, forced a polite smile and ducked away before things got too awkward. But tonight isn’t normal. Tonight, you’re wearing this stupid blue dress for a boy who doesn’t even notice you’re alive, who’s too busy laughing with someone else to care that you’re here, trying not to drown in your feelings. And maybe it’s the alcohol humming in your veins, or maybe it’s the weight of everything pressing down on your chest, but you don’t brush him off.

Instead, you tilt your head and smile, the kind of smile you’ve never given to anyone but Joe. “Single.”

His grin widens, and he takes another step closer, his hand finding your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It feels wrong and right all at once—wrong because he’s not Joe, but right because at least someone is looking at you like you matter. His voice is low, almost a murmur now. “Lucky me.”

You laugh, a sound that feels foreign to your own ears, and let him guide you further into the crowd, where the music is loud enough to drown out your thoughts. His hands are confident but not pushy, and when he leans down, his lips brushing against yours, you don’t stop him.

You kiss him back. At first, it’s awkward, more about the motion than any real feeling, but as the seconds pass, you give in, letting the alcohol and the haze of the moment carry you. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let him because it’s easier than admitting that the only person you really want to be kissing doesn’t want you back.

You’re not sure how long it lasts—minutes, maybe hours—but the world blurs into a mess of noise and heat, and you lose yourself in it. You don’t notice the weight of another gaze until it’s too late.

“[Your Name].”

Your name isn’t loud, but it cuts through everything like a knife. The music, the chatter, the blood pounding in your ears—all of it fades the second you hear his voice. Joe’s voice.

You pull back from the guy, your head spinning as you turn to find Joe standing a few feet away. His cap is gone now, his hair slightly mussed, and his expression is unreadable. But his eyes—those blue eyes you’ve memorized in a thousand different shades—are filled with something you can only describe as hurt. It hits you like a punch to the gut.

“Joe,” you manage, your voice shaky, but he doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at you, his jaw tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You barely hear him. Your focus is locked on Joe, on the way his shoulders tense and his gaze flickers between you and the guy. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet but razor-sharp, like he’s trying to keep something dangerous from slipping out. “Didn’t realize you were… busy.”

The guy behind you shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Uh, I didn’t—”

“She’s drunk,” Joe cuts him off, his tone flat but laced with something that feels too heavy, too sharp to be just irritation. His eyes don’t leave yours, even as he continues, his jaw tight. “You know that, right?”

The words hit you like a slap, and your stomach twists in both anger and embarrassment. You straighten up, the haze of alcohol doing little to dull the heat that creeps up your neck. “Joe, I’m fine. Don’t—”

“No, you’re not,” he snaps, his attention finally shifting to the guy, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else right now. “Get lost.”

“Hey, man, I didn’t mean any harm,” the guy says, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “She seemed into it.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not,” Joe bites back, taking a step forward. There’s a warning in his voice, low and simmering, and the guy takes the hint, backing away with a muttered excuse before disappearing into the crowd.

You whip around to face Joe, your chest heaving. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem?” His laugh is bitter, his eyes narrowing as he looks at you. “What are you even doing, [Your Name]? You’re drunk. And you’re letting some random guy—”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you interrupt, your voice rising to match his. The heat in your face isn’t just from the alcohol anymore; it’s from the way he’s looking at you, like you’re some reckless child who needs saving. “I’m not a kid, Joe. I don’t need you to swoop in and play hero.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at you like he’s trying to figure out what to do next. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter but no less intense. “You don’t see it, do you? The way guys like that look at you. They don’t care about you, [Your Name]. They just see an easy target.”

You flinch at his words, the sting of them sharper than you expect. “You don’t get to decide what I do or who I talk to, Joe. You don’t own me.”

“Damn it, I’m trying to protect you!” His voice cracks slightly, the frustration and something else—something softer, almost desperate—breaking through. “Do you have any idea how bad this could’ve gone? What if I hadn’t been here?”

“I didn’t ask you to save me!” Your voice is shaking now, the emotion bubbling up faster than you can contain it. “You think you’re protecting me, but all you’re doing is acting like you know better than I do.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of the argument hanging heavy between you. Around you, the party continues, oblivious to the storm brewing in this corner of the room.

Joe runs a hand through his hair, his expression shifting into something you can’t quite read. Hurt? Anger? Both? “You don’t get it,” he says finally, his voice low. “You never get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” you shoot back, your own voice raw now. “Because all I see is you barging in and making me feel like some helpless idiot.”

His jaw clenches, his hands flexing like he’s holding back something volcanic. When he finally moves, it’s not to storm off—it’s to step closer, his hand wrapping around your arm with just enough pressure to make you pause, though not enough to hurt. His grip is warm and steady, grounding in a way that feels infuriating right now.

“That’s enough,” he says, his voice low but firm. There’s no anger in it, no edge, just a quiet certainty that only makes you bristle more. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You yank your arm back, but his hold doesn’t falter. “I’m fine, Joe,” you snap, your voice sharp and defensive. The alcohol in your veins has burned away just enough to leave you teetering on the edge of indignation. “I don’t need you babysitting me.”

He doesn’t respond, his eyes meeting yours with a calm intensity that only fuels your frustration. “Let me go,” you demand, your voice rising. “Seriously, Joe. You can’t just decide—”

“You’re drunk,” he cuts in quietly, his tone unshakable, almost maddeningly patient. “And this isn’t you.”

Your stomach twists, the words hitting a nerve you didn’t realize was exposed. “Oh, so now you’re the expert on me?” you fire back, your voice trembling slightly as you try to pull away again. “You don’t get to tell me who I am or what I can do. I’m not some little kid you need to take care of!”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t yell, doesn’t even argue. He just lets you rail against him, his expression remaining infuriatingly steady as he starts guiding you through the crowd, his hand never leaving your arm. You’re too angry to notice the way people glance your way, their conversations pausing as they watch Joe Burrow, the golden boy of LSU, calmly escort you out of the frat house like it’s a routine play he’s run a hundred times before.

“Joe, let me go!” you yell again, louder this time, but your voice bounces off the walls of the crowded room and fades into the noise of the party. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even look back.

By the time you’re outside, the cool night air hits you like a slap, the contrast between the crisp breeze and the stuffy warmth of the party jarring enough to momentarily stall your protests. Joe finally lets go of your arm but stands in front of you, his broad frame blocking the house and everyone in it from view.

You glare at him, crossing your arms as you try to steady your breathing. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem?” he echoes, his voice still calm, though there’s a hint of something sharper underneath. “My problem is watching you let some random guy take advantage of you because you’ve had too much to drink. My problem is knowing you’re going to regret this in the morning.”

“And you think dragging me out of there like I’m some damsel in distress is going to fix that?” you snap, your chest heaving with the force of your words. “You don’t get to control me, Joe!”

“I’m not trying to control you,” he says, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?” you demand, throwing your hands up. “From having fun? From making my own choices?”

“From getting hurt,” he says, and the words are so soft, so raw, that they stop you in your tracks. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, the anger in your chest giving way to something heavier, something harder to ignore.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, you see the cracks in his calm façade. There’s something unsteady in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s balancing on a knife’s edge, trying not to fall. “I care about you, okay? More than I probably should. So yeah, maybe I overstepped, but I’m not going to stand there and watch you make decisions that aren’t you, not when I know you’re going to hate yourself for it tomorrow.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy and unrelenting. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Because for all your anger, all your frustration, there’s a part of you that knows he’s right. And it terrifies you.

Joe takes a step back, running a hand through his hair as he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to steady himself. “If you want to go back in there, I won’t stop you. But I had to try.”

He turns to leave, his shoulders tense, and for the first time tonight, you feel the weight of everything crashing down all at once.

You watch him for a second, the silence stretching between you, thick and tangled with everything unsaid. The words you want to say sit at the back of your throat, but they won’t come. Instead, you take a deep breath, the cold air doing little to cool the fire in your chest, and you follow him.

Joe’s footsteps are steady and purposeful, like he’s not even thinking about the fact that you’re trailing behind him, but somehow you can’t bring yourself to be mad at him anymore. Your anger dissipates in the quiet of the night, swallowed up by the calm that surrounds you both. The sounds of the party fade away as you walk down the street toward your apartment, the rhythmic tap of your heels on the sidewalk oddly soothing.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, not meeting his eyes. For once, the noise in your head is quieter than the pounding of your heart, but still, you can’t shake the nagging feeling that something's missing.

You finally glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His face is shadowed in the streetlights, but you can still make out the tight line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow. He doesn’t look at you, his focus trained straight ahead, and for some reason, it makes your chest ache.

Neither of you speaks, the tension between you thick but not unbearable. It’s the kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to shift, for someone to break. But you don’t. Not yet.

By the time you reach your apartment door, the quiet feels heavier than the air itself. You fumble with your keys for a moment, your fingers trembling just enough to make it harder than usual to find the right one.

"Here," Joe says, his voice low, and you glance up just in time to see him stepping forward, his hand brushing against yours as he takes the keys from you. He unlocks the door in a smooth motion, and before you can even think to thank him, he speaks again.

“I—”

“You looked good tonight,” he says, cutting you off softly. His voice is steady, but there’s something in it that makes your stomach flip, an edge of vulnerability you weren’t expecting. His eyes meet yours then, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “The dress. I liked it.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and it feels like the ground beneath you shifts, like the world tilts on its axis and sets you spinning. You stare at him, your heart beating too fast, and then—without warning—you’re smiling.

It’s not forced or awkward. It’s real, stretching across your face in a way that makes the weight in your chest lift just a little. And then he’s smiling too, that familiar grin that’s been burned into your memory for years, and suddenly, everything feels lighter.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice quieter now, softer. You glance down at the fabric of your dress, smoothing it out as if to steady yourself. “I wasn’t sure if it was my color.”

“It is,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in his voice, just certainty. “Blue suits you.”

You blink, staring at him, at the way he’s looking at you now—open, earnest, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Something in his eyes shifts, like he’s trying to gauge whether you’ll believe him, whether you’ll understand the weight behind those words. And you do.

A smile spreads across your face before you can even stop it. It’s like all the pieces of this night fall into place, clicking together, and for the first time in hours, you feel lighter. The alcohol fades to a dull buzz in the back of your mind, replaced by a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads outward, filling you up from the inside.

“I’m glad you like it,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you even think about them. You’re not even sure who you’re trying to convince. Maybe him. Maybe yourself.

He smiles back, that familiar, crooked grin that makes your heart stutter in your chest. And just like that, you know.

The tension between you two, the hurt, the anger—it’s all still there, but it’s fading, slipping away with each breath you take, with each passing moment. The connection you’ve both been avoiding is right there, in the space between you, unspoken but understood.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you step forward. The words leave your mouth before your brain can stop them.

“Do you want to come in?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. He just looks at you, his expression unreadable, like he’s trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not. But then the smile returns, a little softer, a little more vulnerable this time, and he steps closer, his hand brushing against yours again.

“I’d like that.”

You step aside, holding the door open for him, and as he crosses the threshold into your apartment, the world outside fades away. The weight of the night, the tension, the unspoken feelings—it all starts to fall away as you close the door behind him, the sound of it locking making everything feel a little more real.

And for the first time tonight, you feel like you might actually be able to breathe again.

Inside, the apartment feels cozy, a stark contrast to the cold night air outside. You toss your keys onto the counter, the clink of metal breaking the comfortable silence as Joe surveys the familiar space. He’s been here more times than you can count, so much that it’s almost like he lives here—except he doesn’t. He’s always just passing through, leaving behind traces of himself that linger far longer than he does.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says casually, already heading toward the bathroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is.

“Sure,” you reply, watching as he grabs a towel from the hall closet without missing a beat. “You know where everything is.”

He shoots you a grin over his shoulder. “Hard not to when half of it used to be mine.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips out before you can stop it. The tension from earlier feels miles away, replaced by an easy warmth that only Joe seems to bring. You head to the couch, plopping down and grabbing the remote while he disappears into the bathroom. The sound of water running fills the quiet, and you let yourself sink into the cushions, your body finally relaxing.

When Joe reappears twenty minutes later, his hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, he’s wearing a pair of sweats and an old LSU hoodie you distinctly remember stealing from him months ago. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, but you push the feeling down, focusing on the TV as he flops onto the couch beside you.

He stretches out, his long legs taking up most of the space, and gestures at his hoodie with a mock-serious expression. “You know, you could at least ask before raiding my closet.”

You glance at him, feigning innocence. “What can I say? Your clothes are comfortable. And they look better on me.”

He snorts, leaning back with a grin that’s all teasing charm. “Debatable.”

“Not even a little bit,” you counter, smirking. The playful banter feels so normal, so easy, that you almost forget the storm that brewed between you earlier.

Almost.

After a while, the two of you migrate to your bed, the comforter a welcoming cocoon as you prop up pillows and settle in with The Office playing softly in the background. Joe’s on one side, you’re on the other, the space between you wide enough to be friendly but not awkward. It feels... safe. Like every other time you’ve done this.

But tonight, something lingers in the air, something unspoken that buzzes just beneath the surface. You try to ignore it, to lose yourself in the familiar rhythm of Jim and Pam’s back-and-forth, but you can feel Joe shifting beside you, his presence impossible to ignore.

It’s almost halfway through an episode when he speaks, his voice cutting through the soft glow of the TV. “You know…” he starts, his tone so casual it catches you off guard. “It’s funny how everyone thinks we’re just friends.”

You turn to look at him, your brows knitting together. “Uh… because we are just friends?”

He shrugs, his eyes still fixed on the screen, his expression maddeningly nonchalant. “Sure, but like… doesn’t it ever feel like more than that sometimes? Like, not in a weird way, but…” He trails off, his lips curving into a small, almost amused smile. “I don’t know. Just thinking out loud.”

Your heart stutters, your breath catching as his words sink in. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the way his arm brushes against yours, the warmth radiating from his body, the way his voice dips just enough to make you second-guess everything. But Joe doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, he looks like he’s just commented on the weather, like this vague, half-confession isn’t turning your entire world upside down.

“Joe…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say or how to even process what he just implied.

He finally looks at you, his gaze steady but soft, like he’s daring you to call him out. “What? I’m just saying. It’s not that crazy of an idea, is it?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You’re torn between laughing at how absurdly casual he’s being and screaming at him for dropping this bombshell like it’s nothing. Instead, you settle for staring at him, your mind racing as the silence stretches on.

And then, as if to hammer the final nail in your coffin, he adds, “I mean, you do look really good in that dress. I wasn’t lying about that.”

It feels like the air’s been knocked out of you. Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it, and you’re not entirely sure if the warmth spreading through your chest is panic or something else entirely.

Joe doesn’t push. He just leans back against the pillows, his gaze flicking back to the TV like he didn’t just casually crack open the door to feelings you’ve spent way too long pretending don’t exist. But the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth gives him away. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

And for the first time, you’re not sure if you want to close that door or walk straight through it.

Your brain short-circuits. There’s no other way to describe it. You sit there, staring at him, your mouth opening and closing like you’re a fish out of water, but no words come out. None. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your thoughts racing too fast for you to grab hold of even one.

Joe waits, his expression unreadable. His eyes flick to yours, searching, like he’s waiting for some kind of confirmation—or maybe a rejection. The seconds stretch into what feels like hours, and the weight of the moment settles heavily between you.

You want to say something, anything, but your tongue feels glued to the roof of your mouth, and all you can do is sit there like an idiot while your heart threatens to burst out of your chest.

And then, Joe decides he’s done waiting.

Without warning, he leans in, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face as his lips press softly against yours. It’s gentle, tentative, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away. But you don’t. You can’t. The moment his mouth touches yours, it’s like the world stops spinning.

When he pulls back, his gaze locks on yours, his thumb brushing against your cheek. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it, and his voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

It takes a second for his words to register, but when they do, they snap you out of your daze. “I’m impossible?” you manage to croak, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I did.”

You blink at him, still trying to process what just happened. But then the realization hits you like a freight train, and the words tumble out before you can stop them. “I feel the same way.”

Joe’s smirk widens into a full-blown grin, and he leans back, his hand dropping to rest casually on your knee. “Took you long enough to say it,” he teases, his tone light but undeniably smug. “Thought I was gonna have to spell it out for you.”

Your cheeks burn, and you swat at his arm, unable to stop the small laugh that escapes you. “Oh, shut up.”

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and tucking you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hoodie smells like fresh laundry and something distinctly Joe, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, your head resting against his chest.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The TV continues playing in the background, the familiar sounds of The Office filling the room, but neither of you are paying attention anymore. Joe’s fingers trace absent patterns on your arm, and every now and then, you catch him glancing down at you with a soft smile that makes your heart flutter all over again.

It’s quiet, easy, comfortable, like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#nfl fic #nfl football #nfl lb #nfl imagine #joe burrow #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fan fic #joeyb #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x oc

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mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess · 3 days ago

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The green eyed monster

Shen Qingqiu gets a kitten. Luo Binghe isn't very happy about it.

Luo Binghe is angry. Bitter. Miffed. Pissed off. Displeased. Inconvenienced.

Jealous.

This is ridiculous!

He is the Demon Realm's Emperor, he is- he defeated the Abyss!

He is the best husband anyone could ever have, Shizun has never even seen the laundry basin once! Let alone the kitchen! The brooms neither!

So why isn't he that is being cuddled and kissed on the head and receiving pats?! Where is his affection?!

It's all the fault of that stupid, useless furry animal, that pathetic kitten Shizun found meowing its head off in the bamboo forest a few weeks ago, a palm sized black creature with wide, scared eyes and a voice loud enough to echo in the whole Cang Qiong Mountain!

Of course, Shizun is so kind and loving, he couldn't have left that screaming beast to die there, especially since it was so small, so he scooped it up, placed it in his lapels (in his lapels! On his chest!) and brought it back to the bamboo house.

The terrible beast lapped up all the food it could get amd purred loud enough to drown out any conversation, cuddling up to Shen Qingqiu obsessively, sticking its face against his as if demanding kisses.

And Shen Qingqiu gave them to it! Willingly! Smiling!

Luo Binghe was going to die of rage.

The beast had even nestled in their bed - "Binghe, she's too small to sleep alone!" - and in order "not to jostle it", Shen Qingqiu had apologetically told his husband they could have sex later, the kitten needed a "safe, warm place to sleep".

The audacity of that ball of pathetic black fluff to curl up on Shen Qingqiu's chest after made Luo Binghe burn inside with rage. That was his spot!

Ever since that night, the beast had become a part of their daily lives, and Luo Binghe hated it. Shen Qingqiu was doing everything with it, keeping it in his lapels or on his lap, playing with it with his brush handles and kissing it constantly.

Kissing!

Only Binghe should get Shizun's attention, anyway, but kisses?!

He decided that the animal had to go.

Keyword: he.

Because Shen Qingqiu had visibly recoiled at the idea of sending the kitten back outside or building her a shelter in the bamboo forest, no matter how pathetically Binghe suggested it.

In fact, the way Shizun looked, so protective but so heartbroken at the thought of being separated from his pet filled Binghe with so much guilt he wished to jump into the Abyss again.

Which brings us to the present.

Shen Qingqiu is attending some peak lord meeting the details of which Luo Binghe forgot because he's been too busy staring at Shizun's lips as he spoke about it to pay attention - and he has left the beast into Binghe's care for the day.

"Make sure you give her some food by mid-day, okay?" Shen Qingqiu had said, picking up the animal to kiss its small, inky nose. The thing purred. PURRED! "And play with her lots, she's so active!"

"Yes, Shizun, please don't worry, I'll do my best..."

"If anything happens, just come get me, okay? She's so small, so I worry..."

Binghe has to fight the impulse to roll his eyes at the memory. The beast is doing quite well running around, wreacking havoc. Why does it have so much energy? Binghe is sick of cleaning up after it. And it meows so much, the noise is hurting his ears.

Could it be so bad if he accidentally left a window open...?

He immediately squashes the thought. Shizun would be devastated!

So what was he to do now?

He just watched the ball of black fluff flurry around the bamboo house like it's possessed by demons. What a terrible thing. Why does Shizun love it so much? It's just a pathetic little thing without a family or a purpose, abandoned by its kind, that fell in love with the first person that gave it a modicum of affection!

Binghe resolutely refuses to think who that reminds him of.

But the little beast is not easily swayed. It seems to know Binghe dislikes it, so it sticks to his side constantly. It sleeps on his face sometimes, or attacks his ankles when he cooks, even licks his hand when it wants pets.

Binghe hates it.

But he does it anyway - for Shizun's sake! He couldn't care less about this puny creature!

...so, you may wonder, why is he playing with it now that Shizun is not here?

That is because Shizun might realize the kitten hasn't been entertained properly and scold Binghe of course! Sure, he did laugh a bit when the kitten tumbled on its tail as it tried to catch the feather Binghe dangled in front of it, and he found it funny how it reached for his hands to bite at his wiggling fingers - but that doesn't mean anything.

Binghe flicks a finger in the little kitten's face, and instead of flinching, it sniffs his finger pad curiously before rubbing its face against it.

Disgusting.

Binghe scratches beneath its chin with a long nail and catches himself smiling as the kitten purrs and closes its eyes contently.

Terrible.

The kitten ducks its head beneath Binghe's finger and he rolls his eyes. "So needy, does Shizun spend all his days spoiling you?"

"Mrow."

He huffs, but runs his hand over the kitten's head indulgently. "You always hog all his attention, how much do you even need, huh?"

The kitten purrs loudly in response as it rubs up against Binghe's gentle hand, and he can't help caressing down the kitten's small body.

"You're too small. Why don't you grow up, hm? You're making Shizun worry."

The kitten chirps, then continues to purr, pleased, climbing up Luo Binghe's chest from his lap. But the travel up is treacherous and the kitten nearly slips - Binghe's quick reflexes catch it though.

"Be careful. How clumsy. If you get hurt, Shizun won't forgive me."

The kitten continues its journey undettered and finally nestles into the junction between Binghe's neck and shoulder. Its small body is warm and vibrating with loud purrs, and it occasionally turns to sniff at Binghe's face and lick it.

"Stop that." He says, without any bite, and scratches between the kitten's ears with two of his fingers. The animal seems to take that as encouragement and pushes its head against Luo Binghe's cheek.

He turns his head to meet small, green eyes and a purring, black nose.

He cannot resist the impulse to lay a kiss over the kitten's forehead.

Maybe she isn't so bad, after all.

"Binghe, I'm-"

When Shen Qingqiu walks into the room, his mouth closes and his eyes soften with fondness. Sat on the bamboo couch, clearly waiting for him, Luo Binghe's head is angled to a side, the small, black kitten tucked into his shoulder and serving as the tiniest pillow in the world. They are both asleep, wearing matching expressions of content and relaxation.

Shen Qingqiu wished he had his camera right now.

#svsss #scum villian self saving system #lbh #luo binghe #sqq #shen qingqiu #writing attempts

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mixelation · 3 days ago

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i want to post something so here's some async. takes place after minato ambushes tori in her hotel

it's little disjointed because some of the scene were written ages ago, and i definitely want to smooth over and flesh some of it out. also there's a [...] break which is where kushina tells minato he is an idiot in various ways and gives him advice. however i have not written it yet

xXx

Minato went home and collapsed onto his futon, a huge smile on his face. That had been fun. It was nice, to face off against someone when the fate of Konoha didn’t hang in the balance. Like, yes, Reina had come closer to killing him than anyone had since that incident with Kushina and the Kyuubi, but also if she’d succeeded, it wasn’t like he’d be losing ground for Konoha or something. Minato was good, but he wasn’t so arrogant as to think he was irreplaceable to Konoha.

She didn’t even try to kill me, Minato thought, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. That’s progress, right?

He’d figured she’d definitely have something up her sleeve when he showed up again, which is why he’d gone in kunai first. He’d had no idea what that would be, and he’d been excited for the surprise. All the fuinjutsu he’d found from Reina was insane looking and unique to her. He’d had no way to predict how she thought or what she was even capable of. If he’d hesitated again this time, she would have had that barrier up around her before he’d be able to do anything about it, and then who knew what sort of things she’d be able to do from the safety of her little bubble.

Maybe I should have let her try, Minato thought, his stomach doing a giddy little flip at the idea. That’s what a good friendly spar was about, wasn’t it? It wasn’t about winning. It was about testing yourself against someone else, and letting them test out their own techniques against you.

Minato did like winning, though, especially when his opponent was someone he actually had to try against. He had felt good in the moment, to have seen her trap and snuck around it.

But he’d… somehow, after reviewing what had happened in his head, he felt a little guilty. He remembered how fast Reina’s heartbeat had been the whole time he’d had her pinned, how she’d been distrustful even after he’d used his most people-pleaser voice to promise he didn’t want to hurt her.

Had he scared her? Maybe. He hadn’t really thought about it, when it was happening. He’d just spent weeks thinking about her face, how confident she’d been in her own victory. He’d forgotten how nervous civilians were around ninja. He could barely wrap his head around the idea that someone like Reina might be just as nervous about ninja as the next civilian.

He’d wanted to ask more questions about her… experiments, or whatever she was doing. But he could tell she was upset despite him using his most charming smile, and so he’d left her.

Minato’s plan, then, was to give Reina a week or so to calm down while he ran a couple of missions. He’d stop by the Yamanaka flower shop and get some advice on what type of flower he could give to a young woman he wanted to be kindling a friendship with. He had never needed to know it for any of his roles as a shinobi, but Minato knew kunoichi all got trained in flower language, and so he’d often hear women complaining or gossiping about faux-pas their boyfriends made. He’d gotten his fairshare of bouquets from admirers and then had Kushina decode them for him, a flirty little game they used to play before… well.

Minato had no idea if Reina would know anything about flowers, but he wanted something pretty without accidentally telling her I love you passionately forever please marry me also you smell bad or something.

As the days passed, however, Minato couldn’t help but check in on where her Hiraishin moved. He gave markers to teammates all the time temporarily, and Jiraiya usually had one on him, but…

It was kind of exciting, to know where Reina was. He had so many questions about her, about how she saw the world and where she was going. Being able to concentrate briefly and see that she’d moved a few kilometers gave him no answers, and yet made him feel like he was learning something about her.

And then, before he could ask anyone about flowers, one day Minato realized that the mark he had attached to Reina hadn’t moved in a while. This wasn’t unusual. There were a lot of reasons someone wouldn’t move around a lot, like sleep or sitting around for some reason. But he’d checked in on her a couple times a day, and she hadn’t moved in a very long time. Even if she was hunched over a new seal to kill him for hours at a time, she’d at least get up and move around eventually.

Could she maybe not move? Had she been captured? Minato, to his own surprise, found himself worried. She was his project. And she was deadly clever, but she was still just a soft little civilian.

Minato teleported to the marker. Instead of dropping in on Reina, he found himself in the middle of the air. His own marker trembled in the wind in front of him. This wasn’t at all what he had expected.

Gravity worked faster than his brain. Minato was falling. The ground was so, so far away. It took him a couple seconds to realize what had happened, and he was lucky he was so high in the air, because he had time to think to teleport again.

Hirashin kept the user’s momentum. Minato crashed painfully into the ground, hundreds of kilometers away in a Fire Country forest. His arm slammed down to break his fall, and pain seared through him on impact.

She fractured my arm, Minato thought dully, sitting on the ground and staring down at his injured arm. His heart pounded in his chest, his blood flooded with adrenaline.

The marker he’d gone to was definitely the one he’d stuck on Reina, because he’d been monitoring her. He’d followed her path. But it… she’d somehow removed it from her body and stuck it to sealing paper, and then hung the paper over the cliff. He… he had no idea how she’d done that. It wasn’t supposed to be possible for other people to remove his markers.

Usually when he teleported to a marker sight-unseen, he was better prepared for surprises. He normally would have reacted faster. But “floating in the middle of the air” had been so far out of what he thought was possible right up until that moment, that he’d simply been unable to process it.

His stomach squeezed oddly, making his toes curl in his sandals.

Minato teleported back to the marker. Because he knew what to expect this time, he was able to keep his wits about him. He took two milliseconds to assess the situation: the paper with the mark hung by a fishing line, which in turn hung from a scraggly tree that had the misfortune of growing out from a tiny outcrop of rocks on a cliffside. The fishing line was over a meter long; he had no chance of grabbing hold of the tree, and without something to propel him sideways, he had no way to make contact with the cliff and use chakra to stop his fall.

Minato grabbed the paper out of the air and teleported back to the forest, all before he’d built up enough momentum to injure himself on the landing this time.

[...]

It took him over a week to find Reina again, partially because he took a mission in the middle of his hunt. Curly hair wasn’t common, and people noticed young women traveling alone, so her movements through towns weren’t hard to track, but he did have to do a ton of interviews.

He was slowed down briefly where she appeared to wander off down a little-used road and switch to camping. Minato was as good a tracker as the next jounin, but it wasn’t his specialty, and he sort of had to rewire his gut instincts to follow Reina. She wasn’t a ninja and she didn’t cover for herself the way a ninja would. She didn’t travel through trees, and her average speed was extremely low.

He didn’t approach her immediately when he found her in a tent set up a little ways off the road. He had, after all, promised her flowers. Flowers would also maybe soften the blow of her fury if she tried to kill him again… maybe.

Did he want her to try killing him again? It did seem a bit exciting, but he also did truly want to just talk to her.

Spring hadn’t quite hit the northern countries yet, but Minato knew things further south were likely to already be starting. He teleported through a few places deep in the southern Fire Country forests before he finally found a squat little tree, heavy with dark pink flowers. He pulled off a whole branch since, assuming he could charm Reina into not attempting to him again, he wanted to see her do something with its chakra, and more tree meant more chakra. They were azaleas, he was pretty sure. That seemed pretty safe and generic.

Maybe she can help me with senjutsu, Minato thought absently, teleporting back to where he’d left a marker just outside of Reina’s camp.

She did jump to her feet immediately when he stepped into the clearing. But there was no deadly trap, and she didn’t look upset.

“Wow, you are persistent,” she said. “Did you actually bring me flowers?”

She stared at the branch in his hands, nonplussed.

“You broke my arm,” Minato said brightly.

Reina lifted the gaze from the flower to his face, her eyebrows raised.

“Er, it’s okay,” Minato said. He shuffled his feet nervously. “I talked to my… female friend, and she pointed out that I probably shouldn’t have… marked you. If I wanted to be friends. Sorry.”

“...apology accepted,” Reina said slowly. “Sorry I tried to kill you again. Are those rhododendrons?”

She held out her hands, and Minato passed the branch over.

“I think they’re azaleas?” Minato said.

“Rhododendrons are poisonous,” Reina said, a huge smile passing over her face as she turned the branch over in her hands.

Cute, Minato thought, unbidden. This was followed by: Wait, what?

#the joke is that azaleas are in the rhododendron family #i found a list of azalea meanings in japan and based on color they mostly have to do with romance and beauty #however in western flower language rhododendrons means 'danger' because they are indeed poisonous #my writing #asynchronicity #toriverse

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fatuismooches · 12 hours ago

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My personal headcanon is that Dottores main lab in sneznyaha is underneath his mansion (that the fandom all collectively agrees each harbinger was given lol) so walking into his mansion it’s completely deserted. No lights, no decor, not much furniture, just …empty. Further into the mansion there would be a secret hidden entrance that leads down into the massive laboratory that is buzzing with activity.

After waking up fragile reader probably wouldn’t even know there’s a whole mansion above them because dottore is very protective and he hasn’t installed security up there. Maybe once they learn about that a segment will take them up to see it . I imagine reader would like the mansion portion of their lovers property. They can sit by the windows and watch the snowfall without being scolded for being in weather too harsh for them. Dottore doesn’t like them up there alone because of the lack of security.

Maybe once they’re feeling better they can make use of the grand and untouched kitchen and whip up their lovers some treats because we all agree he has a sweet tooth <3

Dottore had never needed or cared for a fancy way of life. His lab was suited for his desires (always engrossed in his research) and was equipped to handle all of his needs (and yours too, of course, he had made sure of every little detail before you woke up.) The only reason he remembers the existence of the upper floors is because he and the segments obviously need to exit from there. Honestly, he could do without it... new agents sometimes get lost trying to find the entrance to the lab. (The mansion was given to him with expensive furniture too, but over time the segments eventually started selling it for a bit of extra funds. No one questions the bareness.)

You never really questioned the layout of the lab because well. Dottore + lab just makes sense. You don't find out about the whole mansion aspect until you hear a poor agent talking about how dusty it is up there. Of course, your interest is immediately piqued while you're also impressed the entrance upstairs is so well hidden despite your thorough analysis of the lab... hmph.

Dottore, on the other hand, is a bit annoyed at the babbling of his agents, but he knew that this would happen eventually. He just wished it was at... a later date. Preferably farther into the future. Preferably when he had an actual chair up there and the copious amount of dust wouldn't make you flare up. That was just preferable of course. Now with your pleading eyes and constant clinging to his arm quick measures were to be taken.

He still doesn't quite understand why you'd want to be up there when the lab has everything and more, but it makes you content... so it's fine. Something that Dottore had learned was that he doesn't need to analyze and pick apart every part of your brain all the time but rather just go along with what makes you comfortable. (Which could be a challenge sometimes, considering the kind of man he was.)

If the mansion had a balcony there would be many cute dates there... a good way of being outside while being able to quickly warm up! You two would watch the view together and some birds would visit you!

(I always imagine Reader shares the big lab kitchen with the Fatui agents, and although Dottore makes them clear out while you use it, sometimes they pop in accidentally and just. Watch you make sweets for *the* Il Dottore. With a cute lil 'remember to take breaks!!' note to the side. Real crazy stuff goes on in his lab... So yes, you would definitely appreciate that kitchen. Dottore watches from the side because you banned him since he kept stealing bites before the sweet was even finished.)

#smooches talks #dottore love notes <3 #fragile reader <3 #omg the skrunkly... PROTECTIVE DOTTORE!!! explodes #anon this is canon to me btw #AND YEA EACH HARBINGER DEF JUST HAVE THEIR OWN MANSION #pantalone has MULTIPLE. maybe even in every nation #childe has one but would rather stay with his family when possible.#arlie also has the house of the hearth #i also think sandrone's case is similar to doter but i also think shes more classy #i imagine when pierro showed him his mansion when he was recruited doter was :I but showing his lab had him like :DDDD #ARGHHHH THIS IS GIVING ME SM BRAINROT

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outtoshatter · 23 hours ago

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Hello, Dungeons and Daddies Fandom, I'm here with the first of at least three rec lists I want to make!~

This list is for Nark fics with a word count between 1k and 9k! Please enjoy this selection:

closed fist, split lip by tinymushroom

Rating: T | Tags: Hurt/comfort, recreational drug use, between seasons | Word count: 5262 | Series: hell's version of a halo | Summary:

Half of the blood on his clothes had belonged to Lark. The fact buzzed through him, over and over, like the hum of a feedback loop. And it hadn’t stopped since. Everything turned out alright in the end, of course, with all the healing potions poured down Lark’s throat, with Sparrow’s magic weaving through him, but. He had been so fragile— the boy that ended the world.

past the curie point by CalamityUnlocked

Rating: T | Tags: Angst, unresolved emotional tension, lovers to enemies | Word count: 5101 | Series: boiled blood | Summary:

Nick bit on the inside of his cheek before he unsealed his lips. “I loved you.” For the first time, he was glad he’d never said it out loud before. Because if he had admitted it back in the day, when those inexplicable feelings were at an all-time high, he would have said it softly and genuinely, with stars in his eyes. Now he could say it with a blazing fury that burned hotter than the sun. A renouncement. The cruelest euphemism for I hate you. Lark had the decency to look uncomfortable. He didn’t move his gaze from Nick’s injury. Just when Nick thought Lark wasn’t going to reply, he mumbled: “I know.” ~ A reunion, of sorts.

Self Made Stars by Conspiracy_Dearest

Rating: G | Tags: fluff, first kiss, demon Nick | Word count: 1897 | Summary:

Lark and Nick sneak out to light fireworks together, and begin to question if they are just best friends.

Incandescent by Kibbles423/ @2dents

Rating: E | Tags: fire obsession, demon Nicholas Foster, outdoor sex | Word count: 6300 | Summary:

Sometimes when the flames reach out to him, Nicholas aches to reach back.

intervention by stratocaster / @stratfender

Rating: T | Tags: intervention, humor, oblivious!Nick | Word count: 2206 | Summary:

“What about when you were tripping balls and he sat down and watched Roku City with you for four hours?” Grant suggests. “That was… a friend thing.” “How about when you kissed at my birthday party?” “Or when you kissed at my birthday party?” “We were just… committing to the bit,” Nick says, but as the defense leaves his mouth, he hears it fall flat. TJ solemnly puts his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “The only thing that man has ever committed to is community college. And he didn’t even make it through a semester.”

Piece by Piece by GiaSoFetch (this is me!)

Rating: T | Tags: memory loss, demonic coffee shop, established relationship | Word count: 5272 | Summary:

The café sat on a long, empty stretch of highway surrounded by tall, bare trees with thin branches reaching into the sky.

Take my body, and desecrate by PopcornKwantum / @popcornkwantum

Rating: M | Tags: Body swap, demon Nick | Word count: 2052 | Summary:

“Don't worry” Nicky had said. “Burning down a witch’s house has never gotten me into trouble” Nicky had said. Well, look where that great advice has gotten them. Not in the correct bodies, that’s for sure. OR: Nicky and Lark accidentally swap bodies, and Lark is about to learn how weird a demon body can be.

You Are Coming Down With Me by LorienLady

Rating: E | Tags: oral sex, intercrural sex, overbearing parenting | Word count: 7708 | Series: Larcolas | Summary:

When Jodie accidentally discovers the growing relationship between Nicholas and Lark, his reaction is to ban them from seeing one another. Nicholas has an opposing view to his father, which is an unsettling feeling, but not entirely unpleasant.

Young Blood Flowing by Captain_Dogfish

Rating: T | Tags: Hurt/Comfort, light angst, canon-typical violence | Word count: 1226 | Series: Calamities You Can't Outrun | Summary:

From a bad-things-happen bingo prompt, "Bedside Vigil." Nicky keeps watch (sort of) over Lark after a fight gone wrong.

Bonus from the list maker:

Constellation Prize by Kibbles423 | Rated: T | Tags: Alternate Universe- Space, Alien courtship, Alien!Nick | Word Count: 5273

Happy reading!

Don't forget to leave the authors a kudos and maybe even a lovely comment!

#dungeons and daddies #dndads #nark #dndads nark #lark oak #nicholas foster|nick close #rec list #dungeons and daddies rec list #fanfic #fanfiction #gia talks #fic recs

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wannabanauthor · 3 days ago

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Here’s some morning angst for BuckTommy:

Imagine the days and weeks after Tommy breaks up with Buck.

Buck wants to reach out so badly, but he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t know what will happen if he does. What if Tommy stays firm on the breakup? What if Tommy never actually cared about him?

What if Tommy knew from the start of that they wouldn’t last but was happy to string Buck along?

Buck doesn’t believe it for a second, but his inner child reacts, reminding him that he’s failed once again and is left behind.

He thought Tommy had been a sure thing. Someone he could always depend on showing up for him.

Well, in the weeks after, that inner voice grows louder. The more time that passes, the more abandoned and depressed he feels.

He really thought Tommy had been the one. The way Tommy went along with the dead outlaw charades. How he took care of Buck when he dislocated his shoulder. Had Tommy done all that while knowing he didn’t plan on staying long?

Six months.

Six wonderful months with the most beautiful and courageous man he had ever met.

But now it’s over.

The longer time goes on without word from Tommy, the more Buck convinces himself that no one else would want him. It’s been proven, right?

Everybody leaves, eventually.

He feels so alone. Even though he’s surrounded by friends and family, it doesn’t stop the ache in his heart.

No one even notices how truly hurt and devastated he is.

Six months with the man he loved, and in the end, he still ended up alone.

He stops baking. It only reminds him of Tommy.

He contemplates running away and starting over, but it’s only a brief thought.

No.

He refuses to do the same thing Tommy did. He’s not going to run. He’s going to face his fears.

Not literally.

He writes Tommy a letter and sends it through the mail.

As soon as he drops it into the mailbox, he lets Tommy go.

It hurts.

It really hurts.

But he can’t control Tommy’s thoughts or actions.

He can’t heal or help Tommy. That’s something Tommy has to work through on his own.

He lets Tommy go, starts therapy, and tries to rationalize the breakup by viewing it as experience.

When he starts dating again, he’s cautious. A little too cautious.

But he embraces himself because if no one else will love him, then at least he can love himself.

He goes to multiple Prides wearing the bisexual flag.

He starts frequenting gay clubs that are far enough away from Tommy so he won’t accidentally run into him.

The pain is still there, but it’s duller now.

He doesn’t panic anymore when someone shows serious interest in him. He learns to trust people again.

He refuses to let future partners pay for the mistakes both he and Tommy made.

Yes, he owns up to his part. He went too fast and screwed things up, but never had he imagined that Tommy would permanently end things.

Months go by.

Buck breathes a little easier.

He knows he’s going to be okay.

But one day, he opens his door to leave and sees Tommy standing on the other side.

“Can we talk?” Tommy asks.

A small smile forms on Buck’s lips.

“Of course,” he says and lets Tommy in.

#wannabanauthor writes #bucktommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard #self discovery #fanfiction #fanfic #fix it fic #this was supposed to be meta #but then I kept writing #am I ending it here #who knows

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zylian · 1 day ago

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day 5 i think ,_,

anger/wounds: knights au

zam, a knight who doesn't lie, has lied to mapic, which wouldn't have been a big deal if it wasn't for him participating in a coliseum event, mapics event, his friends event he promised to not die in if he participated since it was extremely important to mapic

zam had lied about a very deep wound he had from a prior fight he got while training being fully healed which means he shouldn't have been allowed to enter the coliseum in the first place

mapic organized the event for long entertaining fights and a clear rule for fighters states that one must not have any serious wounds upon entering as it could lead to an accidental death while training and mapic did not want any quick fights which zam has heard him countlessly complain about avoiding at all costs

zam was so screwed, not just because he lied about his wound healing, he didn't want to let mapic down so he made the wound even worse by continuing to train for the event so now his unfortunate reality is that he has just respawned after dying in a fight in the event that literally started ten minutes ago

it was horrifying for him, not the fact that his wound reopened, which stays with him after death and would be ten times more painful to heal, but the fact that mapic probably put the pieces together on why he lost either from him lying to him by seeing the wound if he checks in on him in the recovery room or from how quick he lost

zam was spiraling so much, the poor help staff couldn't calm him down as he started to openly talk about mapic hating him forever for ruining his event, he explained everything to the one help staff who was trying to calm him down, 4C, who couldn't stop him from crying as he urged him to rest to not irritate the wound

unfortunately for zam, 4C was too late to calm him down and mapic who happened to walk in the recovery room 5 minutes ago had witnessed everything

due to zam blacking out, he doesn't remember what happened next but he's been put on strict watch unable to leave mapics sight and is receiving the silent treatment from him as mapic redirects his anger on anything and anyone except for him

zam is happy he's still breathing, though, he's slowly dreading the day his seriously life threatening wound heals cause despite being able to pick up a sword and train again, the anger that mapic has been using in training, which is making every knights life a living hell right now, hasn't lessened at all

despite mapic being kind to zam, his eyes don't lie and zam is well aware that as soon as he's healed, the second he's cleared to wield weapons again, he might have to endure another long painful healing process from obtaining another seriously deep wound and having one less life immediately after this recovery

#zy au #lsdevotionweek

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completeoveranalysis · 7 months ago

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[3]

Evil Wolverine’s crimes continue.

Fai is expressing concern over the fact that both individual Sakura’s had a huge amount of power separately, but now together…?

AND THEN EVIL WOLVERINE INTERRUPTS HIM TO EXPLAIN THE FACTS THAT WE ALREADY HAVE, BUT IN HIS UNIQUE FONT.

HELLO IT IS TIME TO RECAP ALL THE FACTS THAT YOU MAY REMEMBER FROM THE PREVIOUS PAGES THAT IMMEDIATELY PRECEDED THIS

SOULS GATHERED INTO OTHER SAKURA CLONES = DIDN’T WORK SO WELL

THIS ONE SAKURA CLONE IN PARTICULAR WAS EXCELLENT

STAMP THAT CLONE WITH ALL THE DIMENSION MEMORIES WE NEED

ADD THE SUPER FEATHER THAT GOT STRONGER OVER TIME IN THE RESERVOIR FOR SOME REASON

COMBINE THAT WITH THE ORIGINAL SAKURA, MIX WELL, AND BOOM.

You now have Super Goddess Sakura - the all purpose tool for all your universe destroying needs!

The place he loses me is when he says that Original ‘Sakura’ has the nature to take both of these things into herself. Which, I don’t know why she would, since the feather belongs quite specifically to a different soul, and I don’t know why she would absorb the body of her clone. Like, the Syaorans never absorbed each other, and Watanuki has always been fine when meeting Lava Lamp.

Is it specifically because the body is empty? So it kind of drifts automatically towards a soul very similar to its original to merge with? And since The Sakura Clone's soul was VERY close to the original Sakura's, that meant she was able compatible with the feather even through she isn't missing any part of her own soul? Like an Extra Memory DLC she could have since the files were compatible, even though those memories aren't hers? Or something?

I feel like I am being pedantic but he specifically says she has the ability to take both those things into herself.

If Syaoran had died but left an empty body behind would Lava Lamp have accidentally fused with it? Or is this a Sakura Specific Function that’s happening because of the Extreme Universe Powers that are being thrown around her?

Honestly at this point Evil Wolverine could just start adding any other random event he needed to make this work to the list and I’d just have to shrug and say Sure, Ok. Whatever you say. That might as well also be true now.

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phosphorescentspaceman · 24 days ago

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sick fic - yogscast fic

Honeydew sat up in bed, casting a bleary eye around the room. Lalna, who had slept incredibly poorly, was grateful the older man was conscious. The other man - dwarven constitution and bullheadedness combined to disastrous effect - hadn’t realised he was sick until he’d passed out next to the forge. Xephos almost had a heart attack and had been tending him all night, alongside an increasingly peaky Lalna. He was pretty good at it, but his knowledge of medicine was either purely biochemical or (concerningly) surgical and he’d been pesting Lalna with questions until Lalna had had to hurl, upon which he’d gone full mother-hen mode and pushed him into bed alongside a snoring Honeydew. He looked fine already - Lalna was sure his fever and the high temperatures near the forge had just caused his blood pressure to drop and he’d already slept off the fever as only a dwarf could. Lalna, on the other hand, could tell he was settling in for a few days of creaky discomfort and runny noses. Xephos had left some time ago, ostensibly to get some fresh water and fever reducer, but he hadn’t come back in a while and Lalna was starting to feel miserable again.

“Glad you’re alive, mate. How are you feeling?” Honeydew scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

“Fine, so much for my dwarven constitution, fainting like a little girl and all that.” He paused, before frowning. “Where’s Xephos?”

“He was playing nursemaid to you all night, kept asking me questions and bustling about - he may have just fallen asleep on the way back.” Honeydew looked pale before heaving himself out of bed, swaying slightly on his feet. “Whoa there, you aren’t ready to go running around yet - probably - settle back -”

“That idiot!” Lalna startled backwards, not ready for the real frustration pouring from the dwarf. He turned, near dragging Lalna from his bed. “If he's drowning in a puddle of sick somewhere I’m going to kill him myself! Idiot! He should have hid on the other side of the base!” Lalna felt dizzy as he was tugged along the halls, the stop-starting as Honeydew kept checking every cranny rattling his brain in his skull.

“What do you mean? If he gets sick it’ll be miserable but -” Honeydew stopped short, glaring up at him.

“Some kinda Doctor you are - he’s from fucking space! He got a cold from a snotty brat one time and died!”

“Space?!”

Honeydew looked at him strangely. “Yeah? What, you think I call him spaceman for shits and giggles?”

“Yes, actually! Neither of you ever talk about anything personal!”

He huffed, looking away. “Not much of it is worth talking about.” Lalna’s head couldn’t help but spin. Xephos’ immortality was quite simply the only reason the man hadn’t long died from some childhood illness - he must be so unadapted to the local diseases, to say nothing of the fact Lalna hadn’t even thought to see how respawning affected the creation of memory T cells.

“Shit - shit shit. You’re right - why doesn’t he wear a mask? Why didn’t he quarantine when he saw you were sick?” The both of them were frantically checking over rooms, both of them remembering various times the other man had slinked off into a corner to bleed out rather than receive medical attention.

“Because he’s a soft hearted idiot! - Fuck - Xeph!” Lalna rushed over to where Honeydew was already crouched next to a deathly pale Xephos, the glow of his freckles near totally absent. His breath was rough and wheezy, and it looked like he’d partially aspirated. Stamping down his instinctual panicked flailing, Lalna pressed his fingers firmly to Xephos’ radial artery, staring at his watch as he timed his pulse. It was weaker than he’d like - sitting at about 125 bpm which was. Not at all good, but not imminently fatal. They didn’t have anything to set up an IV drip but he was pretty sure had had a few vials of amoxicillin-clavulanate laying around. It’d burn going in and he’d have to deliver it slowly, but it should stop the aspiration pneumonia he could hear in Xeph’s rasping breaths from getting any worse. Their infections themselves were viral, so there wasn’t anything he could do other than give fever reducers and keep him hydrated, just like Xephos had been doing for him and Honeydew last night as Lalna had whined about how rubbish he felt.

He felt real fucking rubbish now.

“Honeydew - Lalna.” Xephos’ voice was rough, and his eyes hazy. He pressed himself into the both of them, shivering slightly. “‘M cold. Tired. Sorry I forgot the - the stuff.” Honeydew had grabbed a washcloth from gods knows where and was wiping the bile and sweat from Xephos’ feverish face as he sat there, placid but whining softly at the cold cloth.

“Well?” Honeydew looked at Lalna who startled out of his internal dosage calculations. “Is he -”

Lalna sighed, not taking his fingers from Xephos’ wrist. “He's rough, and I’m going to have to give him some strong antibiotics, but he’s not deathly ill. It might actually have been better that he was running around when it happened, if he’d been laying down and as weak as this he’d probably have drowned.”

Honeydew swore, face paling. They were immortal, but - well. Dying couldn’t be nice. Xephos clumsily pet Honeydew’s face, frowning at how upset his friend looked. “ 's ok. I just - I need a drink and. And a sit. I’m ok, friend.” Honeydew just thumped his head heavily on Xephos’ shoulder, the other man petting at his messy hair. “Don’t - don’t worry, friend. Don’t worry.”

Lalna pulled himself to his feet, feeling like he’d aged a few years over the last 10 minutes. “‘Dew, can you get him back to the room alright or do you need a hand? I need to grab some stuff from storage but it can wait a minute if you need the help.”

Honeydew shook his head, lifting Xephos with a practised ease that could only come from hundreds of adventures. “He’s a twig, I’ll be right.” Xephos let out a soft whine as Lalna turned to go, fingers tangled in his lab coat. Lalna’s heart did something complicated as he carefully removed his hand before brushing a palm over his forehead, cool against Xephos’ fever. The other man sighed before relaxing into Honeydew's hold, muttering something incomprehensible into the dwarf’s neck that made him chuckle.

“Come back quick, right? I don’t need to go running around looking for you too.”

#this is not actually intended to be whump Or gay it just always happens that way #oh no! they are all tender. anyway #thank you spacemanxephos for accidentally continuing to supply banger ideas i keep stealing off your windowsill like a freshly baked pie #yogscast xephos #xephos #yogscast honeydew #honeydew #yogscast lalna #lalna #honeyphosna #the thing xephos said that made hondey laugh was him being gay about how cool lalna looks when hes in doctor mode fyi #yogfic #ill post this on ao3 eventually but i have like 3 other 'whomp whomp they are sick' ideas and i may as well just stick them all up at once

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