#I have no idea what this even is supposed to be.

[goldfades]

once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

Seven months since you had packed up the life you built and left Cincinnati behind. Seven months of unlearning the habits of loving Joe Burrow, of waking up without him, of forcing yourself to stop expecting a text that never came. Seven months of figuring out who you were outside of being his.

And now, just when you had finally settled into this new version of yourself, life was pulling you back.

Back to Cincinnati. Back to the city that still had pieces of you scattered all over it. Back to him.

It wasn’t about Joe.

You had spent months proving that to yourself, and you weren’t about to start unraveling now. This was about you.

About the job offer that had landed in your inbox three weeks ago, the kind of offer people in sports media fought years for—an on-air analyst role with The Ringer, covering the NFL, sitting at the same table as some of the most respected voices in the industry.

It was the dream. Your dream.

And you weren’t about to say no just because it happened to be in the same city where the ghost of your old life still lingered.

So, for the first time in months, you packed your bags for yourself. Not for a man. Not for a relationship.

For you.

But still, as you stared at your suitcases lined up by the door, heart pounding just a little harder than you wanted to admit, one thought lingered in the back of your mind:

What happens when he sees you again?

--

Joe spent the summer in places that never felt like home.

Hotel rooms, penthouses, beach houses that weren’t his—always someone else’s space, someone else’s idea of a good time. The kind of places that smelled like overpriced perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

And for a while, that was the point.

His teammates told him this was what life was supposed to be like.

“You’re 27, bro. You should be living.” “You’re Joe fucking Burrow. Act like it.” “Man, you wasted all your good years locked down.”

That last one made his stomach twist. Because it didn’t feel wasted.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he let them drag him to Miami, to Vegas, to private clubs where the rules didn’t apply to men like them. He let women press into him, let them murmur in his ear, let them take his hand and lead him places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

To fill the silence. To drown out the memories. To stop thinking about you.

So, he drank.

Not recklessly—never sloppily—but just enough to take the edge off. Enough to let the vodka burn its way through his chest and dull the parts of him that still felt too raw.

He spent the nights doing what everyone told him he should—wrapped up in women he barely knew, letting them touch him, letting them call him baby in a voice that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes, in the blur of it all, he almost let himself believe he was having fun.

But then morning would come. And he’d wake up in a bed that wasn’t his own, sheets tangled, a warm body beside him that felt wrong.

She would still be asleep, breathing slow and even, and Joe would stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing down on his ribs. It was always the same.

He’d lie there, his head still heavy from the night before, and tell himself this was good for him.

This was healthy. He was moving on. He was living. He was making up for lost time.

But then she would shift beside him, mumble something sleepily, and for a split second, he would forget where he was. For a split second, his body would expect you.

His arm would twitch, muscle memory almost pulling him toward you—except it wasn’t you.

It never was. And in that moment, when the reality of it came crashing down, Joe had never felt more hollow.

So he would slip out of bed. Pull on his clothes. Leave before she woke up, before she could reach for him, before she could make him feel even emptier than he already did.

Then, like clockwork, his phone would light up with a text from one of the guys.

Round two tonight? Another night, another city, let’s run it. Burrow, we’re not letting you sit this one out.

And every time, he would hesitate. Every time, he would think about saying no. But then he’d think about what saying no meant.

Silence. Loneliness.

A bed that really felt empty. And worst of all—thoughts of you.

So instead, he would type out the same thing he always did. I’m in.

And just like that, another night would begin. Another night of pretending. Another night of trying to convince himself that this was good for him.

That this was better than thinking about the one person who used to make him feel whole.

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

It was the one time of year where the entire world faded into the background—where it was just the two of them, preparing for battle in the way only they knew how. Training camp, preseason, the long, grueling days where his body ached and his mind buzzed with too much information—none of it ever felt as heavy when you were there.

Because you had made it easier. You always knew what he needed before he even had to ask.

You knew how to blend his smoothies just right—protein-packed but never too thick, not too sweet, not too chalky, just enough banana to hide the bitterness of the greens he hated but needed. You knew how many calories he needed to maintain weight, which meals gave him the best energy, when he needed something light and when he needed something hearty. You knew when he was too sore to get off the couch, and you’d already have an ice pack in one hand and a heating pad in the other.

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

Preseason was hell. Not just because of the training, not just because every muscle in his body burned by the time he got home, not just because he was still trying to prove he was fully back from the injury—but because this was the first time he was doing it without you.

For the past seven years, the start of the season had always meant you.

It meant waking up to you shaking him gently, telling him his morning shake was ready, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before he even opened his eyes. It meant coming home to meals that were already planned, already balanced, already exactly what his body needed to recover. It meant you running through the nutrition plan with him, tweaking it when necessary, doing the math so he didn’t have to think about it.

It meant structure. It meant routine. It meant you making sure he was okay, even when he was too stubborn to admit when he wasn’t.

Now, none of it was there. And he felt it more than ever.

--

The moment he walked into his house after practice, exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. His body was done—his legs sore, his back aching, his head pounding. All he wanted was to throw his bag down, take a shower, eat, and crash.

But instead, he just stood there. Because for the first time, he realized how much there was to do.

You weren’t there to remind him to drink his recovery shake. You weren’t there to make sure the fridge was stocked with what he needed. You weren’t there to have a meal ready so he didn’t have to think about it.

And fuck, he had never thought about it. Not once. Because you had always done it.

Joe sighed, rolling his shoulders, heading into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open with an empty, lifeless hum, and his stomach sank at the sight.

Nothing was prepped.

There were random ingredients, sure. Leftover takeout. Some eggs, maybe. A couple of protein bars shoved in the back. But nothing was ready. Nothing was measured, planned, easy.

And that’s when it really hit him.

You weren’t just gone. You had been holding his life together.

He shut the fridge, pressing his hands against the counter, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt too full and too empty at the same time.

For years, he had been able to come home, sit down, and just be.

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

Now, he had to think about what to eat, had to plan it, had to cook it. He had to wash the dishes after instead of finding them already cleaned. He had to remind himself to stretch properly, to ice his ankle, to foam roll before bed.

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

Because you had done it all. Because you had loved him enough to do it all. And he—

Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head like that could make the thoughts disappear. Like it could make the guilt settle.

But it didn’t. It never did.

So he grabbed a protein bar, ate it standing up, and stared at the empty kitchen like it was mocking him. Like it was reminding him of everything he lost.

--

The morning you left Columbus, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the kind of lingering summer heat that stuck to your skin. It felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself knew this wasn’t an easy goodbye.

Your best friend stood by the trunk of your car, arms crossed, shifting her weight like she was trying not to say something sentimental that would make you both cry.

"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

No. Not even a little.

But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. You were sure—about the job, about the opportunity, about the fact that moving back to Cincinnati was the next step for you.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified.

Because Cincinnati wasn’t just another city. It wasn’t just a place on the map.

It was his city.

It was where you had built a life with Joe, where every street held memories, where every turn would remind you of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You took a deep breath, reaching down to scratch behind Larry’s ears as she sat in her carrier, blinking up at you with wide, judgmental eyes. “Guess it’s just us now, huh?”

Your best friend let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, if she could talk, she’d probably tell you this is a terrible idea.”

“She doesn’t need to talk. She’s been staring at me like I ruined her life since I put her in there.”

“Because you did ruin her life. She was thriving here.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching to peer into the crate. “I get it, Larry. You’re a city girl now. But you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her tail. You took that as reluctant acceptance.

Your best friend leaned in, her voice dropping. “For real, though. If it gets to be too much—if you get there and you feel like you can’t do it, like it’s swallowing you whole—you call me.”

You looked at her, something tight forming in your throat.

You had spent the last seven months healing in this apartment, in this city, with her. She had seen the worst of you—the nights you couldn’t sleep, the mornings you barely got out of bed, the moments when you swore you would never go back to Cincinnati, to that life, to the person you used to be.

But here you were.

And you weren’t sure if you were proving yourself right or setting yourself up to fail.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled, reaching forward to wrap you in a tight hug. “Go be great.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, held on a little longer than necessary, and then let go.

It was time.

--

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

Larry had settled into the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded in irritation but otherwise calm, curled up on the blanket you had thrown there. The GPS said you had just over an hour to go, and the closer you got, the more your heart pounded.

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

You were going back to Cincinnati, to a city that used to feel like home, but no longer did.

Going back to the restaurants you used to love, the streets you used to walk, the stadium that still felt like an extension of Joe himself.

Going back to a version of yourself you had spent seven months trying to bury.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

Maybe you should turn around. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe you had done all this work just to unravel the second you saw him again—because you would see him again. That was inevitable.

You sucked in a breath, reaching for your phone, scrolling through your playlists with one hand until your thumb hovered over a title that made you pause.

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play.

The first beat kicked in, and the song filled the car, the steady rhythm drowning out the anxious thoughts spiraling in your head.

“I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

You huffed out something that was half a laugh, half a scoff.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers against the wheel as the song pulsed through the speakers.

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

So you sang along, let the music wash over you, let the lyrics be a reminder that you had already survived the worst part.

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

It was the kind of week where you moved on autopilot, where you unpacked boxes without really thinking about it, where you got up early, dressed professionally, walked into work like you belonged there—even when people looked at you like you were some kind of open secret.

You knew what they were thinking.

Knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear.

That’s Joe Burrow’s ex. Didn’t she used to be at every Bengals event? Wonder if she got the job because of him…

You ignored it.

You ignored the careful glances, the way some of your co-workers hesitated before talking to you, like they weren’t sure whether to bring him up or pretend they didn’t know anything.

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

So you held your head high, settled into the studio, studied film, took notes, prepared for your first on-air segment like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into your work, into the statistics, into the plays, into the debates about teams and formations and Super Bowl contenders.

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

And that was when the silence hit you like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t Columbus, where your best friend was always there to fill the quiet. Where you could crash on the couch and vent about your day. Where you could talk about Joe without every conversation feeling like a weight pressing down on your chest.

This was alone.

For the first time since the breakup, you were truly alone.

And God, it was loud.

The absence of Joe wasn’t just in the city itself—it was in the routine, in the things you used to do without even realizing they were because of him.

Like how you still woke up too early, your body trained to match his schedule, expecting to hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, making coffee before heading to the facility.

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

Like how you caught yourself walking toward the fridge with the muscle memory of preparing his post-practice meal—only to stop halfway when you remembered he wasn’t coming home.

Like how you reached for your phone when the Bengals played their first preseason game, fingers hovering over Joe’s contact, because for years, your first instinct was to text him after every game.

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

You were missing the you that existed when you were with him.

The version of yourself that felt certain—who knew her place in the world, who belonged somewhere, who mattered to someone.

You had spent months finding yourself again, carving out your own identity, telling yourself that you didn’t need him to be whole.

But now, back in Cincinnati, back in the place where he existed so loudly—

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

So you curled up on the couch, pulling Larry onto your lap, listening to the faint echoes of the city outside your window, and let the loneliness settle in.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

--

The first game of the season was electric.

The stadium roared with life, packed with thousands of fans wearing his jersey, screaming his name, riding the high of the first Sunday of football like it was a holiday. The air was thick with anticipation, the adrenaline thrumming in his veins like a drug, the kind of high that made everything else fade into the background.

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

Where every snap, every pass, every perfectly executed play made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he could silence the doubts, the guilt, the quiet gnawing ache that had followed him around since the summer.

By the time the final whistle blew, and the Bengals secured their first win of the season, he was buzzing.

His teammates clapped him on the back, Ja’Marr pulling him in with a grin, shouting something in his ear that was lost in the deafening noise of the stadium.

Joe was smiling. Laughing. Letting the moment consume him, letting it drown out everything else.

And then, out of instinct—out of years of routine—he turned to the stands.

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

After every win, his eyes found you first. No matter how crazy the stadium was, no matter how many cameras were flashing, no matter how loud the world got—he always, always found you.

You, standing there in the family section, wearing his jersey, waiting for him with that soft, knowing smile. You, with your hands cupped around your mouth, cheering louder than anyone else. You, who had been there since before all of this, since before the world knew his name, since before he was anything more than a college quarterback with big dreams.

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

The stands blurred, the celebration around him suddenly too loud, too suffocating.

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

And still, somehow, some way, he had forgotten.

For the first time in seven months, he had let himself exist in a space where you were still his. Where you were still waiting for him, still there at the end of it all, still his person.

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

And in your place, in the section where you used to stand, where you used to belong—

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

She was standing there, blonde hair perfect, wearing a Bengals hoodie that was probably brand new, clapping politely as she smiled down at him.

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

Because Katie wasn’t bad. She wasn’t anything, really. Just another part of the life he had built in your absence. Something easy, something light, something that should have made him feel better but didn’t.

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

She didn’t know what to say to him after a loss. Didn’t know how he liked his breakfast in the mornings. Didn’t know the exact way he liked his shoulder massaged when the soreness became unbearable.

Didn’t know him like you did.

And for the first time since convincing himself this was what moving on looked like, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

The celebration around him felt like static, like background noise in a life he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.

Because winning used to mean everything.

But tonight, standing in the middle of the field, looking up at the stands and seeing her instead of you—

He had never felt more hollow.

--

For the first couple of months back in Cincinnati, you told yourself you were thriving.

You said it like a mantra, like if you repeated it enough times, it would become real. You made new friends—real friends, not people who only saw you as Joe Burrow’s ex, not WAGs who looked at you with thinly veiled pity, not reporters who were too polite to ask what really happened.

They were normal. Kind. Fun. The kind of girls who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, who invited you to wine nights and didn’t bring up Joe once. With them, you could pretend that Cincinnati wasn’t laced with ghosts of your old life. You could breathe.

You picked up new hobbies.

You took a pilates class, went to farmer’s markets on Sundays, tried baking even though you burned half the things you made. You started running again—not because Joe had told you once that he liked how focused you looked when you ran, but because you liked the way it made you feel.

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

You threw yourself into your job, memorized rosters, studied plays, made sure you knew everything about the game so that when you sat in that studio, behind that microphone, no one could say you got this job because of him.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, you really did feel like you were thriving.

But then, one afternoon, it all came crashing down.

—

It was a normal day at work. Normal segment. Normal conversation.

Until it wasn’t.

You were on air, talking through some Week 4 analysis, debating quarterback performances with your co-host, when he said it.

Casual. Offhand. Like it wasn’t about to shatter you completely.

"Well, I guess we can trust your take on Joe Burrow—you did have a front-row seat for a long time."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Your stomach clenched, a prickle of heat rising at the back of your neck.

You forced a laugh. A quick, easy, I'm completely unbothered laugh.

"Guess so," you said, brushing it off, moving on like it was nothing.

But inside, you were shaking.

Your hands under the desk. Your breath. Your entire body.

You spent the rest of the segment in autopilot, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to focus on the words, on the script, on anything but the feeling of your past creeping into a space that was supposed to be yours.

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

You barely made it to your car before it hit you.

The unraveling.

You collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached, and then—

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was months of holding it together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending you had rebuilt yourself from the ground up—only to realize you had been balancing on a fault line the entire time.

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

You had spent so long trying to reclaim Cincinnati, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just a remnant of Joe Burrow’s life—that you could exist here, in this city, in this job, as your own person.

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

And right now, in this moment, you weren’t sure if you were anything without him.

Because Joe was the only person who had ever truly known you.

He knew the way your nose scrunched when you concentrated, the way you got irrationally angry when you lost at board games, the way you never finished a drink, always leaving the last sip untouched.

He knew your moods before you did.

He knew how you got quiet when you were sad, how you hated crying in front of people, how you avoided confrontation until you couldn’t anymore—until it bubbled over in sharp words and slammed doors.

He knew things about you that you didn’t even know about yourself.

Like how you sometimes clenched your jaw in your sleep when you were anxious. Like how you had a habit of counting your steps when you walked, not even realizing it.

Like how, right now, you would be breaking down in your car, gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely and utterly lost—and the only person who could make it better was him.

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

--

December used to be your favorite month.

The lights, the music, the warmth of it all. The way the whole world seemed to slow down, wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft hum of Christmas songs playing in the background.

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

His birthday, tucked right in the start of the holiday season, had always been something sacred to you. It was your thing—the one time of year where you could spoil him without him complaining, where you could go all out, where you could make sure he felt as loved as he made you feel every other day of the year.

You had never held back.

You would spend months planning—picking out the perfect gifts, arranging surprise dinners, making sure every little detail was right. One year, you got him that limited-edition Rolex he had been eyeing but never pulled the trigger on. Another year, you rented out a private cabin in the mountains for just the two of you, knowing he needed to escape the chaos of football for a few days.

Last year—God, last year—you had thrown him a surprise party with all of his friends and family. He had kissed you at the end of the night, hands cupping your face, murmuring against your lips, How do you always know exactly what I want?

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

You put up the tree in your apartment, even though it was smaller than the one you used to decorate with him. You bought yourself Christmas candles, filled your space with the smell of cinnamon and pine, played holiday music when you cooked.

But it all felt wrong.

Because December had always been his month, too. It wasn’t just the holiday season—it was the anniversary of the last time you had ever been his.

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

It had been cold, the city wrapped in the kind of sharp, biting winter that made everything feel harsher. And in a way, it had been fitting—because that night, when Joe had walked out, when the door had shut behind him, the warmth had left your life, too.

And now, a full year later, it was still gone.

His birthday came and went. You didn’t text him. Didn’t even let yourself think about what he might be doing, whether he was happy, whether he even thought about you at all.

But your body knew.

You woke up that morning feeling it like a weight in your chest, like something pressing down on your ribs. You didn’t check your phone, didn’t open Instagram, didn’t give yourself the chance to see what the world was saying about him.

Because it wasn’t your place anymore. Because you weren’t the person celebrating with him.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times you told yourself that you were okay, December would always be the cruelest reminder that you weren’t.

That you had once been his world. And now, you were nothing.

You spent Christmas with your best friend, and it should have been nice. It was nice. Warm. Cozy. The kind of Christmas you had always loved.

But it wasn’t his family.

It wasn’t his mom, who had always pulled you into a hug the second you walked through the door. It wasn’t his dad, who would slip you a knowing smile when Joe snuck a hand around your waist at dinner. It wasn’t his brothers, teasing you like you were already part of the family.

And it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Joe, pulling you against him on the couch, wrapping you in one of his hoodies, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. It wasn’t his voice murmuring, Merry Christmas, baby, in the quiet, sleepy warmth of the morning.

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

So, you smiled. You opened presents. You drank hot chocolate and laughed at dumb Christmas movies and let yourself pretend that this was enough.

But when you got home that night, alone in your apartment, staring at your Christmas tree that suddenly felt too big, you let the truth sink in.

December without him was unbearable. And you weren’t sure if it would ever get easier.

--

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

The past year had been a cycle—of loss, of healing, of learning how to be you again. But tonight? Tonight, you felt like you had finally gotten there.

You had put effort into your outfit, just because you wanted to. You weren’t dressing for anyone but yourself, weren’t trying to impress Joe or prove something to anyone. You had slipped into a sleek, fitted black dress, let your new friends style your hair in soft waves, even wore that deep red lipstick that had always made you feel untouchable.

And when you stepped out of your car in front of the restaurant, that new Chanel bag resting effortlessly on your shoulder, you felt good.

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

Or at least, the version of you that wasn’t still haunted by him.

--

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing you—it was how he saw you. It was the way you walked into the restaurant, laughing at something one of your coworkers had said, your smile easy, effortless, real. It was the way you carried yourself, exuding that same quiet confidence that had once made him fall for you in the first place.

And God, you looked good. Not just good. Stunning.

Like you had stepped right out of a dream, wearing that black dress like it had been made for you, your hair falling in perfect waves, that red lipstick making his mouth go dry.

For a second, Joe forgot how to breathe. Because this was the first time he had seen you in a year. And somehow, you looked okay.

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

Because the last time he had seen you—really seen you—you had been crying. You had been begging him to fight for you, to stay, to want you enough to make it work. And now, a year later, you weren’t the woman who had walked away from him, heartbroken and lost.

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

Your coworkers were leading the way to your table, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your heart light in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. You were okay. You were doing this. You were thriving.

Until your stomach dropped. Because suddenly, you felt it.

That indescribable feeling—the one that came when someone was watching you. And when you turned your head, your breath caught in your throat.

Because he was there.

Joe.

Sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, not alone. You blinked. Your heart lurched. Your ears started ringing. He had a girlfriend.

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from some blonde—long hair, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

Not when you were still here. Not when you had spent the past year rebuilding yourself just to survive the loss of him. And now, in a single second, everything inside you cracked.

You felt sick.

Not because you wanted him back. But because, for the first time, you were faced with the reality that he had built a life that no longer included you.

That the man you had once known better than anyone—the man you had loved with everything you had—was now sitting across from another woman.

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

Watched the way your face fell, your eyes widening slightly, your body stiffening like you had just been punched in the stomach. And suddenly, he hated himself.

Because you looked like you—strong, composed, pulled together—but in that brief second, he saw it. That crack in the armor. That hurt.

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t moved on.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Yeah, Katie was nice. Yeah, she looked good on his arm. But she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he needed after a bad game, didn’t know the songs that made him think of home, didn’t know that he couldn’t sleep with the TV on because the noise made his brain race.

She wasn’t you.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that this was right—that you were the past, that this was his future—he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Because seeing you here, standing across the room, looking like this, feeling like this, made him realize something.

He didn’t want this life without you. And for the first time in a year, Joe felt something worse than heartbreak.

He felt regret. And Joe could feel Katie watching him.

She had been talking—something about how the steak wasn’t as good as the place she went to in LA—but he hadn’t heard a word. His eyes were locked on you.

On the way your body tensed, on the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face before you smoothed it over like it was nothing. On the way your fingers twitched at your side like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Like you wanted to run. And fuck, he hated that.

Hated that he was the reason you looked like that. Hated that even after a year, he could still hurt you just by existing. Then he felt it.

Katie’s hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep, nails digging in slightly as she pressed herself closer. She knew.

Of course she knew.

He hadn’t talked about you much—at least, not in detail—but she wasn’t stupid. She knew you had been important. That you had been in his life for longer than most people had even known his name.

And now, here you were. The ghost she had probably been waiting to meet.

"Joe," she said, sweet but pointed, her voice breaking through his haze. "You okay?"

Her fingers squeezed his arm. He barely resisted the urge to shake her off. He was so close to losing it.

He could feel his patience hanging on by a thread, could feel the way his body was coiled tight, his chest aching with something he didn’t want to feel.

Because it was his late birthday dinner. His friends were here. He was supposed to be happy. But all he could think about was you. And how you were standing there, looking like that, looking like everything he had ever wanted and everything he had already lost.

He pulled his arm from Katie’s grip as casually as he could, pretending to adjust his watch.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because every second that passed, the more wrong this felt. The more suffocating the entire situation became.

The dinner had already been irritating—his friends were drunk, the restaurant was too loud, and Katie had spent half the night making passive comments about how he never posted her, about how she just wanted to feel special.

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

The sounds of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the faint hum of music in the background—blurred into nothing, white noise against the sharp, singular reality of you.

Standing there. Looking like that. And worse—looking like you didn’t need him anymore.

That realization settled deep, lodged somewhere between his ribs, pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.

His fingers twitched in his lap. His knee bounced once before he forced it to stop. He was trying, really fucking trying, to play it cool, to keep his face neutral, to ignore the way his body had tensed the second he saw you walk in.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this—unexpectedly, in a crowded restaurant, after a year of living separate lives. He had told himself that when it happened, it wouldn’t matter. That by the time he saw you again, he’d be fine. That whatever you two had been, whatever had been left unsaid, whatever this was, it wouldn’t affect him anymore.

But he had been wrong.

Because seeing you now—standing there in that black dress, your hair falling over your shoulders in that soft, effortless way he used to push his fingers through when you were tired, your lips painted that deep shade of red that had always driven him insane—he felt like his entire body was betraying him.

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

Because for a split second, before his brain caught up, before reality sunk its teeth into him, he had expected you to walk toward him.

Like you always had. Like you were supposed to. Like this was still your moment, your ritual, your life together.

And then, just as quickly, he saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, the way your lips parted just barely before pressing into a tight line.

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

Because he had spent years learning you, memorizing you, knowing every single tell, every little habit, every reaction before you even knew you were having one.

And that? That fucked him up the most. Because it meant this hurt you, too.

It meant you weren’t indifferent. It meant that even after a full year, he still affected you. And that should have made him feel better.

But it didn’t.

Because the way you had reacted wasn’t the way you used to. There was no fond exasperation, no teasing smirk, no warmth in your expression.

It was shock. Discomfort.

Like you didn’t want to be here. Like he was the thing making you feel sick.

And the worst part? He knew he had no right to be hurt by that. Because he had done this. He was the one who had walked away first. He was the one who had let you go.

And yet, even knowing that, even with the weight of that truth pressing down on him, he still felt something ugly coil in his chest at the thought of you not caring at all.

At the thought of you moving on without him, just as much as he had tried—and failed—to move on without you. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, and then—Katie.

Katie, who was still gripping his arm, nails pressing into his sleeve like a silent claim, like she knew. Like she could feel the shift in his body, the way all of his attention, all of his focus, had zeroed in on you.

And then, as if to confirm it, she pulled herself closer, her chin tilting up, her lips curling into something sweet but firm.

"Joe," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the restaurant, "you’re all tense. Relax, baby."

Joe clenched his jaw. Because now? Now, it wasn’t just about you being here. Now, it was about this.

About the fact that he had spent the last year convincing himself that this—Katie, this relationship, this new life—was what he needed. That this was how he moved forward. That this was the best thing for him.

But the second you walked into the room, it had all come crashing down.

And when Katie pressed even closer, her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers curling into his, something in him snapped. Not visibly. Not obviously.

But he felt it.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even the first time since the breakup, he wanted out.

Out of this night. Out of this restaurant. Out of this version of his life where you weren’t in it.

But his friends were here. His teammates. People were watching. So instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, casually slipping his fingers from Katie’s grip under the guise of adjusting his watch.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because when he glanced up again, when his eyes found you across the restaurant, he saw the moment you turned to your coworkers and muttered something under your breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Saw the way you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself, before turning on your heel and walking toward your table like he wasn’t even there.

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

--

You had spent a year healing.

A year rebuilding yourself, re-learning how to exist outside of him, re-training your mind to stop associating every little thing with Joe Burrow. A year convincing yourself that you were okay, that you were better, that you had made it through the worst of it.

And then, in a single moment, it all shattered.

Because he was here. Not just here—here with her.

You felt it before you even saw him. That undeniable shift in the air, the creeping sensation of familiarity that made your breath catch in your throat. And then, when your eyes finally landed on him—on Joe—it felt like something inside you cracked open, raw and bleeding.

Because he wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. And it wasn’t just that. It was how he looked.

Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the past year hadn’t touched him the way it had ruined you. Like he had moved on so seamlessly, so effortlessly, while you had spent sleepless nights trying to pick up the pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

Not the kind of happiness you had memorized—the quiet, real, content kind that came when he let himself breathe around you. Not the kind of happiness that was soft and easy, that came from forehead kisses in the morning and whispered inside jokes.

No, this was performative.

This was the kind of happiness you pretended to have when you were trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.

And yet, even knowing that, even recognizing that this wasn’t real, it still hit you like a knife between the ribs. Because while you had spent the last year trying to be better, trying to move forward, Joe had spent it trying to erase you.

Like you never existed. Like the seven years you had spent together were just some forgettable chapter in his life, one he could close and move on from without looking back.

And that? That was unbearable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your palms damp as you curled your fingers into fists under the table. You felt like you were spiraling, like you were seconds away from breaking right here, in the middle of this crowded restaurant, in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.

You refused. You had spent too long putting yourself back together just to fall apart now. So you inhaled sharply, forcing a small, tight smile as you pushed your chair back.

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

You nodded, already reaching for your bag, voice light, too casual. “Yeah, I just—ugh, I think something I ate earlier isn’t sitting right. I’m gonna head out.”

They nodded, accepting the excuse easily, offering quick well wishes as you grabbed your things and turned for the door. And you didn’t look back.

Not once. Not even when you felt the weight of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when every single step felt like it was dragging you further away from the life you had once lived with him.

Not even when, for the first time in a long time, you realized that no matter how much you had tried to heal, there were some wounds that time just couldn’t fix.

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

It happened fast. One second, you were there, and the next, you were gone, slipping through the restaurant like you couldn’t get out fast enough. And fuck—fuck, he hated that.

Hated that you looked right at him and then turned away. Hated that you had left, just like that, without even acknowledging him.

Like he was nothing. Like he had never existed in your life, either.

It made his hands twitch, made his jaw tighten, made his stomach coil with something sharp and awful and unbearable.

It made him move.

He barely heard Katie calling his name. Barely registered the way his friends were still laughing, still drinking, still living in a reality where everything was normal.

Because nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal since you had walked out of his life. And for the first time in a year, Joe didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push it down. Didn’t try to convince himself that he was fine. Instead, he stood up, threw some cash on the table, and went after you.

Joe pushed through the restaurant doors just in time to see your taillights disappear into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

And it felt like he was right back there again—standing in the middle of your living room, hands shaking, heart in his throat, watching as you begged him to just say something. Just fight for you. Just be the man you needed him to be.

But he hadn’t. He had let you go. And now, a year later, he had done it all over again.

His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight, his pulse was hammering so loud in his ears that he barely heard Katie calling his name behind him.

But then she touched him—her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice dripping with confusion and irritation.

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

He ripped his arm away so fast that she stumbled back a step.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice was rough, raw, his body vibrating with something he couldn’t contain anymore.

Katie scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I am serious. You just humiliated me in there! You followed your ex-girlfriend out of a restaurant when I was right there—on your birthday dinner, Joe."

She said it like it mattered. Like any of this fucking mattered. Like this wasn’t the single worst night of his life. Like he cared.

Joe let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face, feeling like he could burst out of his own skin.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," he muttered. "You knew. You always fucking knew."

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

"That this—us—was nothing." His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His hands were shaking, his chest felt too fucking tight, and suddenly, everything came out. "You knew I was never over her. You knew you were never—never fucking her."

Katie flinched like he had slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.

Because he never said it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged the fact that he had spent the past year trying to force himself to be okay, to be normal, to be the guy who could move on.

But it had always been bullshit. It had always been a lie. Because he had been living in a fucking delusion thinking that he could be with someone who wasn’t you.

And now? Now, he was standing outside a restaurant, watching the only woman he had ever truly loved drive away from him again, and he felt like he was being ripped in half.

Katie’s eyes were burning. She was angry, but worse—she looked humiliated.

"You are such a fucking asshole," she spat. "You let me think—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Joe."

He barely reacted. Because nothing she said, nothing she could say, would make him feel worse than he already did.

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

"You need to go," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the Uber app with shaking fingers, ordered her a ride, and barely looked at her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away.

She scoffed. "Seriously? You’re not even gonna drive me home?"

Joe clenched his jaw, staring down at the pavement. "I can’t."

And that was the truth. Because if he got in his car right now, he knew where he was going.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember putting the car in gear, didn’t remember making the turns, didn’t remember how his foot even got on the gas.

One second, he was standing in the cold outside the restaurant, and the next—

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

The one he only knew about because of some casual conversation in the locker room, when one of his teammates had mentioned running into you near downtown.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t thought about coming here. But his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his breath was uneven, and he was here.

His knuckles were white. His mind was blank. His heart was breaking all over again.

And for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow didn’t know what the fuck to do.

--

Joe stood outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he understood.

All of it.

The songs, the poems, the movies that had once felt dramatic, exaggerated, over the top. The grand gestures, the desperate pleas, the kind of heartbreak that knocked a man to his knees.

Because this—this—was the lowest he had ever been.

Worse than losing a game. Worse than getting injured. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. Because he had lost you. And he couldn't live like this anymore.

Couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that he had moved on, that he didn’t miss you every single second of every single day. Because the truth was, he did.

He missed everything.

Missed the way your voice sounded in the morning, still laced with sleep, soft and warm and home. Missed the smell of your shampoo when you curled against his chest. Missed your laugh, your stupid little quirks, the way you always knew exactly what he needed before he even said a word.

He missed loving you. And he missed being loved by you.

Because no one—not Katie, not any of the women who had tried to take your place, not a single person in the past year—had ever come close to what you were to him.

And maybe it had taken him too long to realize it. Maybe he had been too fucking stupid, too proud, too scared to fight for you when he should have.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

So before he could talk himself out of it, before the fear could win, before he could convince himself that he had already ruined everything beyond repair—

He knocked.

The sound echoed in the quiet of the night, and for a second, all he could hear was the deafening thud of his own heartbeat.

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

Standing in front of him, still in that black dress, your hair a little messier now, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had spent the last hour doing exactly what he had been doing—falling apart.

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

And before you could say anything, before you could slam the door in his face, before you could tell him to leave—

He broke.

“I—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It all came out—rushed, jumbled, messy, barely coherent, but real.

“I can’t—fuck, I don’t even know where to start. I—I don’t know how to make this right, I don’t even know if I can, but I have to try because I can’t—” His breath hitched, his hands shaking at his sides, tears burning his eyes as he forced the words out. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep waking up without you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been since the second you walked away.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

But Joe couldn’t stop. Because if he did, if he gave himself a second to think, he might break down completely.

So he just kept going.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he choked out. “I—I should have fought for you. I should have been the man you needed. I should have—fuck—I should have never let you think for a second that you weren’t the most important thing in my life. Because you were. You still are.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t even try to stop it.

“I miss you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I miss you so much that I don’t know how to—how to breathe without you. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His throat was closing up, his chest heaving, his heart fucking shattering, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to show you how sorry he was.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet. Because this was your decision now. So he just stood there, completely open, completely raw, completely yours, and waited.

Waited for you to slam the door in his face. Waited for you to tell him that he was too late. Waited for you to break his heart all over again.

But there it was again—that ache.

That deep, unbearable, all-consuming ache that only Joe Burrow had ever been able to pull from you. That had always been the problem, hadn’t it? That no matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you had tried to move on, he was still Joe.

He was still your Joe.

And now, he was standing in front of you, breaking apart at the seams, giving you everything he should have given you a year ago. His eyes were glassy, his breath uneven, his entire body taut like he was waiting for you to destroy him.

And you could have.

You could have slammed the door in his face. You could have walked away, left him out in the cold, given him a taste of his own medicine.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you had never stopped loving him.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before your mind could catch up with your heart, you stepped forward and pulled him in.

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

A sharp breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face into your hair, his body sinking against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for so long—like he had been starving for this.

His arms circled you, strong and desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go, like he needed to hold onto you to keep himself standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracked and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as your tears finally spilled over.

Because fuck.

This was the first time in a year that you had felt this. The warmth. The safety. The rightness of being in his arms.

You hated how good it still felt. How much you still wanted it.

Joe tightened his grip, his arms pressing you closer, his body trembling slightly as he mumbled more apologies, more I should have fought for you, I should have never let you go, I should have never—

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

And for the first time in a year, you really looked at him.

His face was different. A little more tired, a little more worn, his jaw sharper, his cheekbones more defined, but his eyes—his eyes—were still the same. Still that impossible shade of blue, still holding that same intensity, that same Joe-ness that had always made you weak.

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

All the months of heartbreak, all the lonely nights, all the pain—it all blurred for just a moment. Because the only thing that mattered was him.

And then, you let him inside.

Joe looked around, taking in your apartment, the newness of it, the little things that weren’t his, that weren’t yours and his.

And then, finally, you both sat on the couch.

There was no space between you—his thigh pressed against yours, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to speak.

Because if he was here, if he was really going to do this, he needed to hear everything. He needed to understand what he had done.

So you told him. You told him everything.

“You broke me, Joe.” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “You really, really broke me.”

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

“I spent months—months—trying to figure out what I did wrong,” you continued, your throat tightening. “Trying to understand why I wasn’t enough for you. Why you couldn’t just try. Why you let me walk away when I was begging you to fight for me.”

Joe’s head dropped into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was uneven, like he was barely holding it together.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheek. “I had to learn how to exist without you. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Joe let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your hands gripping your knees. “Because while I was trying to survive losing you, you were out there—” You hesitated, shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. “You were living. You were drinking, partying, fucking around with people who weren’t me. You had a girlfriend.”

Joe flinched, his jaw tightening. “She was nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

You blinked, breathing through the sharp ache in your chest. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I haven’t thought about this moment a million times,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I have. But if you think I’m just gonna let you back in, like none of it ever happened, you’re wrong.”

Joe sat up, nodding, his hands clasped together tightly. “I don’t expect that,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t expect anything. But I—” He let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched.

Joe turned to face you fully, his knee bumping yours, his expression desperate and real and so fucking raw.

“I never stopped, not for a second,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I could live without you. I thought I could move on, that I could distract myself, that I could convince myself that I made the right choice. But I didn’t.” His hands curled into fists. “I ruined the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

Your chest felt like it was being squeezed, your body so tired of carrying all this pain.

Joe swallowed hard. “I will do anything to make this right. Anything.” His eyes were pleading now, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “But you have to tell me how.”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, your fingers twisting in your lap. And then, finally, you said it.

“You have to try.”

Joe nodded instantly, like there was no hesitation, no doubt, no fear left in him. “I will.”

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m not just gonna let you back in.” You met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside you. “I need you to prove that you mean it. That this isn’t just guilt, or nostalgia, or regret.”

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Joe. I’m not gonna be your safety net. I’m not just something you can come back to because you’re lonely. I need you to prove that this time, you’re not gonna leave when things get hard.”

Joe shifted forward, his voice so sure, so certain.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in a year, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to fight for.

The next few weeks felt new.

Not in the way falling in love for the first time does—full of naive excitement, full of the rush of this is forever without ever questioning what forever actually means.

This was different.

This was love with edges, love with history, love that had been broken down to its very foundation and rebuilt with hands that knew how fragile it was.

You and Joe didn’t fall back into old habits, didn’t slip into the comfort of what once was. Because what you had before hadn’t worked, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

You weren’t together every second of every day. You weren’t just Joe’s girlfriend anymore. And maybe that was exactly what you had needed all along.

Joe never stopped trying.

He took you on real dates again, ones that weren’t just convenient dinners after practice, but ones he planned—a private table at your favorite restaurant, a weekend getaway, tickets to that concert you had mentioned in passing months ago.

He brought you presents—not extravagant, expensive gifts, but things that showed he listened to you. The signed first edition of that book you’d been searching for, the rare vintage jersey you casually mentioned once, the perfume you used to wear back in college but stopped because you thought it was discontinued.

He gave you space when you needed it. And when you talked, he listened.

Really listened.

And that gave you hope. Because this? This was the old Joe.

The one who had loved you before the fame, before the pressure, before the weight of the world had sat heavy on his shoulders. The one who had once promised you the world and had meant every word.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, he would keep that promise.

And Joe had never been happier.

He hadn’t realized what he had until he lost it. Until he spent a year trying to pretend like life without you was still life at all. And now that he had you back, he would never, ever lose you again.

So he did what he should have done the first time.

He showed up for you. For everything.

For your job, which he saw now wasn’t just something you did, but something you loved, something you were good at. He watched every segment, sent you texts after each one, grinned when you debated your co-hosts on-air like you were born for this.

For your hobbies, the ones you had picked up when he wasn’t around—reading late at night, running at sunrise, perfecting your French braiding skills just because you could. He watched you bloom into a version of yourself he hadn’t seen in years.

And he realized—this was you.

The you that had existed before the NFL, before the noise, before the expectations. And fuck, he had missed you.

Not the girlfriend who had once made his life so seamless, so easy, so comfortable.

But you.

The woman who never let anyone take her for granted. The woman who had built a life outside of him. The woman who had once loved him enough to let him go when she realized he wasn’t ready to love her the way she deserved.

Joe had spent years thinking he wanted someone who fit perfectly into his life. But the truth was, he didn’t want a trophy wife.

And you had never wanted to be one.

He wanted this. You, with your own ambitions, your own life, your own dreams.

And now, he had you back. Not because you needed him.

But because you had chosen him.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worth that choice.

--

Three months had passed, and somehow, this felt normal again.

Not in the way it once had—not in the suffocating, all-consuming way where your life revolved around Joe and his schedule.

This was better.

This was right.

And tonight, for the first time in over a year, you were his date to an NFL event. The NFL Honors, to be exact. The kind of night that used to feel like pressure, like you had to be perfect, like you were a reflection of him rather than your own person.

But not this time.

This time, it was just a date. A night out. A moment to celebrate him and everything he had fought to reclaim this season.

You would have been excited, had it not been for the fact that you were currently doing your makeup in a moving vehicle.

“You’re gonna stab yourself in the eye with that thing,” Joe mused, eyes flicking to you in the passenger seat as you struggled to apply mascara.

“I wouldn’t have to if someone had given me more time to get ready,” you muttered, carefully swiping the wand through your lashes.

Joe scoffed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Are you kidding me? You literally had hours. I was ready thirty minutes before I even came to get you.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back for another coat. “Yeah, well, some of us have more to do than just put on a suit and fix our precious curls.”

Joe smirked, barely holding back a laugh. “You love my curls.”

You ignored him, reaching for your lip liner, only to fumble and drop it between your seat and the center console.

“Fuck,” you hissed, shifting to try and reach it.

Joe took the opportunity immediately. “Damn, you that excited for tonight?”

You groaned, pressing your head back against the seat in defeat. “Joe, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he mused, one hand on the wheel, the other casually adjusting his watch, looking way too pleased with himself. “All dressed up, sitting next to me, getting flustered… You sure it’s the event you’re excited for?”

You turned to glare at him, your face already burning, and the second he saw it—that blush—he grinned.

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Joe reached over and gave your thigh a small squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel, still grinning. “Yeah, but you love it.”

And the worst part?

You did.

You knew he was going to win before they even announced it.

There had been a lot of speculation, sure, but there was no doubt in your mind.

No one had fought harder than Joe. No one had come back from a worse season to prove himself the way he had.

So when they called his name—Joe Burrow, Comeback Player of the Year—you barely heard the crowd over the sound of your own excitement.

You were on your feet in an instant, clapping, beaming, so proud.

And when he turned toward you before heading to the stage, his hand brushing against yours in a silent moment of acknowledgment, your heart clenched in the best way.

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

Joe took the stage, adjusting the mic, the gold trophy shining under the lights.

“Uh—wow,” he started, shaking his head slightly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

The crowd laughed, and he let out a small exhale, gripping the trophy a little tighter.

“I’m not gonna stand up here and act like this season was easy,” he admitted, his voice steady but raw, real. “It wasn’t. At all. I went through a lot—personally, professionally, mentally. And honestly? There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back up here again.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

You knew how much it had taken for him to get here.

Joe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But I had a lot of people in my corner. My teammates, my coaches, my family. And—” He paused, just for a second, and then his eyes found yours.

“And someone who reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

It was just a moment—a split second where it was just you and him in a room full of people.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting his weight, nodding once. “This is for all the people who never stopped believing in me. And to anyone going through something they don’t think they’ll come back from—keep going. You never know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Joe gave a small nod, turned, and walked off the stage.

And when he got back to your table, the first thing he did was lean down and press a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Told you I’d make it worth your time.”

And yeah.

He really, really had.

--

The night felt easy.

The way it always had, before everything got complicated. Before the pressure, before the expectations, before you had to fight for something that should have been effortless.

Now, it was effortless.

Joe was next to you, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pot of pasta while he rambled about the upcoming Super Bowl, going on about the defensive schemes and how the media was making too big of a deal about certain matchups.

Larry sat perched on the counter, her tail flicking every now and then, eyes trained on Joe like she actually cared about football, which was something Joe found endlessly amusing. He had already started referring to her as his cat, despite the fact that she had only tolerated him in the beginning.

“She loves me more than you now,” he had said just last week, smirking as Larry curled up next to him on the couch.

And you had just rolled your eyes. "Not a chance."

Now, standing here, making dinner in your quiet apartment, it felt like you had never left each other’s orbit. Like no time had passed at all.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You were just here. With him.

You turned toward the fridge, reaching to grab the parmesan, when you felt it.

A tap on your shoulder. Instinctively, you turned back. And everything stopped.

Joe was on one knee.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared down at him, frozen.

His hands were slightly unsteady, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet box. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his lips parted like even he couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

But his eyes—his eyes—were sure. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

Only love.

Joe exhaled sharply, running his free hand over his face before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “I had this whole plan. I was gonna wait until after the summer, do some big, romantic thing, maybe take you on a trip, make it perfect.” He swallowed hard, looking up at you. “But, uh—yeah. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

Joe’s fingers tightened around the ring box. “Because the truth is, I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took me back, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I bought this ring the week we got back together. I didn’t even fucking hesitate. Just walked into the store, told them exactly what I wanted, and bought it right there. Because I knew.”

Your chest ached.

Joe let out a small, nervous laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I knew the second I lost you that I had made the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I knew that I couldn’t do life without you, that I didn’t want to do life without you. And I know—I know—I have spent the last year proving that to you. But let me prove it for the rest of my life.”

Your vision blurred, tears spilling over as you let out a soft, choked breath.

Joe’s voice wavered slightly, his own eyes looking glassy. “I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we always planned. I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we should do. I want to marry you because I choose you. Every single fucking day. Over and over again. For the rest of my life.”

Your hands were trembling now, your lips parting as you tried to breathe.

Joe swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You are the love of my life. You always have been. And I am done wasting time.” His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers tightening around the box. “So, please, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and say yes.”

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, your whole body trembling, your face wet with tears.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Joe’s face broke into the biggest, purest smile you had ever seen.

And then you were falling to your knees in front of him, your hands grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that was everything—every promise, every ounce of love, every second of waiting for this moment.

Joe kissed you back instantly, his hands shaking as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, like he could never get enough.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his thumbs swiping at the tears on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in forever, you said it back without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

Joe grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before he could drop it, and then exhaled dramatically.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “That would’ve been awkward as hell.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as Joe pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, Larry watching in the background like she knew exactly what had just happened—

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

[animamii]

Part deux of Toji's Valentine's Surprise

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Your body locks up. Your breath stills. Toji—in the flesh—is standing in your living room, looking smug as hell, arms crossed over that broad chest like he knew he just rocked your entire world.

"You should see your face, princess," he chuckles, tilting his head. "Like you seen a ghost."

Your mind is racing. He’s supposed to be locked up. This is impossible. And yet—he’s here. Solid. Tangible. Real. Smirking at you like he didn’t just pull off the stunt of the century.

"You—" You inhale sharply, fists clenching at your sides. "How—" You don’t even finish the question before you smack his chest, hard enough to make your palm sting. He doesn’t even flinch, just grins like he enjoys the reaction.

"Miss me, baby?" His voice drops, smooth and teasing. Still the cocky bastard he's always been.

"Are you insane?" Your voice comes out breathless, uneven. "You’re supposed to be—"

Toji hums, unfazed. "Supposed to be what?" He steps closer, looming over you with that tantalizing smirk he always adorns. his presence thick and heavy—dangerous and intoxicating. "Locked up? Far away from my girl? Mmm, nah. That was never gonna last."

His girl. That shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does. Especially after all this time, but it does.

"You’re reckless," you breathe out, but your voice betrays you—too soft, too shaky. You forgot just how little he made you feel, like a little lamb standing in front of the big bad wolf.

"Yeah?" He reaches out, fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your chin up. "And yet here I am, standing in front of you. Right where I belong." You swallow hard, heart hammering against your chest. His thumb traces your bottom lip, a touch so familiar, so effortlessly possessive, it makes your knees weak.

"Say it," he murmurs, eyes hooded. "Say you missed me."

You hate how easy it is for him to unravel you. How he knows you did. Toji leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, "Or do I gotta remind you how bad you missed me?"

Your breath catches. You should shove him away. Should demand answers. Should do anything other than what you do next—fisting his shirt and yanking him down into a teeth clashing kiss.

Toji chuckles against your lips, the sound low and deep, like he expected this reaction all along. His hands—warm, calloused, and oh so familiar—find your waist, pulling you flush against him. It’s been too long, and your body betrays you, melting into his touch as if he never left.

"You’re crazy," you whisper, looking up at him with those wide eyes that he's always loved.

He grins, lips ghosting over your jaw before pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below your ear. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

Your fingers tighten around his shirt, the fabric bunching between your fists. "It is," you hiss, but your body betrays you, tilting toward him when he moves. "You—Toji, you broke out—do you have any idea—"

"Shhh." He silences you with another kiss, deeper this time, his grip tightening around your waist. "We can talk later."

You should be more worried. Should push him away, demand answers, tell him this is reckless and insane. But the moment his hands slip lower, gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly, you’re wrapping yourself around him, letting him carry you to the bedroom like you knew this was how tonight would end. It was Valentine's Day after all.

Toji kicks the door shut behind him, smirking down at you as he lays you on the bed. His eyes—sharp, dark, hungry—roam over you like he’s memorizing every inch all over again.

"Missed you," he mutters, voice rough, as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing that silky dress higher.

You swallow, lips parted as you try to catch your breath. "You’re insane," you whisper again, but it comes out weaker this time, more breathless.

Toji smirks, dipping his head until his lips brush against yours again. "And yet," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something darker, "you’re still here. Wrapped around me like you never want me to leave."

You shudder. "I hate you."

He laughs, a quiet, knowing sound, before pressing his lips to your throat. "Liar."

Your breath stutters when his lips drag down the column of your throat, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he knows he has all the time in the world. His grip tightens on your thighs, his body pressed between them, and it’s infuriating—the way he’s taking his time, the way he’s acting like he never left. Like he never spent months locked up, sending you teasing, filthy little letters to remind you he still owned you.

"Toji—"

"Shhh, baby," he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with amusement. "S’been too long. Lemme take my time with you."

He’s impossible. Infuriating. But your body betrays you, arching into his touch, fingers threading through his dark hair as he kisses his way lower. You hate how much you missed him—hate how, despite every part of you screaming that this is reckless, stupid, you can’t bring yourself to stop him.

"You’re a wanted man," you remind him breathlessly, grasping onto some semblance of control, but Toji just grins, his teeth grazing over your collarbone before he presses a kiss there.

"Yeah? And?" His fingers hook under the hem of your dress, sliding it higher. "That stop you from wanting me?"

You glare at him, but the effect is ruined when he tugs the fabric over your hips, leaving you bare beneath him. Your pulse pounds, heat rushing to your cheeks, and Toji just chuckles, gaze darkening as he drinks you in.

"Fuck, baby," he rasps, running his hands up your thighs, rough fingers making you shiver. "Been waitin’ for this. Dreamin’ about this."

You should push him away. Should demand answers. But instead, your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him back down until his mouth crashes against yours. All that could wait for later, right?

Toji groans into your mouth when you pull him down, all teasing amusement vanishing as his body presses flush against yours. His hands are rough, calloused from years of fights and cold aridness of prison, but they touch you with a hunger and gentle warmth that makes your breath hitch. His knee slots between your legs, pressing just enough to make you whimper, and he smirks against your lips.

"Missed me that bad, huh?" His voice is thick with pride, like he knows what he’s doing to you. Like he couldn't wait to make you melt like this.

You glare at him, chest heaving and lips glossy with swapped saliva. "Shut up, Toji."

He chuckles, low and dark, before flipping you onto your stomach in one swift movement. A startled gasp escapes you as he presses his weight against your back, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

"That any way to talk to the man who just risked everything to see you?" His voice is silk and gravel, smooth yet dangerous, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

You swallow hard, pressing your palms against the sheets, heart hammering. "You’re insane."

"Yeah?" His hands slide down your sides, slow, possessive. "And yet here you are, lettin’ an insane man touch you like this."

You open your mouth to snap at him, but then he bites down on your shoulder, just enough to make your breath stutter. You feel his smirk against your skin, feel the way his grip tightens like he’s testing you, waiting for you to fight him, to push him away. But you don’t. Instead, you press back against him, feeling the way his body stiffens for a brief second before a deep, pleased growl rumbles in his chest.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice raspier now. "That’s my girl."

Your stomach flips. Your fingers curl into the sheets.

"Toji—"

His hand slides under your chin, tilting your head just enough for his lips to brush against yours. "Say it." His voice is low, insistent. "Say you missed me."

Your throat tightens. You hate how easy it is for him to pull the truth from you.

"I—" Your voice shakes, but the words tumble out anyway. "I missed you, okay?"

Toji groans like he felt those words, his hand sliding down your stomach, fingers toying with the waistband of your underwear. "Yeah?" His breath is hot against your ear. "Show me, baby."

And then his hands are everywhere, his mouth pressing desperate, feverish kisses along your spine, and you let yourself get lost in the way he devours you like a man starved. Like he’s spent every second of his time locked up thinking about this. About you.

Toji moves like he owns you—like he never left, like he never spent months locked away with nothing but memories and filthy daydreams of you to keep him sane. His hands are rough, greedy, sliding over your skin like he’s trying to make up for lost time. And maybe he is. Maybe that’s why his mouth trails fire along your spine, why his grip tightens every time you sigh his name.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, fingers digging into your hips as he flips you onto your back again. He looms over you, eyes dark, wild, hungry. "Look at you. Been dyin’ to have you under me again." His dark blue eyes scan over every inch of you, burning it into his memory. The way the silk clings to every curve, the lacy trim that is snug against your breasts, the way one straps slides off your shoulder.

Your breath is uneven, chest rising and falling as he takes his time devouring you with his gaze. He licks his lips, dragging a hand through his messy black hair, and the sight alone makes your stomach tighten. It's as if he spent all his time in prison getting even more sexier.

"Toji," you whisper, fingers ghosting over his jaw, the scar on his lip. He catches your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a kiss to your palm, slow and lingering. Like he needs to feel the warmth and softness of your skin, of your touch.

"Say it again," he rasps. It's music to his ears, hearing it in person rather than through a grainy prison call. Seeing it, the way your pretty lips move as every syllable spills out.

Your throat tightens. "Toji."

He groans, like he felt that in his chest, before surging down to capture your lips again. It’s not just a kiss—it’s a claim, a demand, a promise. He presses himself against you, and it’s impossible to ignore how much he wants you, how much he missed you too.

"Missed you, baby," he mutters against your lips, his hands sliding under the silky slip dress he sent you, pushing it up, baring more of you to him. "Thought about you every fuckin’ night. Couldn’t even sleep without—"

He cuts himself off with a curse, shaking his head like he’s annoyed at himself for admitting it. But the way his grip tightens on you, the way his lips move over your skin, says everything he won’t.

You bite your lip, fingers threading through his hair as he kisses a path down your stomach. "Then why’d you leave me?"

Toji stills. His breath hitches against your skin, just for a second. Then he exhales, slow and controlled, before pressing one last kiss to your hip.

"Didn’t wanna drag you into my shit," he finally mutters, voice rougher now. He lifts his head, meets your gaze. "But guess that was pointless, huh?"

You swallow hard. "Yeah," you whisper, tugging him back up, pressing your forehead against his. "It was."

His lips curl into something between a smirk and a grimace, like he knew this was coming but hoped you wouldn’t say it. He sighs, cupping your face, thumb stroking along your cheek.

"You mad at me, baby?"

You exhale, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Ask me later."

Toji chuckles, low and dark. "Yeah?" He tilts your chin up, kissing you again, slower this time, deeper. "Guess I’ll have to make it up to you first."

And he does.

Over and over again.

Happy Valentine's Day.

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Part twoooo!! I love this sm idk I luv itttt. Requested by the lovely @cheolliehugs

tags ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ @psoycy @yourname-exee @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @universallydepressed13

ꨄ︎ comment to be added to tag list for the lockedup!toji series ꨄ︎

[f1girliefics]

From Monaco, With Love

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: A solo vacation to Monaco turns into something unexpected when you meet Lando Norris at a bar.

The bar in Monaco was exactly what you needed, dimly lit, atmospheric, the kind of place where you could sit back with a drink and simply exist. 

A vacation for yourself, a way to celebrate how far you’ve come. 

No obligations, no expectations. Just you, the warm Mediterranean air, and the luxury surrounding you.

But then you saw him.

Lando Norris sat across the bar, effortlessly confident, dressed in a way that told you he knew exactly how good he looked. 

Sharp suit, slightly loosened tie, hair styled with just the right amount of carelessness. 

It was impossible not to notice him.

You weren’t here for this. 

You weren’t supposed to entertain any romantic ideas, but as he caught your gaze and started approaching you, you thought, why not? 

A little fun wouldn’t hurt.

“Drinking alone?” His voice was smooth, carrying something playful as he settled into the seat beside you.

“For now,” you replied, sipping your cocktail. “But something tells me that’s about to change.”

Lando grinned, a boyish charm to his smirk. “Smart and beautiful. I like that.”

That was the beginning of something you never expected.

---

The next few days felt like a dream.

Lando took you on long drives through winding roads overlooking the ocean, you felt the way he’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking. 

He showed you his yacht, laughing as you teased him about the sheer extravagance of it all, only to pull you onto the deck and wrap an arm around your waist as if you belonged there.

“You live like this all the time?” you asked, watching the sunset.

He shrugged. “It’s better with company.”

Shopping in Monaco was another adventure, Lando insisted on picking out things for you, draping luxurious fabrics over your shoulders, and holding up pairs of sunglasses to your face with a critical expression.

“You’re going to have to carry all of this,” you warned, laughing as he handed another bag to an already overwhelmed store assistant.

“I don’t mind,” he said, with a casual shrug. “If it means I get to see you wear all of it. And take it off of you later.”

Each moment with him was effortless, a beautiful distraction from the reality waiting for you back home. 

But reality couldn’t be ignored forever.

---

“It was fun,” you admitted as you stood by the docks on your final evening, the night breeze warm against your skin. “Spending the last few days with you.”

Lando’s brow furrowed slightly. “Last few days?”

You gave him a small smile, trying not to let your own emotions get the best of you. “I don’t live here, Lando. I was just… visiting.”

“You’re leaving?” his tone was a bit panicked. 

You nodded. “Tomorrow.”

He was quiet for a moment, jaw tightening slightly. “Where’s home?”

You hesitated, but eventually gave him the name of your city. 

He didn’t say anything else. He just nodded, giving you one last long look before pulling you into a kiss that felt like goodbye.

---

You didn’t expect to see him again.

You certainly didn’t expect him to show up at your doorstep days later, standing there with an enormous bouquet of flowers and that same determined look on his face.

“You can’t just show up here,” you breathed, completely taken aback. "How did you even find where I live?!"

“I can show up,” he countered. “And I found you my own way.”

“Lando-”

“I don’t care if we come from different worlds,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “I don’t care about any of that. I just know that I don’t want what we had in Monaco to be the end of us.”

You stared at him, overwhelmed, your heart pounding in your chest. “You’re really here.”

He smirked. “Took a flight and everything.”

You shook your head, letting out a small laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “But I know what I want. And I want you.”

You allowed him into your home, as he kissed you. 

There were still doubts, still questions, but in that moment, as you looked into his eyes, you realised none of them mattered.

Because he was here. And so were you.

And that was enough.

[kashverse]

hihi another request, can you do one where babykuna is spending a day with her uncle choso? it could be anything really, go to a park or play salon or baking or painting or even play dress-up! i could see choso making a custom matching outfits and kunapapa is just jealous he doesn't have a matching outfit with his baby girl.

thank youuu <3

if there is one thing choso understands in his line of work as uncle "chocho" to babykuna, it’s that every single day is a grind. not just in the business sense—no, no, no. this is the real world, where survival depends on working hard and playing harder.

and by "playing harder," he means getting absolutely swindled at the mall by a six-year-old and her unhinged ideas.

in the span of 24 hours, babykuna and choso now have:

matching deftones t-shirts—except the album cover of ‘around the fur’ has been horrifically swapped out with a 0.5x picture of babykuna's face, making her look like a cryptid mid-screech.

matching temporary tattoos—$20 per spray-on tattoo, an absolute scam, but babykuna had sparkly eyes when she picked out the designs, so what was he supposed to do? say no? ridiculous.

freshly painted nails—babykuna’s nails were pink with tiny skull stickers; choso’s were black with glitter. because, in her words, “you need to be sparkly and scary, uncle chocho.”

choso had just accepted his fate, proudly wearing his t-shirt and admiring his nails, when they walked through the front door.

enter sukuna.

sukuna, who had one expectation when his brother babysat his kid: to not be personally attacked by what he sees when he gets home. instead, he’s greeted by his daughter parading her new drip and his brother-in-law looking like a deftones fan who got lost in the hello kitty section of a hot topic.

“what. the. fuck.”

babykuna threw her arms up. "PAPA! LOOK!" she twirled around, showing off her custom t-shirt with her own terrifyingly distorted face. “we MATCH!” sukuna’s eye twitched. "oh, do you? huh. isn't that nice. isn't that—ABSOLUTELY UNFAIR."

choso blinked. "uh."

sukuna gestured wildly at babykuna, then back at choso, then back at babykuna. "why do you match with ‘chocho’ but not me?!"

babykuna gasped. “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE RIGHT!” choso, sensing danger, took a defensive step back. “listen, man, she—”

"shut up, choso. shut the fuck up, choso." sukuna rubbed his temples, betrayed. "first, my own daughter—MY OWN DAUGHTER—matches with my dumbass brother before me, and now you’re telling me that i’m the only one without a stupid ass t-shirt?!"

babykuna, to her credit, looked genuinely apologetic. “papa… i can make you one too?” sukuna sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. "oh, now i get a t-shirt. now."

babykuna nodded earnestly. "yes! with an ugly picture of you, just like me!"

choso let out a quiet snort. big mistake.

sukuna turned to him immediately. “what the hell are you laughing at, you glittery dumbass?” choso, who now regretted his entire day at the mall, cleared his throat. “...nothing.”

sukuna exhaled through his nose, like an aggressive bull preparing to charge. "where’s baby? at least he wouldn’t betray me like this."

that was when baby the orange tabby casually walked by, decked out in a tiny version of babykuna and choso’s t-shirts, tail flicking behind him like a king among peasants. sukuna's soul left his body.

"YOU DRAGGED THE CAT INTO THIS?!"

[whilomm]

not the point of the comic but maybe useful, wrote a comment but realized "hey maybe itd be a good idea to directly link this in a reblog": if any of your relatives buy you "5g repelling"/"negative ion" products, they may or may not be Literally Radioactive, depending on what level of scam the seller is operating at

this has been going on for a few years, and while there have been efforts to get them removed, its kinda a game of wackamole and they keep popping up.

not EVERY item labeled "anti 5G/negative ion" is radioactive, some of them just do. literally nothing. ya kno like a lotta scam products. but unless you have a method of testing them like a geiger counter/cloud chamber i wouldnt chance it.

and of course how radioactive they are varies, some are barely there super mild, others are a little hotter. you probs wont find anything thatll give you an acute dose or whatever. but since youre supposed to fucking, wear these things 24 hours a day. the smaller dose Adds Up.

...anyway, just a note in case anyone else's conspiracy relatives got some of this shit, or someone bought it ironically/because they thought the design was cool. Yeaaaaah dont wear that shit. even if its just bc its funny.

First of all, just as a disclaimer, I would like to say that I have fully healed from this situation years ago, and now when I look back on it I feel humor rather than the negative feelings that I experienced at the time ( you can joke about this). I wanted to tell this story because it is a part of my lore, and without the backstory of the necklace, the remaining parts of the story aren't as funny.

I'm lucky that this is the only rejection to coming out that affected me, and I wasn't that close to this person. Most of the people in my life are very accepting, so don't feel too bad for me.

[mapis-putellas]

𝑴𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒂𝒚/𝑴.𝑳𝒆ó𝒏

Mapi was slumped into her chair, arms crossed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. She had barely spoken a word since you both left the house which was concerning in itself because Mapi never shut up. Normally she’d be teasing you or complaining about how early it was, or making some ridiculous joke that only she found funny. But today? Nothing. Just the occasional sniffle and a dramatic sigh every five minutes.

You nudged her gently. “You okay?”

Mapi turned her head slowly, eyes half-lidded, and pointed to her throat before dramatically pretending to cry.

“Oh no, poor baby,” you cooed, biting back a smile as you placed your hand on her thigh and squeezed softly.

She glared at you and grabbed her phone, typing something before holding it up. There, in big capital letters, read,

THIS IS YOUR FAULT.

You gasped. “How is this my fault?”

She sniffled loudly and typed again.

You stole my blanket. I got cold. Now I am dying.

“That is not how sickness works, amor, and you’re not dying, just dramatic.”

She squinted at you like she was contemplating murder, but thankfully, before she could, the media team called her name and she let out the most pathetic attempt at a groan before pushing herself up from the chair. You followed, because you knew she was going to need help. She was supposed to film an interview, answer questions, be her usual charming and slightly ridiculous self. But that was hard to do when she sounded like an eighty-year-old smoker.

As soon as the cameras were ready, Mapi cleared her throat and opened her mouth to speak. Nothing. A horrible, scratchy wheeze came out instead, making her sound like a broken door hinge. The crew exchanged glances, and you pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Mapi looked horrified.

One of the interviewers hesitated. “Uh…do you want to reschedule?”

Mapi shook her head quickly, grabbing her phone again.

No, I am professional.

You snorted. “Yeah, okay.”

She sent you a withering look and started typing furiously. Then she handed you the phone.

You do it. Be my voice.

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

She nodded firmly, crossing her arms.

The media team seemed amused by the idea. One of them spoke up. “So…you’ll answer her questions for her?”

Mapi pointed at you, then gave a thumbs-up.

You sighed. “Fine. But if you make me say something stupid, I swear-“

She grinned,,which was probably the first real sign of life you’d seen from her all morning since you’d dragged her ass out of bed.m

The interview began, and the first question was a simple one. “How are you feeling today, Mapi?”

You glanced at her, and she immediately typed on her phone before shoving it at you.

You read it aloud. “I feel amazing. Very strong. Possibly the strongest I have ever been.”

The interviewer looked at Mapi skeptically. “You…don’t sound amazing.”

Mapi scowled, typing furiously for a second.

You glanced at the screen again.“I am perfect. I am unstoppable. Only weak people get sick.”

Mapi nodded sagely.

You rolled your eyes. “She’s literally dying.”

Mapi nudged you sharply with her elbow, and you yelped.

“Okay, next question,” the interviewer said, clearly entertained. “Who is the funniest person on the team?”

Mapi smirked and started typing.

You took the phone and read, “Me, obviously.” Mapi grinned,and you continued reading. “Also, my girlfriend is very funny, but only on accident. Most of the time, she is just dumb.”

You looked up in outrage. “MAPI.”

She was shaking with silent laughter, and the media team too, was losing it. The interview went on like that, with Mapi answering every question through you, except half the time she was using it as an opportunity to make fun of you.

Finally, the interviewer asked, “Okay, last question. What’s the best part about being in a relationship with your teammate?”

Mapi’s smirk softened slightly, and she typed slower this time.

You took the phone and read, “She makes me happy. Even when she is annoying. And even when she steals my blanket and makes me sick.”

Your heart melted a little. “Oh, Mapi.”

She gave you a tired smile.

Then she grabbed the phone again and typed one last thing.

Also, I am much better at football than her.

You groaned. “I take back every nice thing I was about to say.”

Mapi just laughed well, wheezed- and rested her head on your shoulder as the interview wrapped up.

**

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @simp4panos @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan @ktgoodmorning @chelseacult

[1d1195]

Pucking Rookie IV

Read Pucking Rookie here | ~8k words

From me: slow burning!!!

Warnings: ANGST violence. CW: Signs of abuse.

Summary: Harry is very hot. Very sweet. VERY protective.

“Hey everyone,” she greeted brightly. “How’s everyone today?” She asked while setting down a tray of eight glasses and two pitchers of water on the table.

“Wonderful, baby, so excited to have you.”

She nearly knocked the glasses over (fortunately, since they were water glasses, they were only plastic). She made eye contact with him and felt her heart completely stop for a few beats. Kael smiled wickedly in return.

Fuck.

She kept her smile in place. “What can I get you to drink?” She asked. After eight years, she already knew what he wanted so she focused on his teammates.

“We were hoping to see The Chargers tonight,” Kael told her. “Do they come here often?”

She didn’t respond. “We have a few specials tonight, so if you have any questions, please let me know,” then she sauntered away to place the drink order.

“Already know what I want, baby?” He called. “That’s so sweet!”

She ignored him. Taking deep breaths she headed to the kitchen. Louis wasn’t in yet. Harry didn’t know she was working. Which meant the rest of the team thought she wasn’t working too. Marc and Michael probably had their suspicions that she was with Harry. So, no one knew she was there. Not really.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was probably just going to be an hour. He had his team with him. It wasn’t like they could have a private conversation in the middle of a restaurant. Yeah, he would probably tease and torture her for the better part of that hour, but she could be civil. She could pretend. She had for ages. He didn’t know she was working for The Chargers—she was sure he had an idea that she might be. But the afternoon set it in stone.

He was such a dick. It was the first time she had seen him face to face since she moved out. Everything about him made her skin crawl and she hated it. Every touch and kiss between them seemed tainted now. All those good memories, dates, hockey games, everything felt ruined. Each interaction was colored now with the hindsight that he didn’t love her. Not the way she did. Not the way she expected him to love her for ever and ever. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve that. She knew she didn’t deserve that.

So why did he make her feel undeserving of it ever again?

*

Kael and his teammates came and went fortunately. Just as she predicted. Only a little over an hour. She refrained from speaking directly to Kael and focused on the group as a whole.

When Kael left, she was well past the feeling of relief. There should have been a stronger word for how liberated she felt. She used the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and took a moment to process everything. It was just like Kael to come in and make her feel like shit without even trying. Louis was supposed to be in, so at least she had that going for her.

“Hey love,” Louis called. “Everything good?” She probably looked a little shaken, so she wasn’t surprised he asked. She felt shaken.

“Good,” she smiled assuredly. She flitted around the room, ducked behind the bar, and went about her day. It was a busy night, and she wasn’t going to let Kael sour her shift that he had next to nothing to do with. So she didn’t. The next hour ticked on quickly and she was feeling more herself as the time stretched between Kael’s departure and the present.

“Hi baby,” he cooed.

Her arms felt numb almost instantly, she was lucky she didn’t drop her tray. Her fight or flight swept her and just made her freeze. She turned as she had earlier in the day and looked at him. “Hi,” she said curtly. He was alone, which made her nervous.

“I figured you must get a break soon. I’d like to talk.”

“Not for a while. And it’s busy,” at least that wasn’t a lie. “So I might not take one tonight.”

Louis was hurrying about from kitchen to back room, to front of house. It was busy as it could be, but she wanted to keep an eye on him. If Kael got her alone, she wasn’t sure she would be able to control her emotions as well as if she had someone that knew she was not in a situation she wanted to be in just by looking at her. Louis wasn’t Harry, but he would know all the same that she was uncomfortable.

Kael smiled brightly.

Well, at least someone that cared ifshe was uncomfortable.

“I’ll wait,” he offered.

“Great,” she deadpanned.

She went to the back room and wished that there was a group of Chargers there. If she called any of them, she knew they would break curfew and be there for her in a heartbeat. The thought of Kael anywhere near her would make Callie incensed for ruining her day. Niall would be protective in his own way and focused on her. Asher and Lang would get her away from The Locker Room and make sure Kael never set foot there again.

She could hardly imagine what Harry would do to him.

But she lied. She told Harry that she wasn’t working. The routines the boys had had in place prior to her arrival with the team had been disrupted more than she ever anticipated. It was nice they cared but it wasn’t fair to them to upheave their lives for her. She was just the photographer for the team. Their coach’s niece. They didn’t ask to have someone they needed to babysit.

She was an independent, self-sufficient person.

“You okay, love?” Louis asked.

She nodded and flitted around the room taking order and tried not to think about the feeling of Kael’s stare on the back of her head.

*

It was perhaps another hour, and Kael was true to his word in staying put. Fortunately, The Locker Room remained steadily busy. She didn’t have to lie about not taking her break. She foisted him off on another waiter who grew a little tired of him asking for her each time he went over. “Baby,” he snatched her hand as she went by.

She pulled away. “Kael, I’m busy,” she marched away before he could reach for her again.

Without warning a multitude of memories where he snagged her hand over the years filtered through her mind. His grip tight on her arm or hand. Never in a way that any outsider would notice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whispered to herself. She was going to call Harry. His wrath would be well worth it. At least Kael was scared of Harry and the team. Especially if he was outnumbered. She was shaking a little as she headed for the kitchen hoping to catch Louis at least.

“Hey,” Kael said grabbing her again as she passed too close to his table. This time he caught a real hold of her arm and pinned it to the table. To any other onlooker it would look like he was just keeping her in place holding onto her hand in almost a romantic kind of way. No one would see how his fingers dug into her skin, how she was feeling the ache of the hard wood against her knuckles and wrist bone like she just lost an arm-wrestling contest. “I just want to talk.”

She wanted nothing less. “Hey, Louis!” She called quickly and loudly enough so that he would be able to hear her over the din of the whole place regardless of where he had gone off too.

Within seconds Louis was there from the back room.

Harry was right beside him. His eyes narrowed at the sight of her arm on the table. Her mouth popped open in shock. She had no clue he was there. Most obviously, she didn’t want him to see this. “Oh fuck,” she whispered and tried to pry her hand away from Kael’s. She squirmed slightly as he refused to release her. He cupped his other hand gently on top of her arm trying to get her to stop.

Harry wasn’t supposed to be here. He was only supposed to come to her rescue because she couldn’t figure out what else she was to do. She was going to hide in the kitchen and wait.

Harry wasn’t supposed to be around Kael.

“Styles,” Kael practically sang. He didn’t release her arm. “Didn’t know you were here. Tough loss today. I hope it’s the same tomorrow, to be honest.”

He didn’t take the bait. His nostrils flared. “Let go of her hand Crowe,” Harry snarled stepping closer to him.

“We were just talking, right baby?” Kael smiled and took his free hand to cup the side of her face. She turned her face away and brushed it away from her skin.

Harry continued to approach him—up close and personal. If they were on the ice the cages of their helmets would have been touching. “Let her go, right fucking now,” his shoulders were heaving.

“It’s fine,” she croaked. Harry didn’t even acknowledge her.

Was he trying to keep it together? Not make a scene, maybe? Harry was quick to anger—like most hockey players. He probably would have torn Kael limb from limb by now if this wasn’t a local place where fans and the rest of the team went.

“Let go of her,” her he repeated, his voice was so deep. His body shaking.

“Harry, I’m fine—”

He ignored her still and Kael continued keeping her in place despite her squirming. She wanted to whimper as he squeezed her tighter and pressed her hand harder into the table. To the untrained eye, you wouldn’t know. But Harry was watching like this was his favorite movie and they were at the climax of the plot. He saw the way she winced and her body bend slightly as he pressed harder. “Mind your fucking business, Styles,” Kael shook his head. “This doesn’t involve—”

“She is m’business. Especially when you’re fucking hurting her,” the whole bar area went silent as they realized one of their favorite celebrities was about to punch the lights out of one of the best names in hockey. “If y’don’t let her go, m’gonna rip your hand off, Crowe. And m’gonna enjoy it,” he promised shaking his head. “Let go of her.”

She wanted to move more but was utterly terrified. Harry could get in serious trouble. Kael wasn’t particularly dangerous, but his grip was making her whole arm ache. Harry’s threat made her stomach swoop; he was so ready to protect her. Of course that was nice, but she wanted to cry. Hurting one of the top professionals in the league (even if Harry was also at the top) was a great way to get a hefty suspension and fine if he was caught.

Just another way she was going to upend his perfectly normal, happy life.

“Harry, stop,” she begged.

“Yeah, Harry, stop,” Kael mimicked. But she inhaled sharply, pulling and moving again uselessly to try and get away from the grip he had on her wrist. She whimpered despite herself as the pain continued. “Mind your business Harry,” he snarled. “M’talking to my girlfriend.”

Harry didn’t acknowledge the comment. “Stop fucking touching her, Crowe.”

“She’s mine. I’ll do whatever I want to her.”

Harry stared at him, his gaze flicking to her wrist still pinned to the table. She was still squirming, looking to get away. Louis reached for her and Harry put his hand on his chest and pushed him away. He walked to the bar, grabbed a shot of whatever the bartender was pouring. His head tipped back as he sucked the liquid down. The quiet clink of his glass hitting the bar was the only sound in the room. Silently, Harry plucked the rings he wore when he wasn’t playing hockey off his fingers. He tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket. It felt like the seconds were ticking by in slow motion. Not even the pain from Kael’s tight grip on her hand was enough to draw her attention away from Harry’s movements.

She swallowed, her eyes pleading with Harry not to do it. It wasn’t that bad. She could take it. The pain she was feeling now was hardly anything in comparison to what he could do. This was nothing.

“One more time, Crowe... Let go. Of her,” Harry’s voice was even. Measured. It had the tone of I’m not asking again.

“She’s mine, Styles. Find someone else to stalk.”

Harry smirked, shook his head, and his eyes flickered to hers for only a second. Then they were back on Kael. “Oh. No. No she’s very much not yours.”

As slow as the seconds had ticked by, they all came rushing back at full speed; maybe time even sped up. Harry delivered a lightning-fast punch to Kael’s nose causing him to gasp and drop her hand as he instinctively reached for his face. With the toe of his boot, Harry tipped his chair before Kael could get his bearings, and he fell flat to his back. The chair broke into pieces with his weight. He gasped, trying to right himself and protect his nose from bleeding everywhere. Harry reached down before Kael could get a grip. He yanked him up by the collar and front of his shirt. A stupid, ugly orange and blue sweatshirt that Harry was delighted to wrinkle hard in his hands. Before Kael was barely on his feet, Harry hauled him backward. Shoved him hard into the bar so the edge dug into his spine, no doubt. Without pause, Harry delivered a solid punch to his cheek, a heel stomp to his foot, and knee to his stomach.    

Kael bent forward, gasping for air and Harry’s breathing was as even as if he was sleeping.

Her hand went to her mouth and the other to her stomach as she tried to hold herself together. Everyone looked in pure shock. Surely someone was supposed to try and stop Harry. Even if he was a hockey player for the town that everyone loved. But given he incapacitated Kael in a matter of thirty seconds it wasn’t like anyone wanted to try and stop him. Even Louis was speechless and looked in horror. “Are y’gonna touch her again?” He didn’t say anything, which was the wrong answer as Harry twisted him in an instant, pressing his face down into the bar, pulling his arm back behind his body. “I said, are y’gonna touch her again?”

“No,” he rasped.

“M’letting y’keep your hand. Don’t make me regret it,” he snapped and shoved him a final time into the bar. He dropped a few hundreds on the bar for the damage and his drink. “Louis, keep the change,” he muttered over his shoulder without sparing another glance at Kael. “S’time t’go, Bunny,” he murmured lowly for no one else to hear but her. He placed an arm around her waist, and tugged her toward the exit. Every pair of eyes followed them.

“B-but m-my shift—”

Without missing a beat, he grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and stuffed it in the front pocket of her apron. “Let’s go,” he repeated and ushered her outside.

Harry opened his passenger door and gestured for her to get in.

She looked nervous, which made Harry uneasy. This strong, brave woman who bantered with unruly hockey players and dealt with fans and drunk patrons looked a bit lost. “What about my car— I mean... your other—”

“Get in the car, Rookie,” he ordered.

She followed his direction. Harry waited until she was safely buckled inside before closing her in. He locked the door for the short walk around his car, only unlocking it so he could slip inside. Once seated and buckled, he turned the car on and immediately exited the parking lot. After driving in silence for several moments Harry dropped his hand on her thigh like it was an instinct.

He didn’t ask if she was okay. Which was kind of him, because how could she be? Her heart was thudding in her chest, her wrist hurt, and her brain was a mess. Harry’s hand on her leg should have made her uncomfortable given he didn’t ask. But it was almost too comforting, and she dreaded the idea that he would have to let go of her eventually.

“Don’t y’dare cry over him, bunny,” his voice was tight.

She sniffled, not realizing she was, in fact, crying. She swiped her hands across her cheeks. “Sorry,” she whispered looking toward the window.

Harry shook his head and sighed. His hand squeezed her leg while he pressed his head back into the seat hard—if the head rest wasn’t there and he didn’t have to watch the road, she was certain his eyes would be facing the ceiling of his car, searching for strength somewhere above him. His jawline seemed sharper than ever as he clenched his teeth. “Y’don’t have t’apologize.”

“Thank you,” she croaked quietly. “For doing that, I...” she swallowed hard. “I don’t really know what I would have done,” she admitted. The scenario didn’t seem to play out in full if Harry wasn’t there. Yeah, Louis would have helped, but this was different. Harry didn’t say anything. She pulled his wallet out of her apron and placed it in one of the cup holders between them. “I don’t want—”

“It’s yours.”

 “Harry, it’s not that—”

“Bunny, I haven’t stopped thinking ‘bout you all afternoon. Since I met you, really. I can’t stop. I used t’think ‘bout nothing but hockey. But s’like you’re the only thing on m’mind now. M’happy when I see you around the rink taking pictures. M’happy when y’try t’skate on m’pond. I love our lessons, and I want t’have y’in my house all the time. M’happy when you’re around. Happier than I’ve been in years, and I didn’t even know I wasn’t completely happy. I can’t have one-night stands anymore. I tried, I did. You’re a long shot. I know that. Someone who deserves a guy so much better than a hot-tempered hockey player as evident by the piece of shit that hurt you in so many ways,” His voice is quiet. “S’not a secret I like you. A lot. If we can only be friends and roommates—because m’sure as hell not bringing y’back to that sorry excuse of an apartment—then s'what I’ll do.”

There was only a brief beat of silence while she contemplated all he said. “I worked really hard on my apartment,” she whispered.

This seemed to soften him a little. He sighed. “It’s adorable, Bunny. It is. But m’constantly worried you’re going t’be kidnapped, robbed, or worse. You can move in this week,” he insisted. “I have the day off after tomorrow and I was going t’spend it at the gym t’lift with the guys so we can pack and move your shit all the same instead.”

“Harry, I don’t think that will work... I have to pay out the rest of my lease if I move out early.”

“That’s bullshit,” he scoffed. She didn’t say anything. Because she kind of agreed that it was bullshit. But she couldn’t move in with Harry. Not when he just admitted he liked her the way she did. It set her heart into a dramatic flutter. Being legally bound would hopefully be enough of a reason for Harry to agree to let her stay until her lease ran out. Then she could figure out her next steps. “Fine,” he decided after a moment. “The black debit card in m’wallet will take care of it.”

She snorted unable to hide her shock. “Harry, you can’t—”

“M’done arguing with you ‘bout this, Bunny.” She frowned and looked at her hand, turning her wrist and wincing ever so slightly. “Is your wrist okay?” He asked.

She shrugged and answered instinctively. “It hurts; but I’ve had worse,” she gasped at her own mistake almost instantly. “Oh fuck, I mean—” she stopped speaking. It didn’t matter. It was too late. Harry saw through it and understood exactly what she meant. He clenched the steering wheel tighter and he swallowed. The bob in his throat looked like he was drinking a glass of nails.

“Did he ever hurt you like this before?” Harry’s voice was an octave lower than she ever heard it. His eyes narrowed as he stared forward.

She didn’t want to make matters any worse, so she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. For several seconds, the car seemed so silent it was as if the tires weren’t even on the ground anymore or if she was breathing.

“Harry,” she whispered eventually.

Harry took a deep breath not liking the tone of her voice and pulled off to the side of the road.

“What are we— Harry!”

Before she could understand what was happening, Harry was outside and opening his trunk and the car doors locked her inside. Instantly, he pulled out one of the back-up sticks he had in case his two in the locker room broke in the middle of a game (or if he wanted to practice while he was home on the pond out back). He slammed it hard on the pavement multiple times grunting as he did until the stick snapped. Then he grabbed a second and repeated this process again, swearing and cursing like he was imagining Kael was under the stick.

Once satisfied with his destruction, he collected the broken pieces and dropped them in the back before sitting in the driver’s seat again, his breathing only slightly elevated.

She stared at him wildly. Her eyes were wide and beautiful. “If he touches you again, m’killing him,” he said simply. It was a promise. His breath was heavy from the exertion.

She nodded; Harry put the car in drive and continued back toward his place. His hand went right back on her thigh, which she still found comforting and warm, even though she had only had the luxury of his hand on her for no more than a few minutes. “Okay,” she whispered hoping there wouldn’t be an again to speak of.

Harry let the silence linger again. “My apartment is the other way,” she reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. “I just told you, Rookie, y’not living there anymore.”

“Oh my God, Harry. You can’t be serious.”

He snorted. “No. I am. As a heart attack.”

“Harry I can’t move in—”

“Of course, y’can. I have like five bedrooms. Pick one. Pick three for all I care.”

She swallowed. “What if I pick your bedroom?” She was attempting to lighten the mood, maybe. Harry wasn’t sure. Or maybe she was trying (and failing) to be annoying. But Harry was never annoyed by her. He was amused at worst. She was adorable. Every little thing she did was adorable.

“Then it’s yours,” he shrugged. He was hardly home during the season anyway. With his niece, Mum, and Gem out of town, he wasn’t home much in the off-season either. He could easily move into another room if she wanted his. In fact, he probably would give her his room. It wasn’t the only one with a bathroom, but it had a nice tub that he knew was being wasted without proper use and it felt like she deserved a relaxing night to soak in the tub until she got pruney and everything else that stressed her in her life disappeared.

“I thought you didn’t bring women home to stay,” she reminded him.

“Never had one that I wanted t’bring home,” he shrugged.

She pressed her head to the window. He was quick. Didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll stay tonight, but I’m not moving in. My uncle is going to kill you.”

He shrugged. “S’a long line of Glacier Wolves who’ll want t’kill me before him.” She giggled softly under her breath. Harry glanced at her peripherally and smirked at the little smile that graced her lips. “M’niece is over a lot in the off season,” he told her. “Gem and Mum come by too. So s’had women there before.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then, yeah. Never had a woman I wanted to bring home,” he repeated. Harry parked in his driveway, turned to her, his hand still on her thigh and honestly, she never wanted it to move.

“Are we still friends?” She blurted. He just admitted he liked her. It was no secret she liked him too. It could make things very awkward going forward so she wouldn’t blame him if he really didn’t want to be friends any longer.

“What a weird fucking question, Rookie,” he shook his head.

“Can you just tell me?”

“Yes, we’re still fucking friends. Despite the fact I would love t’be more.”

She closed her eyes. “He really fucked me up, Harry,” she whispered. “He... he wanted some trophy girlfriend that doted on him and worshipped him for being a good hockey player. He didn’t want me to be my own person. He didn’t want me to have my own hobbies or interests. Like I was nothing, a nobody—”

“Rookie,” he whispered.

“—and I just let him treat me that way. Because it was easier than confronting it—”

“Rookie.”

“—So I don’t want to keep falling for you because you... you’re so talented and you will overshadow me and you should. But it’s so fucking cold living in the shadow of someone else and I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

He winced. “Bunny,” he wanted her to stop.

“I don’t love that nickname either,” she sighed. “I want to. It’s cute and it’s even cuter when you say it. But the connotation of being a puck bunny is just more of what Kael insinuated and I don’t—”

“I don’t think you are a puck bunny. S’not why I call you that. Y’wrinkle your nose like a bunny when y’concentrate. S’the first thing I noticed when I met y’taking pictures rink-side. And you’re always going and going like the little Energizer bunny. But mostly, s’because you’re so fucking cute like a bunny. S’honestly nearly nauseating sometimes.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed trying to keep all the feelings of falling for another hockey player at bay. “So, I make you sick?”

He smiled. “Excessively.”

“And you want me anyway?”

“Excessively,” he whispered cupping her face. She leaned into the touch, closed her eyes, and sank into the way his hand caressed her cheek for a moment.

Sighing, she opened her eyes and looked at him shyly. “You probably know that he cheated on me,” she reminded him. “And the worst of it, I don’t know if it was the first time, and I don’t want to know. Because I already felt stupid for letting him belittle me and letting me forget parts of myself.”

Harry tilted his head back fully staring at the ceiling for a moment. “Yeah...” And now Harry knew this wasn’t the first time he had hurt her either. Whether it was intentional or not.

“And...” she swallowed. “I don’t think you’re like him... if you take anything away from this conversation, please know that I think you’re nothing like him. You’re up front about most of everything. He kept things from me. But... you’re you and you could have any woman you want in any city you want. I don’t fault you for that—I really hope you know that... but I don’t want to be a number anymore, Harry. I don’t want to feel like an idiot, and I don’t think you would intentionally make me feel like an idiot but—”

“Bunny,” he interrupted, turning back to gaze into her eyes so intensely it felt like everything around them disappeared except for the space between them. The seriousness in his green eyes made her stomach flip. They seemed darker. Like the color was changing to a darker shade to explain how serious he was and how he meant every word that spilled from his mouth. “I think you’re brilliant,” he whispered. “In every facet of your life. I’ve thought about nothing but hockey m’whole life. It has been eat, sleep, and breathe ice, pucks, and sticks. The second I met you, every thought has been ‘bout you,” he reminded her. “If I never played another game of hockey, I really think I would be okay s’long as y’were around.”

Her heart felt like it was broken and whole all at the same time. It was too sweet. She bit the inside of her lip. “Well, I don’t want that,” she whispered. “You’re quite good,” she reminded him.

He chuckled. “The point remains, Rookie... I want you t’have everything y’could possibly want. I want t’do anything I can t’help y’achieve anything y’want t’do.”

She looked at her lap. “I can’t believe you went to get a drink.”

“I really didn’t think y’would be there... was hoping I’d run into Louis and maybe he would know if y’were okay. Y’never answered my texts. Didn’t tell me y’made it home.” he frowned. “Why did y’lie t’me, Bunny?”

She took a deep breath. “The whole team has been so nice to me,” she whispered. “I’m not really used to that...” she trailed off. “Callie got so many penalties, you had to interrupt your post-game cool down to walk me to your car, everyone wants to take shifts to watch me... you have to drive me home, give me one of your car... I’ve seriously disrupted your lives... and it was all just too much today. I don’t want to bother you guys. You didn’t sign up to have a kid or a pet you need to watch. Uncle Charlie didn’t have to give me a job with a hockey team. I feel like I didn’t earn anything. It’s so sweet that all of you care, but it’s weird for me...”

God, she was cute. Even sad she was cute. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Y’haven’t disrupted our lives,” he promised. “We’d do this for anyone.”

“That’s comforting I suppose.”

“C’mon, s’late... we have a game tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she whispered.

“Course, Rookie,” he squeezed her leg one more time and then got out of the car. (As she predicted, she hated the feeling of Harry’s hand anywhere else but her thigh.)

Entering his house, Harry kicked off his shoes and headed down the hall toward the bedrooms. She texted her group chat with Michael and Marc as she flopped onto the couch until she got more direction from Harry.

I’m at someone’s house for the night so don’t worry about me.

Michael reacted to her message with a thumbs up.

It better be a HOT hockey player.

Michael reacted to Marc’s message with a thumbs down.

Good night, Marc!

I want every INCH of detail

That earned a vomiting emoji from Michael. I do NOT want any details.

GOOD NIGHT MARC

*

Harry hated that he had a big house. If they were at her apartment, they could have been squished in her bed right then. She wouldn’t be down the hall and half of Harry’s mattress wouldn’t have felt so cold. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. Fortunately, his phone vibrated almost immediately. Like she somehow knew he was awake.

Are you awake?

M-hmm

Can we get breakfast, please?

Harry would throw himself down a set of stairs for her if she asked. “You could jus’ come in here t’ask,” he called.

“I’m creating boundaries!” She answered from a guest room. “Besides this bed is comfy and I don’t want to get up,” she giggled.

“Well, I don’t want boundaries,” he grumbled to himself. He wondered if she slept without pants on. Not that it mattered. He was turned on by the thought of her naked in his bed or if she was in a full snow suit.

“What did you say?” She called.

“Nothing,” he grumbled and pressed the palm of his hand over the front of his shorts willing the blood to rush anywhere but his dick at the thought of her in a goddamn snow suit. “I just have t’shower,” he mumbled.

“Okay, I’ll be here,” she sighed, and Harry could picture her snuggling herself further into the mattress. Maybe it was for the best she was in another room. If she was there looking all cute and cuddly on his bed, he would have to quit hockey. He would probably spend the rest of his life worshipping her on his mattress in every possible way.

Plus, his dick would never be anything but hard.

“Jesus, fuck,” he sighed to himself under the spray of the warm shower. He tried to think about anything but her pretty self in the other room. In his house. In his bed. In his clothes. She was probably changing into her uniform from the night before, so at least he wouldn’t see her in the shirt and shorts he gave her to wear for bed.

He shook his head and focused on shower and not what it would feel like to press her against the tile or—

“Fuuuuck,” he touched his forehead against the tile. Hockey. Defense. Goals. Niall. That’s good. Niall, gross. Callie—FUCK Callie. Asher owes me ten dollars for betting Lang wouldn’t say “good effort” in their pool game the other day.

His shower took twice as long to shower because he had to actively think about something other than his pretty friend. Once he was out, he slipped into a pair of sweats and one of his long sleeve practice shirts. As he put on his deodorant, he realized it took him an embarrassing amount of time to realize what she was doing as he got dressed. “Rookie, you are not,” he called as he hurried down the hall.

“Not what?” She asked innocently.

“Doing my dish—Rookie, what the hell!”

“They were just there! And I was bored, Harry. Plus, you didn’t say I couldn’t!”

“I told you last time.”

“Well yeah, but that was last time.”

“Please stop,” he begged and rubbed a hand over his face. “We’re supposed t’be going t’breakfast.”

“Well, I figured while you took two years to get ready,” it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes max but maybe his effort to not think about her in his shower took longer than he thought, “I would make myself useful,” she shrugged and set the final dish on the drying rack beside his sink. She turned the water off and ran the dishtowel over the counter and edge surrounding the sink. She turned, leaning against the counter. Her black and silver uniform top for The Locker Room was on her again. Her leggings from the night before clung to her legs like a second skin.

He wondered how she could look so cute after working a hectic, busy shift, then slept all night and it barely looked like she had a hair out of place. “What?” She asked looking down at her shirt. “Do I have something on this? We’ll have to stop at my apartment first if I do. I’m not going out with you to breakfast when you look hot and I look like trash,” she frowned.

He snorted. “Y’don’t look like trash, Rookie.”

“Well, do I smell or something?”

“No,” he shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You’re beautiful. Stunning really,” he shrugged one shoulder and reached out to touch her face. He skimmed his thumb along her cheek wishing he could lean in and kiss her until they were both breathless. He smiled softly enjoying the way her cheek warmed under his touch. For someone so snarky, she was awfully shy. “Let’s go,” he tilted his head toward the main hallway. He made his way before she could read into it as he was sure she was wont to do.

Harry opened her passenger door and smiled wickedly at her as she got in. “What?” She asked, her eyebrows pinching together.

“You think I’m hot,” he sang.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Harry chuckled, closing her inside.

*

Kael didn’t play because he was injured. The report sustained it happened at practice the day before but everyone on The Chargers bench knew. Kael kept his gear on but moved to the end of the bench for the starters and lines of his teammates that would be playing. He hardly cheered, hardly moved.

The rest of The Wolves sent death glares to everyone on the team. Harry was checked into the boards more times than he could count. But every time he caught sight of the pretty photographer twirling her wrist in between photos, he felt grateful for each hit. She continued to take pictures, placing her camera into the cutouts of the glass around the ice.

Kael hid from pictures from his own media specialist, the news outlets, and even the fans during the game and in between periods.

“Coward,” Asher growled as they left the ice and headed to the locker room at the end of the game. The group that typically resided in the back of The Locker Room was livid when they found out from Harry that Kael hurt her. They too must have seen the way she twisted her wrist around between pictures. Harry wondered if she noticed she was doing it. It ate at him that it wasn’t the first time that piece of garbage hurt her. There was nothing Harry could do—well, maybe if he ever did figure out time travel, he could. But for now, he could take the hits from Kael’s stupid team and make sure the pretty photographer was okay.

Besides.

He may have had a tough game physically, but Harry was truly on cloud nine.

“Sweetheart, you good?” Lang called from the front of the line heading back toward the locker room.

“I’m good!” She answered.

Harry didn’t even care that Niall was walking alongside her and not him. Or that Callie gave her arm a squeeze when he walked by. It didn’t bother him that Asher was as irate as him either.

Because the word Styles was on her body. It was purposeful. If Kael paid attention, he would see it. He would know she supported Harry, regardless of how outlandish it was (or wasn’t) that he defended her last night. Harry knew the second he saw it, that Kael was going to look at the pretty girl with his number on her and start fuming in his seat. Maybe that’s why his team aimed for him so vehemently throughout the game as well.

Whatever, Harry could take it.

It was well worth it to see his name on her jersey.

Harry realized it was his time to shine after they went out for breakfast. He drove her to get her car at Louis’. He followed her home to the shady apartment building. He wasn’t in the mindset to leave her for any bit of time given the night before. Maybe not for a good few days either if he had it his way. They had away games coming up so they would be all but trapped together on a plane, a bus, and in a hotel so that was in his favor.

He really hoped she would be in a nearby room at the hotel. Or better yet, there wouldn’t be enough rooms, and he could share his with her.

“Why’d you choose eleven?” She asked when she came out of her room after getting ready. She was fluffing her pretty hair and tugging at the hem of the jersey that she had put on. It took a moment to register in Harry’s mind that she was talking to him and was anticipating a response. In her mind, it was no big deal that she was nonchalantly wearing his name and number. That she was by far the prettiest thing he had ever seen. The sweetest person he knew.

He swore his heart skipped a beat as his vision refocused on the lovely girl wearing his name on her back.

He cleared his throat. “S’the first number I ever got,” he shrugged. “But now I say m’so good, m’number twice.”

She grinned and laughed quietly under her breath as she put earrings on with The Chargers logo. “I like that. You are very good. I’ve seen a lot of hockey myself. I like to think I’m a good judge of ability.”

When Harry was younger, he thought if he could have a superpower, he would want to time travel. As he got older it changed a bit, he wanted super strength so he could be the strongest hockey player. Read minds so he could predict the movements of opponents on the ice. Since he met her, he returned to the tried and true: if he could time travel, he could figure out twenty seconds after he kissed her if she hated him or kiss him back, he would have done it right then.

He smirked. “So m’the lucky one today?” He asked pulling on the sleeve.

“I don’t know, does wearing someone’s jerseys constitute as lucky for the day?”

He nodded. “Yeah, very much so, Rookie.”

“Then sure; you’re very lucky, Harry,” she rolled her eyes.

Harry had to bite the inside of his lip to keep his smile from splitting his face in half. He turned away slightly and caught sight of a string of pictures on her little kitchen bar. “What’s all this?” He asked, picking up a photo and inspecting it. It was one of the ones she took while Harry was practicing before the rest of the team showed up. Another photo she got laying down on the ice of Callie’s skates when Harry wanted to rip his teammate’s arm off for holding her so close that day. One from Niall’s empty net. Another of Asher’s locker, his jersey on display. A close up of the C on Lang’s jersey. One of just the empty rink—no fans, no players, nothing.

“Oh... I don’t know,” she looked away shyly piling them together. “I was playing with the idea of making a series of photos,” she flipped one over to indicate the back showed the number three in the line. “You guys are attractive and stuff, but I thought there was a lot of beauty in the little things behind the bench, you know? It’s not just fights and points. The rink is so pretty,” she shrugged.

Harry grabbed her hand before she could stack any more of them away. He looked at each of the pictures painstakingly selected from the hundreds of photos she took each day. The way the light shone off a helmet, the way a shadow fell on the bench. “They’re beautiful, Bunny. Why don’t y’do it?”

“Do what?”

“Make it a series?”

She shook her head. “No... I don’t know. Not many people care about sports photography,” she shrugged. “Not like this anyway.”

“Rookie, I think every team owner and manager in the league would pay t’have this set in their arena.”

“No way, there’s not a single headshot of a star player. In sports, the only thing that really sells by far is you guys and your pretty faces,” she patted his cheek. “It’s tragic, I have some incredible photos of a few baseball diamonds at sunset. But there’s no fans and no players so it just wouldn’t sell well.”

“Show me,” he urged.

She sighed and put her jacket over “We’re going to be late, Harry. Uncle Charlie is already going to be annoyed with me that I’m wearing your jersey. And so will the rest of the team.”

“They all had their turn, Rookie, y’made me wait forever,” he grumbled. They didn’t have to be annoyed. They didn’t have a crush on her the way Harry did. They all knew that. His teammates were his family, but they made him cranky no less; teasing him about how smitten he was about their photographer.

She smiled sadly. “Harry,” she sighed. “I’ll show you another time.”

“Promise?” He pleaded.

“Promise?” She repeated in disbelief. Harry was nearly thirty years old and sounded like he was in kindergarten.

“Promise you’ll show me,” he said pointedly.

“Alright, yeah," She shook her head, sighed with a smile still on her lips. "I promise.”

--

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[astrxq]

Borrowed Time

modern!cregan stark x reader

words: 17.4k

notes: this was requested!!

You were in the middle of highlighting your history notes when Sara dropped into the seat across from you, that familiar mischievous glint in her eyes. Before you could even ask what she wanted, Jace appeared beside her, wearing an equally suspicious grin.

"No," you said immediately, returning to your notes. "Whatever it is, no."

"You haven't even heard what we're going to say," Jace protested, pulling out a chair and settling in. The library was quiet around you, afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

"I don't need to hear it. That look on both your faces means trouble," you said, capping your highlighter. "Last time you had that look, we ended up getting kicked out of that coffee shop on Fifth."

"That was one time," Sara waved her hand dismissively. "And the barista was totally overreacting. How were we supposed to know the chairs weren't meant to be stacked?"

"They were clearly not meant to be stacked, Sara."

"Ancient history," Jace cut in, leaning forward. "This is actually about your academic future. We're putting together a study group for Martinez's class."

You paused, eyeing them both suspiciously. "Political Science?"

"The very same," Sara nodded, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. "The one you were ranting about last week at dinner. What was it you said? Something about how the theories were, and I quote, 'slowly sucking your soul out through your eyeballs'?"

"I was being dramatic," you muttered, though you couldn't quite meet her eyes. The truth was, you'd been struggling more than you wanted to admit.

"Were you though?" Jace reached over and picked up your textbook, flipping through the rainbow of highlighted pages. "Because this looks like a cry for help. What does pink even mean?"

You snatched the book back. "Pink is for... important things."

"Everything is highlighted pink!"

"Everything is important!"

Sara tried to suppress her laugh but failed. "This is exactly why you need our study group. We've got a solid plan – twice a week, two hours max. We can share notes, discuss the readings..."

"Who else is in it?" you asked, trying to sound casual even as suspicion crept in. They were being far too enthusiastic about this.

The look Sara and Jace exchanged was quick, but you caught it. Years of friendship had taught you to recognize their silent conversations.

Sara said carefully, suddenly very interested in straightening her sleeve. "Me, Jace... and my brother."

Your stomach did an odd little flip. Cregan. Of course it would be Cregan. Sara's half-brother, Jace's best friend, and quite possibly the most intimidating person you'd ever met – not because he was mean or hostile, but because he seemed to exist in a completely different orbit than yours despite sharing the same friend group. You'd seen him plenty of times over the past year, usually deep in animated conversation with Jace or quietly sitting while the rest of you chatted. He'd never been anything but polite, but there was always this careful distance, as if he was deliberately keeping you at arm's length.

"Your brother," you repeated slowly. "The one who never speaks to me?"

"He speaks to you!" Sara protested.

"'Excuse me' and ‘can i borrow a pen’ don't count as speaking to me, Sara."

"He's just... quiet," Jace jumped in. "You know how he is. But he's got the highest grade in the class. Like, by a lot. And he actually takes good notes, unlike some people." He pointedly looked at his own notebook, which appeared to be covered in what might have been either class notes or an elaborate doodle of a dragon. It was hard to tell.

You bit your lip, considering. The idea of spending extended time with someone who seemed to find you completely uninteresting wasn't exactly appealing, but you really did need help with the course. And maybe, you thought, it wouldn't be so bad with Sara and Jace there as buffers.

"Fine," you sighed, already wondering if you'd regret this. "But if it gets weird–"

"It won't!" Sara bounced up from her chair, beaming. "First session's tomorrow at four. We'll be in study room C. It's going to be great!"

"Super great!" Jace agreed, gathering his things. "Life-changing, even. You'll thank us later."

As they walked away, you couldn't shake the feeling that they looked far too pleased with themselves.

The next afternoon, you arrived at study room C a few minutes early, half-expecting Jace and Sara to already be there, goofing off or laying out some kind of elaborate prank. But when you pushed the door open, the only person inside was Cregan.  

He looked up from his notebook, brows lifting slightly in surprise before settling back into his usual neutral expression. He was seated at the far end of the table, his laptop open, a few books stacked neatly beside him. Unlike Jace’s chaotic scrawl or Sara’s color-coded monstrosity of a planner, his notes were meticulously organized – paragraphs written in a clean, even script, highlighted sparingly.  

You hesitated in the doorway. “Am I early?”  

Cregan shook his head. “They’re late.”  

That sounded about right. You stepped inside, setting your bag down as you tried to ignore the awkward weight of silence stretching between you. Cregan didn’t offer any small talk, just went back to his notes, flipping a page with practiced ease.  

You exhaled slowly, pulling out your own notebook and flipping it open. A moment passed. Then another. The silence became unbearable.  

“So,” you said, glancing at him. “You actually volunteered for this?”  

Cregan’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile there and gone before you could fully register it. “Not exactly.”  

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Let me guess. Sara roped you into it?”  

“She has a way of convincing people.”  

“That’s one way to put it,” you muttered, twirling your pen between your fingers. “She didn’t tell me you were basically carrying the class, though.”  

“I wouldn’t say that.”  

“She would. And Jace. Apparently, your notes are legendary.”  

He glanced at you then, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. “I just write things down.”  

“Unlike Jace.”  

That actually earned you a short laugh – low and warm, a sound you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from him before. Something in your chest tightened at it.  

The door banged open before you could process that feeling, and Sara and Jace tumbled in, both out of breath.  

“Sorry, sorry,” Sara panted, dropping into a chair. “There was a situation.”  

“Jace knocked over a whole display in the library cafe,” she continued as Jace groaned, dropping his head onto the table. “It was tragic.”  

“I maintain it was too close to the counter,” he mumbled into the wood.  

You caught Cregan watching his sister and best friend with what looked like fond exasperation, and for a moment, you envied how easy they all were with each other. How naturally they fit together. You'd known Jace since freshman year, and through him, Sara, but Cregan had always felt like someone just out of reach – present but never quite part of your circle.

"Right," Sara said, finally catching her breath. "Where were we? Political theory? The reading responses due next week?"

"The Weber analysis," Cregan supplied quietly, and you noticed how his voice changed when he spoke to them – looser, more familiar. It shouldn't have bothered you, but something about it sat heavy in your stomach.

"Oh right, Weber," Jace lifted his head from the table, suddenly animated. "The guy with all the bureaucracy stuff."

"That's... one way to put it," Cregan said, and you could hear the hint of amusement in his voice. He turned to a specific page in his notebook, and you watched as he easily fell into conversation with Jace about the reading, their words flowing back and forth with the ease of years of friendship.

You tried to focus on your own notes, but your attention kept drifting to the way Cregan's entire demeanor had shifted. Gone was the careful restraint from earlier – now his hands moved as he spoke, emphasizing points about social stratification and authority structures. His voice carried more inflection, and occasionally he'd even smile at Jace's terrible political theory puns.

"Hey," Sara's voice was soft beside you, making you jump slightly. You hadn't even noticed her move closer. "You okay? You're kind of staring at your blank page pretty intensely."

"What? Oh, yeah," you quickly scribbled down the date, just to look busy. "Just trying to keep up."

Sara hummed thoughtfully, her eyes darting between you and her brother. "You know," she said, keeping her voice low, "he's not actually as intimidating as he seems."

"I don't find him intimidating," you protested, perhaps a bit too quickly.

"Right," she drawled, clearly unconvinced. "That's why you've barely said two words to him in the past year."

"That's not true," you started, but she cut you off with a knowing look.

"It's okay. He's not great at... people. Well, new people," she amended, glancing at her brother who was now rolling his eyes at something Jace had said. "Just give it time."

Before you could respond, Cregan's voice cut through your whispered conversation: "If we're actually going to study, we should probably start with the main concepts."

You looked up to find him watching you and Sara, his expression unreadable once again. The warmth from his conversation with Jace had vanished, replaced by that familiar distance that made you feel like you were somehow intruding, even though you'd been invited to be there.

"Right," you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "The main concepts. Of course."

As he began outlining Weber's theory of social action, you couldn't help but wonder if Sara was right about giving it time. Because right now, it felt like no amount of time would bridge whatever carefully maintained distance Cregan seemed determined to keep between you.

About halfway through the session, Jace let out a dramatic sigh, slumping back in his chair. "I can't focus. The lights in here are way too bright."

Sara snorted. "The lights are fine, you big baby."

"No, they're definitely giving me a headache," Jace insisted, throwing an arm over his eyes. "We should do this somewhere else next time. Like, I don't know..." He paused for effect. "My place?"

You raised an eyebrow. "You mean the apartment that looked like a tornado hit it last time I was there?"

"It's not that bad!"

"Jace, there was a pizza box being used as a mousepad."

A low chuckle came from across the table, and you looked over to find Cregan trying to hide his amusement behind his hand. The sound made your stomach do that weird flip again.

"See?" Jace gestured wildly. "Even Cregan agrees we should move locations. It's his apartment too, and he's much neater than me."

"That's not exactly difficult," Cregan murmured, earning another laugh from you.

"Fine, gang up on me," Jace pouted. "But seriously, these lights are killing me."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Maybe if you actually looked at your notes instead of your phone..."

As they bickered, Cregan turned his attention back to the material at hand. "So, Weber's concept of social action..." He glanced at your notes and paused, taking in the rainbow explosion of highlights and the scattered notes in the margins.

Heat crept up your neck. "I know it's a mess," you said quickly. "I just... highlight things that seem important."

"Everything seems important?" There was no judgment in his voice, just that slight hint of amusement you were starting to recognize.

"Better safe than sorry?" you offered weakly.

He nodded thoughtfully, then slid his notebook slightly closer to you. "Here," he said quietly. "This might help structure it better." His neat handwriting laid out the concepts in clear, logical progression, with key points underlined rather than highlighted.

You leaned in slightly to read, suddenly very aware of how close you were to him. His handwriting was even nicer up close, you noticed, and he'd drawn small diagrams in the margins to illustrate some of the more complex ideas.

"So the rationalization of social action," he began explaining, his voice taking on that teaching tone that made him sound impossibly smart, "can be broken down into these four types..."

You tried to focus on what he was saying, you really did. But there was something about the way he spoke, confident and clear, occasionally gesturing to emphasize a point, that made it hard to concentrate. A strand of dark hair fell across his forehead as he leaned forward to point something out, and you found yourself fighting the urge to brush it back.

"Does that make sense?" he asked, looking up at you suddenly.

"Oh! Um, yes," you stammered, hoping your face wasn't as red as it felt. "The, uh, the four types of social action. Traditional, affective, value-rational, and..." you trailed off, momentarily distracted by how his eyes seemed to catch the light.

"Instrumental-rational," he finished, his lips quirking slightly. Was he amused by your confusion? "We can go over it again if you need."

"No, no, I got it," you said quickly, even as Jace muttered something about the lights still being too bright. "Just... processing."

Cregan nodded, but you could have sworn there was something softer in his expression now, something less distant than before. But before you could be sure, he was already turning the page, moving on to the next concept, and you were left wondering if you'd imagined it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Sara and Jace exchanging one of their looks – the kind that made you feel like you were missing something obvious. Sara's lips were curved in a knowing smile, while Jace waggled his eyebrows in what he probably thought was a subtle manner.

You furrowed your brows at them, a silent question, but they just smiled back innocently. Too innocently. Sara even had the audacity to wink at you before pretending to be extremely interested in her phone.

"So these social institutions," Cregan continued, completely oblivious to the silent conversation happening across the table, "they form the foundation of Weber's bureaucratic theory." His finger traced under a perfectly written line of text, and you couldn't help but notice how even his bullet points were symmetrical. Who even wrote bullet points that neatly?

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to feel intimidated by how effortlessly he explained complex theories that had taken you hours to barely grasp. He didn't even need to refer to the textbook – everything just seemed to flow from his mind to his lips with perfect clarity. It was almost unfair, really, how someone could be so... academically put together.

"The key thing to remember," he was saying, tapping his pen against a small diagram he'd drawn, "is how these systems of authority interconnect." His voice had that quiet confidence that came from truly understanding something, not just memorizing it.

You nodded, trying to focus on the actual words and not on how his hand moved across the page, or how he'd occasionally glance up to make sure you were following along. The worst part was that he probably thought you were struggling with the material – which you were, but not entirely for the reasons he might assume.

"Makes perfect sense," you heard yourself say, even though your mind had wandered to wondering if he color-coded his closet as meticulously as he organized his notes.

Sara cleared her throat loudly, making you jump slightly. When you looked up, she and Jace were wearing matching grins that made you want to throw your highlighter at them. Whatever they were thinking, whatever they thought they were seeing, you didn't want to hear it.

Cregan glanced between the three of you, a slight crease appearing between his brows. For a moment, you thought he might ask what was going on, but he just turned back to his notes, that familiar distance settling over him again like a shield.

You bit the inside of your cheek harder, telling yourself it didn't matter. You were here to study, not to analyze why your friends were acting weird, or why Cregan's handwriting was unreasonably perfect, or why you suddenly cared so much about either of those things.

***

The next day found you sitting on Jace and Cregan's surprisingly clean couch (at least this part of the apartment), waiting for Sara and Jace who were now twenty minutes late. You'd texted them both twice, receiving only a vague "on our way!" from Sara and a string of random emojis from Jace that made absolutely no sense.

Cregan sat in the armchair across from you, repeatedly adjusting the stack of books on the coffee table between you. First, he aligned them perfectly with the table's edge. Then he shifted them slightly to the left. Then back to center. You watched as he cleared his throat for what must have been the fifth time in as many minutes.

When you glanced up at him, he offered a quick, almost shy smile before looking away again. It was strange seeing him in his own space – he seemed both more relaxed and somehow more nervous, his usual composed demeanor slightly cracked.

The silence stretched on, not exactly uncomfortable but definitely not comfortable enough to ignore. You watched as he picked up his notebook, then put it down, then picked it up again.

"So," you finally said, desperate to break the quiet, "this is definitely cleaner than I expected."

His lips twitched. "I may have... tidied up a bit."

"A bit?"

"Jace's room is still a disaster," he admitted, and this time his smile stayed longer. "I drew the line at going in there. For my own safety."

You laughed, remembering the pizza-box mousepad. "Probably wise. I'm pretty sure I saw something move under his laundry pile last time."

"That was last week's sandwich," he said with such perfect deadpan delivery that it took you a moment to realize he was joking. When you did, you couldn't help but laugh again, and something in his posture seemed to relax slightly.

"Please tell me you're joking," you said, though you weren't entirely sure you wanted to know.

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"You know what? No. No, I don't." You shook your head, still smiling. "How do you live with him? I mean, you're so..." you gestured vaguely at his perfectly organized notes.

"Neurotic?" he supplied, but there was amusement in his voice.

"I was going to say organized, but..." you teased, surprised by how easy it suddenly felt to talk to him.

He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up slightly in a way that was unfairly endearing. "It works, somehow. He's..." Cregan paused, considering his words. "He balances things out. Keeps me from getting too..."

"Neurotic?" you offered, throwing his word back at him.

That earned you another one of those rare laughs, the kind that seemed to surprise even him. "Exactly."

Your phone buzzed then, another text from Sara: Sorry!! Got held up at the library. Start without us? 

You looked up to find Cregan checking his own phone, his expression shifting into something you couldn't quite read. "Let me guess," you said. "They're 'on their way'?"

"Apparently there's a 'situation' at the library," he replied, making air quotes with his fingers.

"Of course there is." You slumped back against the couch. "They're not coming, are they?"

"Probably not," he admitted, and was it your imagination, or did he look almost... pleased about that?

"Wait," you said, frowning at your textbook, where the words had started to blur together after an hour of reading. "What's this part about instrumental rationality? I keep getting it mixed up with the other types." You chewed on your pencil, a nervous habit you'd never managed to break.

Cregan shifted closer on the couch – you'd both migrated there to share the coffee table space – and leaned in to look at where you were pointing. Your knees brushed, and neither of you moved away. The warmth of the contact made it harder to focus on the words in front of you.

"That's the one about achieving specific goals," he explained, his voice softer now that he was closer. "It's about choosing the most efficient means to an end. Like..." He paused, thinking. "Like when someone chooses their actions based purely on what will get them the best outcome."

You nodded, still worrying the pencil between your teeth. "So if I'm studying just to get a good grade rather than because I want to learn..."

"Exactly," he said, and you noticed his eyes flick down to your mouth before quickly returning to the textbook. "Or choosing a major based on job prospects rather than personal interest."

"God, you're really smart," you blurted out before you could stop yourself, immediately feeling heat rush to your face. "Like, really, really smart. How do you just... know all this stuff? It's like you don't even need to study, it's all just there in your head."

A flush crept up his neck, and he ducked his head slightly, messing with the corner of his notebook. "I just... read a lot," he said, running a hand through his hair in what you were starting to recognize as a nervous gesture. "You're probably smarter than me."

You let out a surprised laugh. "That's literally the biggest lie you've ever told, and we both know it." You gestured at your highlight-covered notes, which looked like a rainbow had exploded across them. "I'm pretty sure my brain looks like this on the inside. Just... chaos and color-coding."

"That's not–" he started, then seemed to catch himself. His expression grew serious. "Different people learn differently. It doesn't make you any less intelligent. Besides," his lips quirked up slightly, "your way seems more interesting than mine."

"Oh yeah?" you challenged, trying to ignore how his knee was still pressed against yours. "What's so interesting about my highlight explosion method?"

He actually smiled then, reaching over to tap one of your particularly colorful pages. "Well, for one thing, I'm genuinely curious about your highlighting system. Pink for important things, you said?"

"Don't make fun of my system," you groaned, but you were smiling too.

"I'm not," he insisted, and his voice had that warm undertone that you'd only heard him use with Jace and Sara before. "I'm serious. At least your notes have personality. Mine are just..."

"Perfect?" you supplied.

He huffed a laugh. "Boring."

"Are you kidding? Your notes are like... they're like art. Look at these diagrams!" You pointed to one of his careful illustrations. "Meanwhile, my attempts at drawing charts look like they were done by a drunk toddler."

"I like your charts," he said quietly, and something in his tone made you look up at him. He was closer than you'd realized, still leaning in to look at your notes. "They're... creative."

You were suddenly very aware of how little space there was between you, how his shoulder was almost brushing yours, how his knee was still pressed against yours. "Creative is a nice way of saying messy," you managed to say.

"No, I mean it. Look–" He started to say something else, but the sound of keys jingling at the door cut him off.

There was a scraping sound, followed by a quiet curse from what sounded like Jace, then more jingling. The key seemed to miss the lock at least three times before the door finally swung open.

"–telling you, they're probably just–" Sara's whispered voice drifted in, cutting off abruptly as she and Jace entered the apartment. They both stood in the doorway, staring at you and Cregan on the couch with your books spread out between you.

Sara's expression shifted from anticipation to something like disappointment, while Jace's eyebrows shot up comically high. "Have you two actually been studying this whole time?" Jace asked, sounding almost accusatory.

You and Cregan exchanged a confused look. "Why wouldn't we be?" you both asked simultaneously, then glanced at each other in surprise.

"No reason!" Sara said quickly, too quickly. "We just thought... I mean, we were gone so long, and you were alone, and..."

"That we'd what?" you prompted, narrowing your eyes at them. "Start a paper airplane competition with our notes?"

"Nothing!" Sara jumped in. "Nothing at all. Just... surprised by all the... studying."

"I mean, that paper plane competition would have been more interesting than Weber," Jace muttered, earning an elbow in the ribs from Sara.

You noticed Cregan shifting slightly beside you, putting a bit more space between your knees, and immediately missed the warmth. "We're in a study group," he said flatly, but there was a tension in his voice that hadn't been there before. "What else would we be doing?"

Sara and Jace exchanged another one of their looks – the kind that made you want to throw your thoroughly chewed pencil at them. "Right," Sara said, dragging out the word. "The study group. Anyway! What did we miss?"

"Weber's theory of rationalization," you said, trying to ignore the knowing smirks they were both wearing. "Which you'd know if you'd actually been at the library like you said."

"We were!" Jace protested, but his guilty expression said otherwise. "There was a whole... thing. With books. And... shelves. Very serious library emergency."

"Very convincing," Cregan muttered, just loud enough for you to hear. You bit back a smile, catching his eye for a moment before quickly looking away.

"Well," Sara declared, dropping into an armchair with far too much enthusiasm, "we're here now. So, instrumental rationality? Anyone? Bueller?"

You groaned, slumping back against the couch. "We literally just went over that."

"Perfect timing then," Jace grinned, sprawling across the other chair. "You can explain it to us. Since you two have been studying so diligently and all."

"Unlike some people," Cregan added dryly, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing at Jace's offended expression.

"I've been studying!" Jace protested. "Just... you know, in my own way."

"Is that what you call sleeping with your textbook under your pillow?" Cregan asked, and this time you couldn't hold back your laugh.

As you launched into an explanation of Weber's theories, stumbling only slightly over the terms, you couldn't help but notice how Cregan had angled himself slightly toward you, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he added clarifying points to your explanation. And if Sara and Jace kept exchanging those irritating knowing looks, well, you decided to ignore them.

Even if you had a sneaking suspicion they might be right about... whatever it was they thought they were seeing.

The study session had stretched into hours, and despite the caffeine you'd consumed, your brain had begun to feel like mush. The terms Sara was repeating, again and again, had started to blur together, an endless loop of rationality and theory that felt more like noise than knowledge. You let your eyes drift shut for a moment, only to open them again when Jace shifted beside you, his legs still sprawled lazily across your lap.

He was mindlessly tracing patterns on the edge of his notebook, his gaze elsewhere, his usual energy faded into something more comfortable. His quiet presence was oddly soothing, though you weren’t sure if it was the weight of his legs or the fact that everything about him seemed to take on a hazy calm in this late hour. You rubbed your temples, trying to clear the fog.

Cregan, who had been quietly following the discussion, had noticed the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your attention drifted. He shifted in his seat across from you, catching your tired gaze.

“How about we take a break?” he suggested, his voice steady but with a hint of warmth you didn’t expect. “Maybe... get some food? Clear our heads a bit?”

Sara perked up at the mention of food, but Jace, still lounging with his legs across your lap, groaned dramatically. “Food sounds like a good idea,” he agreed, though the way he shifted only slightly suggested he wasn’t keen on moving.

“You’re so lazy,” Sara teased him, but it was clear she was ready to indulge.

Cregan shot you an amused look as he leaned forward, hands on his knees. “I’ll order, if you guys want.”

Your stomach had been protesting the lack of proper meals for hours, the idea of food suddenly making your body feel much more alive. "Honestly, I’m starving," you admitted, leaning back into the couch and letting Jace’s legs settle heavier over yours, the comfortable weight of them anchoring you.

Cregan had already moved toward the phone, his tall form cutting through the space between the couch and the table with purposeful strides. 

He’d barely looked at the screen when he muttered about getting “a little bit of everything”, a casual declaration that spoke volumes about his no-nonsense approach to food. You couldn’t help but appreciate the simplicity of it all; he’d just order it all. No one would be left hungry.

You had almost forgotten about Jace, whose legs were still comfortably sprawled across your lap. But now, as he shifted and poked at your side, you found his eyes focused on you, bright with mischief.

“Hey,” he said, the playful note in his voice unmistakable. “Can you come with me to get a glass of water?”

You blinked at him, incredulous. “The kitchen’s, like, five feet away,” you replied, gesturing toward the open space across the room. "You're a big boy. You can go on your own."

“I could really use your help."

You groaned, the weariness in your bones making it hard to argue. “You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, but already, you were pushing yourself off the couch, your hand lightly brushing against his legs as you stood. Jace’s grin widened as you walked toward the kitchen, clearly pleased with himself for getting you to move.

Behind you, Sara was still mumbling terms under her breath, her brother’s voice fading into the background as he handled the phone call. The steady murmur of the conversation didn’t even register in your mind; your focus was solely on Jace, who was trailing behind you with a slow, exaggerated shuffle.

As you entered the kitchen, you turned to face him, expecting him to move toward the cabinet or the tap for a glass. But instead, he simply stood there, looking around aimlessly, as if the very task of getting water had suddenly become an unsolvable puzzle.

You sighed, crossing your arms. “Well? What’s the holdup?”

He glanced back at you, his expression one of mock innocence.

"So..." Jace dragged out the word, leaning against the counter with exaggerated casualness. "You and Cregan..."

"Were studying," you finished flatly, already knowing where this was going. "Like we're supposed to be doing."

"Right, right. Just studying." He wiggled his eyebrows. "For two whole hours. Alone. And you didn't think about doing... anything else?"

Heat crept up your neck. "Jace!"

"What?" He held up his hands defensively, but his grin remained firmly in place. "I'm just saying, two people, empty apartment, plenty of time..."

"To study Weber's theories of social organization," you cut in, though you could feel your face burning. "Which is exactly what we did."

"Boring," he sang under his breath, then dodged the dish towel you threw at him. "Come on, you can't tell me you weren't even a little tempted to, I don't know, actually talk to him? About something other than dead sociologists?"

You busied yourself getting a glass from the cabinet, even though Jace still hadn't asked for water. "Why would I? He barely tolerates me as it is."

"What?" Jace's playful demeanor shifted into genuine confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on," you sighed, setting the glass down maybe a bit too forcefully. "This is literally the most he's ever spoken to me, and it's only because Sara forced him into this study group thing. He probably thinks I'm an idiot with my rainbow notes and constant questions."

Jace stared at you for a long moment, then burst out laughing. "Oh my god, you're actually serious."

"Keep your voice down!" you hissed, glancing toward the living room where you could still hear Cregan on the phone with the takeout place.

"Sorry, sorry," Jace wheezed, not looking sorry at all. "It's just... you think he finds you uninteresting? You?"

"Have you not noticed how he barely speaks to me? How he's always perfectly polite but never actually..." you waved your hands vaguely, "engages? Meanwhile, he talks to you and Sara like it's the easiest thing in the world."

"Because we've known him forever," Jace said, like it was obvious. "Trust me, he was way worse with us at first. It took me months to get more than three words out of him when we first met."

"That's different," you insisted, though something uncertain flickered in your chest. "You're his best friend, and Sara's his sister."

"And you're..." Jace trailed off, that irritating knowing look back on his face.

"His unwilling study partner," you finished. "Who he's stuck with because you and Sara keep abandoning us."

"Speaking of which," he grinned, "notice how he hasn't complained about that? Not even once?"

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. Come to think of it, Cregan hadn't seemed particularly bothered by Sara and Jace's constant absences. If anything, he'd been... well, you weren't sure what he'd been, but 'annoyed' definitely wasn't it.

"That doesn't mean anything," you said finally, but your voice lacked conviction.

"Sure it doesn't." Jace pushed off from the counter, that insufferable grin still in place. "Just like it doesn't mean anything that he keeps looking over here right now, probably wondering what we're talking about."

"He is not–" you started to say, but when you glanced toward the living room, you caught Cregan quickly looking away, his phone call apparently finished. Something fluttered in your stomach.

"Told you," Jace sang quietly. Then his voice dropped lower, more serious. "Look, I know Cregan. He's... he's testing the waters. Always has been, with you."

You frowned, fidgeting with the empty glass. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what's funny?" Jace leaned in conspiratorially, a small smile playing at his lips. "The first time you came over to hang out with me and Sara, like what, two years go? He came home, saw you sitting on the couch, and later told Sara you were really pretty." He paused, watching your reaction. "Never mentioned it again, of course. Classic Cregan. But I bet he still thinks so."

Your face felt like it was on fire. "You're making that up."

"Am I?" Jace raised an eyebrow. "Sara was so excited about it, she called me immediately. But then he just... clammed up. Wouldn't talk about you at all. Which, by the way, is exactly what he does when he's trying really hard not to show interest in something."

"That's..." you struggled to find words, your mind stuck on the idea that Cregan had ever thought about you that way. "That was years ago. He's barely spoken to me since then."

"Yeah, because he's an idiot who overthinks everything," Jace rolled his eyes. "Trust me, if he actually found you uninteresting, he definitely wouldn't have cleaned the entire apartment just because you were coming over to study."

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again as you remembered how suspiciously tidy the living room had been. "He said he just tidied up a bit."

"A bit?" Jace snorted. "He stress-cleaned for like two hours this morning. I found him organizing the spice rack alphabetically. We don't even cook!"

From the living room, you heard Cregan's voice: "Food's on the way. Everything okay in there?"

"Fine!" you called back, your voice higher than usual. "Just... getting Jace his water."

"Right," Jace muttered, smirking. "Just... think about it, okay? And maybe cut him some slack."

You grabbed the glass you'd taken out, filled it quickly, trying to process everything Jace had just told you. When you handed it to him back in the living room, he just smirked and set it aside without taking a single sip.

As you settled back onto the couch, you couldn't help but glance at Cregan. He was looking down at his phone, but there was a slight flush to his cheeks that hadn't been there before. You wondered if he'd heard any of your conversation, if he had any idea that Jace had just upended everything you thought you knew about how he saw you.

When he looked up and caught your eye, offering that small, almost shy smile, you felt your heart skip. Maybe Jace was right. Maybe you'd been reading this all wrong.

Halfway through your dinner, the room had settled into a comfortable sprawl. Shoes had been kicked off long ago, the air warm with the scent of food and the quiet hum of the television as Jace scrolled through endless movie options. Sara was curled up on the oversized bean bag Jace had dragged out from his (not so dirty) room, cross-legged and picking at her food between halfhearted comments about his choices. 

You had swapped your stiff button-up for one of Jace’s shirts, soft and worn, draping over your frame as you lounged against the armrest of the couch, knees pulled up. Jace sat on the floor beside you, absentmindedly leaning into the space near your legs as he continued his aimless search.

"How about The Matrix?" Jace called out from his spot on the floor, scrolling endlessly through Netflix as he had been for the past ten minutes.

"No," Cregan replied without looking up from his food.

"Lord of the Rings?"

"We're not starting a three-hour movie at this time of night."

"Fine. Ocean's Eleven?"

"No."

You pushed your noodles around with your chopsticks, barely registering their back-and-forth. Your mind was stuck in a loop, replaying your conversation with Jace in the kitchen. The food in your stomach felt heavy, but you weren't sure if it was from eating too quickly or from the weight of this new information that you had no idea what to do with.

He'd found you pretty. Two years ago, maybe, but still. Cregan Stark, who always seemed so perfectly put together, so distant, had actually noticed you before you'd even properly met. And what were you supposed to do with that knowledge? It's not like you could just bring it up casually over takeout. 'Hey, heard you thought I was pretty ages ago, still think so?'

You snuck a glance at him from the corner of your eye. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his takeout container balanced carefully on his knee as he systematically shot down every one of Jace's movie suggestions. The sleeves of his sweater were pushed up to his elbows, and you noticed how his forearms tensed slightly every time he reached for his drink. It really didn't help that he was unfairly attractive, all quiet intensity and careful movements.

"Indiana Jones?" Jace's voice cut through your thoughts.

"No."

"You're impossible," Jace groaned.

Sara caught your eye from across the room and smiled knowingly, making you wonder just how obvious your staring had been. What were they playing at, really? 

You'd lost count of how many times you'd asked Sara if her brother actually liked you – as a person, as a friend, as anything. "Of course he likes you!" she'd always insist. "He's just quiet at first!" But you'd never quite believed her, not when he seemed so much more animated with everyone else.

But now... now Jace had thrown everything into question. If what he said was true, if Cregan really had been interested enough to comment on you that first time... The thought made your stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the food.

"Inception?" Jace tried again.

"Jace."

"What? It's perfect! It's about complex theories and stuff. Very educational."

You caught yourself smiling at their bickering, only to look up and find Cregan watching you with that same unreadable expression. He quickly looked back to his food. 

You felt heat creeping up your neck. What did they expect you to do? Make the first move? You barely knew him, really knew him, beyond his perfect notes and quiet presence. 

"Fast and Furious?" Jace's voice broke through your thoughts again.

"I'm going to throw something at you," Cregan warned, but there was no real heat in his voice.

You bit back a smile, trying to focus on your food instead of the way Cregan's shoulder brushed against your leg when he reached for the soy sauce. Friends, you told yourself firmly. If anything was going to change, it would have to start there. But as you watched him hide another smile behind his hand at Jace's increasingly ridiculous movie suggestions, you couldn't help but wonder if that would be enough.

What had Jace expected you to do with that information? He found you pretty. The words echoed in your mind, each repetition adding weight. What were you supposed to do with that? Did Jace and Sara want you to do something with it? Ask Cregan out? Were they trying to set you up? Or was the plan simply to get you to talk to him more, be friends, maybe?

It made sense, right? Friends first. You weren’t exactly convinced when Sara told you time and again that Cregan was just quiet at first. But now, after talking to Jace, the whole thing felt confusing. Were you reading into things? Maybe it was easier to believe Cregan just didn’t like you at all during these past two years, rather than accept that he hadn’t been comfortable enough to show it.

He was so attractive. Very attractive. There was no denying it. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck as you watched him out of the corner of your eye. His quiet confidence, the way he carried himself… It made your stomach flutter in a way you couldn't quite explain.

You saw him shift on the couch, making himself more comfortable. He set down his now-empty takeout container and leaned back, looking like he had no interest in eating anymore. 

Still, he kept rejecting every single one of Jace’s movie suggestions, each one more absurd than the last. Sara, sensing the impasse, jumped in with her usual exasperated tone, urging them to just pick something already.

You caught Cregan’s profile as he reclined, one hand casually brushing his hair back, and the heat to your face increased. Your knees were drawn up to your chest, hoping they’d hide the way your cheeks had flushed. Your gaze flickered between the two of them, trying not to be too obvious as you studied him. 

He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge it.

***

The next few days passed in a blur of highlighted notes and carefully maintained distance. Where there had been moments of warmth during that first evening in Cregan's apartment, now there was only polite efficiency. He'd explain concepts clearly when asked, his voice steady and professional, but gone were the small smiles, the quiet jokes, the moments where he seemed to let his guard down.

You tried to match his businesslike approach, taking careful notes and keeping your questions relevant and concise. But the silence between explanations felt heavy, loaded with things unsaid. You couldn't help but wonder if you'd imagined the connection from before, if Jace had been wrong about everything.

"So," Sara announced one afternoon, dropping into her usual seat at the library with suspicious enthusiasm. "I've been thinking."

"Dangerous," you muttered, not looking up from your notes.

"About our study strategy," she continued, ignoring your comment. "I think we should try something new."

That made you look up. Cregan, who had been quietly reviewing his own notes across the table, paused too, his pen hovering over the page.

"What kind of something?" you asked warily.

"Well," Sara drew out the word, exchanging a quick glance with Jace. "I was thinking we might be more effective if we split into pairs. You know, for more focused discussion."

You felt your stomach drop. "Pairs?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded, trying and failing to look casual. "Like, maybe Jace and I could work on the historical context stuff, and you two could focus on the theoretical frameworks?"

"That... doesn't make any sense," you said slowly. "You're better at theory than Jace is."

"Hey!" Jace protested, then paused. "No, wait, that's fair."

"It's not about who's better at what," Sara insisted. "It's about... different learning styles. Fresh perspectives. Right, Cregan?"

Cregan looked up from his notes, his expression carefully neutral. "If you think it would help," he said evenly, and something in your chest tightened at his apparent indifference.

"Great!" Sara beamed, already gathering her things. "Then it's settled. Jace and I will go to the coffee shop downstairs, and you two can stay here."

"Wait, now?" you asked, but they were already standing.

"No time like the present!" Jace grinned, shouldering his bag. "Have fun with..." he gestured vaguely at the textbooks, "all that."

They were gone before you could protest further, leaving you alone with Cregan and the uncomfortable silence that seemed to follow you lately. You stared at your notes, the highlighted words blurring together as you tried to think of something to say.

"We don't have to do this," Cregan said quietly, making you look up. "If you'd rather study alone–"

"No!" you said quickly, then winced at how eager it sounded. "I mean, no, it's fine. Unless you'd rather..."

"It's fine," he echoed, but you couldn't read his expression.

The silence stretched between you, broken only by the soft sound of pages turning and pens scratching against paper. You tried to focus on your reading, but your mind kept drifting to that evening in his apartment, to Jace's words in the kitchen. Had you really misread everything so badly?

"That diagram," Cregan's voice startled you out of your thoughts. "It's wrong."

You looked down at the messy chart you'd been attempting to draw. "Oh. Right. Sorry, I'm a bit..." you trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

He hesitated, then shifted his chair closer, not quite touching but near enough that you could smell his cologne. "Here," he said softly, reaching for your pen. "May I?"

You nodded, trying to ignore how your heart sped up as his fingers brushed yours when he took the pen. He began redrawing the diagram, his lines neat and precise where yours had been chaotic.

"The relationship between these concepts," he explained, his voice low and close to your ear, "it's more circular than linear. See?"

You nodded again, though you were having trouble focusing on the diagram when he was this close, when you could see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks as he looked down at the page.

"Does that make sense?" he asked, glancing at you, and for a moment, you caught something in his expression – uncertainty, maybe, or something else you couldn't quite name.

"Yeah," you managed, even as your mind raced with questions that had nothing to do with social theory. "Thanks."

He nodded, starting to pull back, but then he paused. "I'm not..." he began, then stopped, frowning slightly. "I'm not very good at this."

"The diagram looks pretty good to me," you said, trying for lightness.

"Not that," he said quietly, still frowning at the page. "This. Studying with... people."

"Oh." You weren't sure what to say to that. "You seem pretty good at it to me. Very... efficient."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh, but it held no humor. "Efficient," he repeated, like the word tasted bitter. "Right."

Before you could ask what he meant by that, he was already pulling away, the careful distance settling back into place like a wall between you. You watched as he returned to his own notes, his posture rigid, and wondered if you'd ever figure out how to bridge that gap.

Or if he even wanted you to try.

The afternoon light shifted through the library windows, casting long shadows across your textbooks. You'd been staring at the same paragraph for what felt like hours, the words swimming before your eyes. Cregan hadn't spoken since his attempt at fixing your diagram, and the silence was starting to feel suffocating.

"Maybe we should take a break," you suggested finally, your voice sounding too loud in the quiet space.

Cregan looked up, seeming almost startled, as if he'd forgotten you were there. "Oh. Yes, if you want."

You stretched, trying to work out the stiffness in your shoulders. "I think my brain is officially full. If I try to memorize one more theory, it might actually explode."

Something flickered across his face – amusement, maybe? – before it disappeared behind his usual mask of neutrality.

The next week, you arrived at the library to find a coffee cup waiting at your usual spot. Steam curled from the lid, and when you picked it up, the scent of vanilla and caramel made your stomach flutter.

"Is this…” you started, looking up to find Cregan already seated, seemingly absorbed in his textbook.

"You always order the same thing," he said without looking up, but you caught the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth.

You took a sip – perfect. Just the right amount of sweetness, exactly how you liked it. "You noticed?"

He shrugged, but there was a faint pink tinge to his ears. "It's not complicated."

But it was, wasn't it? It was complicated in all the ways that mattered – in the way he must have arrived early to get it, in the way he'd paid attention to your order all those times at the coffee shop, in the way this small gesture made your heart skip.

It became a routine after that. Every session, a coffee would be waiting, and every time you'd try not to read too much into it. But you couldn't help noticing how he'd glance at you when you took that first sip, as if checking to make sure it was right.

The silences changed too. Where they'd once been heavy with uncertainty, they grew comfortable, like a shared secret. You found yourself testing the waters, making quiet comments just to see if you could coax out one of his rare smiles.

"Weber probably needed a coffee this strong to write all this," you muttered one afternoon, earning a soft huff of amusement from across the table.

"Two sugars might have improved his view on bureaucracy," he replied, so deadpan that it took you a moment to realize he was joking back.

Weeks passed, and you fell into an easy rhythm. You learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression – the slight furrow between his brows when he was deep in thought, the way his eyes would soften when you finally understood a difficult concept.

He started anticipating your questions, sliding his perfectly organized notes toward you before you could even ask. Sometimes his fingers would brush yours in the exchange, and you'd both pretend not to notice the lingering warmth.

"Here," he'd say quietly, already pointing to the relevant section. "This connects to what you were asking about earlier."

You found yourself watching him between assignments, studying the way he'd absently run a hand through his hair when concentrating, how he'd tap his pen against his notebook in a specific rhythm when working through a complex idea. The way his shoulders would relax, just slightly, when you settled into your seat beside him.

One afternoon, you caught him watching you back. He didn't look away immediately like he used to, instead holding your gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Something warm unfurled in your chest at the sight.

"What?" you asked softly, not wanting to break whatever spell had fallen over the moment.

"Nothing," he said, but his voice had that gentle quality it got sometimes, the one that made you want to lean in closer. "Just... thinking."

"About Weber?" you teased, trying to ignore how your pulse quickened when his lips curved into a small smile.

"Not exactly."

He didn't elaborate, turning back to his notes, but something had shifted. The space between you felt charged, like the air before a storm. You found yourself hyperaware of every movement – the way his arm would brush yours when he reached for his coffee, how his knee would sometimes rest against yours under the table.

You started bringing him coffee too, placing it beside his notebook without comment. The first time you did, he stared at it for a long moment before looking up at you with an expression that made your breath catch.

"Black, two sugars," you said, echoing his words from weeks ago. "You always order the same thing."

His smile then was different – softer, more open than you'd ever seen. "Thank you," he said quietly, and you knew he meant for more than just the coffee.

The routine of studying together became something you looked forward to, not just for the help with coursework but for these small moments of connection. The way he'd lean in close to explain a concept, his voice low and just for you. How he'd sometimes forget himself and laugh at your terrible jokes, the sound warming you from the inside out.

And if you spent more time watching the way his hands moved across the page than actually reading, well... that was just part of the learning process, right?

The evening air had turned cool by the time you both packed up your things. The library had emptied out, leaving just the quiet murmur of the city outside to fill the space. You rubbed your eyes, stifling a yawn as you pushed your textbooks into your bag. The long study session had worn you out more than you'd expected, but you'd also made real progress. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so focused.

Cregan had gathered his things too, and for a moment, he just stood there, looking at you with that quiet intensity you had grown used to over the past weeks. Without a word, he slid his jacket from the back of his chair and held it out toward you.

"You look cold," he muttered, his voice low and a little rough, like he wasn't used to saying things like that. "Just for a bit. You can give it back tomorrow."

You glanced up at him, momentarily taken aback by the offer. But the warmth of the jacket, its familiar scent of pine and something crisp, was inviting. You hadn't realized how much the chill had crept into the air until now.

"Thanks," you said quietly, slipping your arms into the sleeves. The soft fabric immediately enveloped you, and you couldn’t help but notice how it smelled like him – comforting and calming, but also... a little more than that. 

The walk back to your place was peaceful. The streets were mostly empty, the glow from the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. The night felt still, like the world had paused just for you two.

"How are you feeling about everything?" Cregan asked, his voice breaking the silence as you walked side by side. There was no urgency in his tone, just a quiet curiosity, like he genuinely wanted to know.

You considered the question for a moment, taking in the city around you. It wasn’t just the study sessions that had shifted over the past few weeks, it was the way things felt between you both. The casual touches. The quiet moments. The way he noticed things about you before you even said anything.

"It's... been good," you said finally, your voice softer than usual. "Better than I expected."

He nodded, his eyes on the ground ahead. "I’m glad."

For a while, there was only the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet night. You tried not to focus too much on the fact that his jacket felt like a shield around you, or how it made your chest feel fuller with every step.

Then, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, Cregan glanced at you again. His gaze lingered just a moment too long, before he quickly looked away, but not before you saw the faint flush creeping up his neck.

"You're not–" he started, then trailed off, shaking his head slightly like he'd lost the thread of his thought.

"Not what?" you prompted, a playful edge to your voice, hoping to keep things light.

He hesitated again, but then spoke, his voice quieter now. "Not… sick of me yet?"

You stopped in your tracks for a moment, staring up at him. But before you could respond, he let out a soft chuckle, clearly trying to brush it off. "Never mind. That sounded dumb."

"No," you said quickly, stepping a little closer to him. "No, it didn’t."

He stopped walking too, his eyes catching yours. There was a moment, just a fleeting second, where you both stood there, in the middle of the empty street, feeling the weight of something unspoken between you.

"I don't think I could get sick of you," you added softly, your words surprising both of you.

He gave you a small, surprised smile, his lips barely curling upward, but there was warmth in his expression, something that had been absent the first time you'd met him. "Good to know.”

"What do you mean by that?" you asked, tugging his jacket closer around you. The night air had grown cooler, but that wasn't the only reason you felt a slight shiver run through you.

Cregan ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you'd come to recognize as a sign of nervousness. "It's just... you're different with them. With Jace and Sara." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "More yourself, I guess. More... open."

"Oh." You let out a soft laugh, though it came out a bit shakier than intended. "That's because they're easy to talk to. You're..." You trailed off, suddenly very aware of how close you were standing.

"I'm what?" His voice was quiet, curious.

You took a deep breath, watching your shoes scuff against the pavement. "Intimidating," you admitted finally. "You're so... I mean, you understand everything instantly in class, and your notes are always perfect, and sometimes I feel like I'm just..." You gestured vaguely with one hand. "Fumbling around in the dark while you've got it all figured out."

He was quiet for so long that you had to look up at him. When you did, you found him staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read – something between surprise and... was that amusement?

"You think I'm intimidating?" He let out a low laugh, the sound warming the cool night air. "That's... that's actually kind of funny."

"Why is that funny?"

"Because I've spent the last few weeks trying to figure out how to talk to you without sounding like an idiot." He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile playing at his lips. "You're always so quick with words, always know exactly what to say to make everyone laugh. And I'm..."

"Brilliant?" you offered, then immediately felt your cheeks warm.

His eyes snapped to yours, that hint of pink returning to his ears. "I'm really not," he said softly. "I just... study a lot. It's easier than..." He gestured between you two. "This."

"This?"

"Talking. Being... normal." He let out a breath that might have been another laugh. "Ask Jace, I'm terrible at it. Why do you think he does most of the talking when we're together?"

You couldn't help but smile at that. "I always thought you just preferred talking to him."

"I prefer..." he started, then stopped himself, looking away. "It's not that. I just... don't always know what to say. Especially around..." His voice got quieter. "Around you."

The admission hung in the air between you, making your heart beat a little faster. You were suddenly very aware of how alone you were on the street, how the streetlights cast soft shadows across his face, how his jacket still wrapped around you felt like a embrace.

"Well," you said, trying to keep your voice light despite the flutter in your stomach, "you seem to be doing okay right now."

He looked back at you, and this time his smile was different – slower, warmer. "Yeah," he said softly. "I guess I am."

You walked in comfortable silence for a few more steps before you couldn't help adding, "Though I still think you're brilliant. Even if you try to deny it."

He ducked his head, but not before you caught his smile widening. "And I still think you're easier to talk to than you realize."

"I don't know about that," you said, laughing softly. "The other day I tried to tell my neighbor her new haircut looked nice and somehow ended up in a twenty-minute conversation about her cat's dietary restrictions."

Cregan's quiet laugh made your chest feel warm. "How does that even happen?"

"I wish I knew. One minute I was complimenting her bangs, the next I knew everything about Mr. Whiskers' gluten sensitivity." You shook your head, remembering the increasingly awkward interaction. "I still can't look her in the eye."

His shoulder brushed against yours as he walked, and you realized you'd gradually drifted closer together. The street was wide enough for several people to walk side by side, yet here you were, barely inches apart. You thought about moving over, giving him more space, but then his pinky finger grazed your hand, and the thought evaporated.

"At least you talk to your neighbors," he said, his voice softer now. "I've lived in my apartment for eight months, and I still don't know their names. The lady next door just calls me 'dear' and leaves cookies at my doorstep sometimes."

"Free cookies sound nice," you said, very aware of how his hand kept brushing against yours with each step.

"They are. Though I'm slightly worried she thinks I'm not eating enough. The notes she leaves keep getting more concerned." His lips twitched. "Last week she wrote 'growing boys need their strength' on the container. I'm twenty-two."

You couldn't help but laugh at that, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet street. "That's adorable. She's adopted you."

"Yeah, well..." He ran his free hand through his hair, but you caught his smile. "Sara says I give off 'needs to be taken care of' energy."

"Do you?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you felt your cheeks warm.

He glanced at you then, and something in his expression made your breath catch. "I don't know. Do I?"

Your fingers brushed again, and this time, neither of you pulled away immediately. The contact was feather-light, barely there, but it sent tingles up your arm. You were about to respond when you realized you'd reached your building.

"This is me," you said reluctantly, stopping at the bottom of the steps. The porch light cast a warm glow around you both, and you couldn't help but notice how it caught in his eyes, making them look softer than usual.

"Right," he said, but didn't move away. His pinky was still barely touching yours, and you wondered if he could feel how your pulse had picked up. "I should..."

"Yeah," you agreed, though neither of you moved.

The night felt suspended around you, like time had slowed down just for this moment. A car passed in the distance, its headlights briefly illuminating his face, and you caught something in his expression that made your heart skip – a warmth, a hesitation, maybe even a hint of regret that the walk was over.

***

Days melted into weeks, and slowly, piece by piece, you began collecting little truths about Cregan Stark.

You learned that he always showed up exactly seven minutes early to everything – not five, not ten, but seven. When you teased him about it, he'd muttered something about traffic patterns and optimal timing that made you hide your smile behind your coffee cup.

You discovered that when he was deep in thought, he'd tap his fingers against the table in a specific rhythm – index, middle, ring, pause, repeat. Sometimes you'd catch yourself counting the beats, wondering what was running through his mind.

The way his jaw would clench slightly when he was stressed but trying not to show it. How he'd roll his shoulders back when he was tired, a gesture so subtle you wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't spent so many hours sitting beside him. The soft exhale he'd make when he finally solved a problem that had been bothering him.

There were other things too – things that made your heart do odd little flips in your chest. Like how he'd lean in close when explaining something, his voice dropping to almost a whisper even though you were the only ones there. His fingers would brush against yours as he pointed something out, lingering just a moment too long to be accidental. In those moments, time seemed to slow down, and you'd find yourself holding your breath, wondering if he could feel the electricity crackling between you.

You learned that he had a dry sense of humor that came out in unexpected moments. That he could deliver the most ridiculous puns with a completely straight face, only the slight crinkle around his eyes giving him away. That he'd fight a smile when you caught on, but his eyes would dance with amusement.

Some days, you'd catch him watching you when he thought you weren't looking. His gaze would be soft, contemplative, making your skin tingle with awareness. But every time you'd look up, he'd quickly turn away, that familiar pink tinge creeping up his ears.

You noticed how his whole demeanor would shift when you walked in, subtle but unmistakable – his shoulders would relax, his expression would soften, and sometimes, if you were lucky, you'd catch the ghost of a smile playing at his lips before he could hide it.

There were moments when he'd get so caught up in explaining something he was passionate about, his usual reserve would fall away completely. His hands would move animatedly, his eyes would light up, and you'd find yourself more fascinated by his enthusiasm than whatever he was actually talking about.

And sometimes, in quiet moments when the library was nearly empty and the evening light was turning golden, he'd look at you in a way that made your breath catch. Like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve, or maybe something he wanted to memorize. In those moments, the thought would creep in, unbidden but persistent – maybe, just maybe, he felt this too. This growing warmth, this magnetic pull, this feeling that had been building between you like a slow-burning flame.

But then he'd look away, or someone would walk by, or reality would intrude in some other way, and you'd tell yourself you were reading too much into things. That you were seeing what you wanted to see in those lingering touches and soft glances.

Still, you couldn't help but notice how he'd position himself slightly closer to you each day, how his hand would find excuses to brush against yours, how his voice would take on that gentle quality that seemed reserved just for you. And in those moments, hope would flutter in your chest, persistent and warm, refusing to be ignored.

You gathered these observations like precious stones, collecting them carefully, turning them over in your mind when you were alone. Each one was a piece of him, freely given but carefully treasured. And if sometimes you caught yourself daydreaming about what it might mean – well, that was just another secret to keep, tucked away with all the others.

"Wait, wait–" you said through barely contained laughter, "you actually convinced Jace that pigeons were government spies?"

Cregan's eyes crinkled at the corners as he tried to maintain his serious expression. "He spent three weeks avoiding eye contact with every pigeon he saw. Sara finally had to tell him the truth because he kept diving into bushes whenever they flew overhead."

You buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. The library's quiet atmosphere was long forgotten, your books pushed aside in favor of sharing stories. "That's terrible. You're terrible."

"He deserved it," Cregan said, but his voice was warm with affection. "He'd just spent a month convincing me that my phone was automatically translating everything into English and I was actually speaking fluent Portuguese without realizing it."

"How did he even–"

"Don't ask. It involved a very elaborate setup with his cousin who actually speaks Portuguese." He shook his head, but his smile was fond. "Jace can be... creative when he commits to something."

You propped your chin on your hand, studying him. These moments had become more frequent lately – times when his guard would drop completely, and you'd get to see the playful side of him that most people missed. "You three must have had an interesting childhood."

"Interesting is one word for it." His expression softened with nostalgia. "Sara used to organize these elaborate treasure hunts around the house. She'd spend hours making these ridiculous clues, and then get mad when Jace and I solved them too quickly." He paused, then added quietly, "It helped, you know. When I first moved in with Dad and Sara's mom. Made it feel less..."

"Overwhelming?" you offered gently when he trailed off.

He nodded, absently fiddling with his pen. "Yeah. They just... included me. No questions asked. Even when I was this awkward kid who barely talked and spent most of his time reading in corners."

"Some things never change," you teased, nudging his foot under the table.

His answering smile was warm enough to make your heart skip. "I talk more now."

"True. Now you use whole sentences instead of just grunting."

"I never grunted," he protested, but his eyes were dancing with amusement.

"Oh really? What about that first week when I asked to borrow your notes? Pretty sure all I got was 'hmph' and a nod."

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "That wasn't... I was just..."

"Just what?"

"Nervous," he admitted quietly, meeting your eyes. "You make me nervous sometimes."

The confession hung in the air between you, making your pulse quicken. Before you could respond, a notification chimed on your phone – Sara asking if you wanted to grab dinner later.

"Oh," you said, glancing at the time. "We've been here for four hours."

"Really?" Cregan looked genuinely surprised, like he hadn't noticed the time slipping away. "It doesn't feel that long."

"Time flies when you're sharing embarrassing stories about Jace," you said lightly, trying to ease back from the moment of vulnerability.

He laughed softly, but his eyes stayed on you, warm and intent. "Yeah," he agreed. "Must be that."

As you both started gathering your things, you couldn't help but marvel at how different these sessions felt now. The awkward silences had been replaced by comfortable conversation, shy glances had given way to shared jokes and easy laughter. Somehow, without you really noticing, Cregan Stark had become more than just your study partner or Sara's quiet brother.

He'd become your friend.

And if sometimes, in moments like earlier when he'd admitted to being nervous around you, you felt something flutter in your chest that felt bigger than friendship – well, that was probably just your imagination.

Probably.

***

When you arrived at Cregan's apartment that afternoon, your bag heavy with books, you found him already standing in the doorway with an oddly hopeful expression.

"Before you take those out," he said, nodding at your bag, "I was thinking..." He paused, running a hand through his hair in that way that always meant he was nervous about something. "Maybe we could watch a film instead? Just... take a break?"

The suggestion surprised you – Cregan suggesting something other than studying was rare enough to make you wonder if you'd heard him correctly. But there was something almost vulnerable in the way he was looking at you, like he half-expected you to say no.

"Yeah," you said, trying not to sound too eager. "Yeah, that sounds nice."

The relief that crossed his face made your heart flutter. His apartment was exactly what you'd expected – minimalist but comfortable, with books arranged neatly on shelves and a few framed photographs on the walls. The familiar scent of pine and something crisp – the same scent from his jacket that night – filled the space.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing to the couch while he moved to the kitchen. "Do you want anything to drink?"

You settled onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. "Whatever you're having is fine."

He returned with two mugs of tea, setting them carefully on the coffee table. When he sat down beside you, he was close enough that your knees almost touched. The couch wasn't small – there was plenty of room for him to sit further away – but he didn't, and neither of you mentioned it.

"So," you said, wrapping your hands around the warm mug, "what are we watching?"

He reached for the remote, and you noticed how his other hand rested on the couch between you, his pinky just barely touching your knee. "I thought maybe..." He scrolled through options on the screen, but you caught how his eyes kept darting to you, gauging your reaction. "There's this old film I think you'd like."

You turned to face him, your shoulder pressing against the back of the couch. "Cregan Stark, are you about to make me watch an art house film?"

His lips twitched. "Maybe." Then, more quietly, "Is that okay?"

"Depends. Are you going to explain all the metaphors to me?" You were teasing, but your breath caught when he leaned in slightly, his eyes meeting yours.

"Only if you want me to," he murmured, reaching for the remote. His arm brushed against yours as he settled back, and you noticed he didn't move it away.

The film started playing, but you found yourself more aware of how close he was sitting, how your shoulders pressed together, how his fingers occasionally brushed against your knee when he gestured while explaining something about the cinematography.

Halfway through, you shifted position, and somehow ended up with your head resting against his shoulder. You felt him tense for a moment, then slowly relax, his cheek coming to rest against your hair.

"This okay?" you whispered, not wanting to break the moment.

His response was to tentatively wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you slightly closer. He grunted softly, a noncommittal sound that made you smile against his shoulder.

"Oh, are we back to the grunt-only communication?" you teased quietly, feeling his chest shake with silent laughter. "And here I thought we'd made such progress."

He made another grunt, this one clearly exaggerated, and you could hear the smile in it. Your own lips curved upward – you'd learned to read his different sounds over the past weeks, could tell the difference between his annoyed grunts and his amused ones. This one was definitely amused, with maybe a touch of nervousness underneath.

"Very articulate," you whispered, shifting slightly to get more comfortable against him. "Truly, your way with words continues to astound me."

His fingers twitched against your shoulder, and when he spoke, his voice was low and a bit rough. "Didn't want to say the wrong thing."

Something warm bloomed in your chest at his admission. "Since when do you say the wrong thing?"

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb absently tracing circles on your shoulder. "Around you? More often than you'd think."

You wanted to look up at him then, but you were afraid moving might break whatever spell had fallen over you both. Instead, you stayed where you were, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, steady but just a little faster than normal.

On screen, the film continued playing, but neither of you seemed to be paying much attention anymore.

"I find that hard to believe," you murmured, finally gathering the courage to tilt your head up to look at him. "You always seem to know exactly what to say."

When your eyes met his, your breath caught in your throat. He was already looking down at you, his expression soft and open in a way you'd never seen before. The blue light from the TV played across his features, making his eyes look darker than usual.

"That's because," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "I spend about ten minutes planning every sentence before I say it to you."

You couldn't help but laugh softly at that. "Ten whole minutes? No wonder you're so quiet."

"Wouldn't want to mess it up." His eyes flickered down to your lips for just a moment before meeting your gaze again. The arm around your shoulders tightened slightly, drawing you impossibly closer.

"And what about now?" you asked, your heart thundering in your chest. "How long did you spend planning that one?"

He swallowed hard, and you watched the movement of his throat. "I didn't," he admitted. 

You shifted slightly, turning more fully towards him. His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek. The touch sent shivers down your spine.

"Cregan," you breathed, not even sure what you were going to say next.

He leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away. But you didn't want to pull away – you found yourself moving closer, your eyes starting to flutter closed, his breath mixing with yours.

The space between you and Cregan grew smaller. His fingers, warm and steady, traced the curve of your cheek, while his other hand settled at the small of your back, holding you in place as if afraid you might slip away.

Your own hand had found its way to his thigh, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his sweatpants. You could feel the tension in him – the way his muscles tensed under your touch, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when your fingertips pressed just a little firmer.

His nose brushed yours, the barest whisper of contact, and your lips parted on instinct, a quiet, breathless anticipation settling between you.

You could feel his hesitation, the last remnants of restraint flickering in his gaze. One more inch and–

The front door swung open with a loud thud.

You flinched, and Cregan jerked back as if burned, his grip on your waist loosening. The spell shattered in an instant.

From the hallway, Jace’s voice rang out, casual and utterly oblivious to the moment he had just ruined.

"Honey, I'm home!” he sang, “You would not believe the day I've had – oh.”

Jace stood in the doorway, keys dangling from his hand, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Well, well, well," he drawled, looking between you two with obvious delight. "What do we have here?"

"We're watching a film," Cregan said quickly, his voice slightly hoarse. You noticed his ears had turned that telltale pink again.

"Uh-huh," Jace nodded, not even trying to hide his smirk. "And how's the film?"

You realized with a start that neither of you had any idea what was happening on screen. You'd completely lost track of the plot about the same time Cregan's arm had wrapped around you.

"It's..." you started.

"Very artistic," Cregan finished lamely.

Jace's grin widened. "I'm sure it is." He kicked off his shoes and headed toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Don't let me interrupt your... artistic appreciation."

You caught Cregan's eye and had to bite your lip to keep from laughing at his mortified expression. The moment from before was broken, but something else had taken its place – a warm, giddy feeling that made it hard to stop smiling.

"So," you whispered, once Jace was safely in the kitchen. "Ten minutes to plan your next sentence?"

Cregan groaned quietly, letting his head fall back against the couch, but you could see him fighting a smile. "Might need twenty for this one."

Jace's not-so-subtle shuffling in the kitchen made the moment feel both ridiculous and charged. Cregan's arm was still draped around you, though now it felt more awkward than intimate.

"So," you said softly, trying to break the tension, "want to pretend we were actually watching the movie?"

He let out a quiet laugh. "I don't even know what we were watching."

You glanced at the screen. Some black and white scene was playing, characters moving in what seemed like slow motion. "Art house film," you whispered dramatically. "Very deep. Very meaningful."

"Very confusing," Cregan added, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

***

The café was bustling with the usual weekend crowd when you arrived, slightly out of breath from rushing. You spotted your friends immediately – Sara's laugh carrying over the general chatter, Jace gesturing animatedly about something. But as you approached, you noticed there were only four chairs at their small table, and they'd already claimed two of them.

The remaining two seats were snug together on the opposite side, and your stomach did a little flip when you saw Cregan already there, looking up at you with that quiet intensity you'd grown familiar with.

"You made it!" Sara beamed, but there was something suspiciously innocent about her expression. "We saved you a spot."

You hesitated for just a moment before sliding into the chair next to Cregan. The table was small enough that your elbows brushed as you settled in, and you caught a hint of that now-familiar pine scent. Without looking at you, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of your chair. The gesture was casual, almost absent-minded, but it made your pulse quicken.

"I already ordered your usual," he said quietly, just for you to hear.

"Thanks," you managed, trying to ignore how Sara and Jace exchanged knowing looks across the table.

Jace was mid-rant about Luke's latest culinary disaster. "I'm telling you, there are jars of fermenting liquid everywhere. Mom thinks he's going through some kind of wellness phase, but I'm pretty sure he's just trying to turn the kitchen into a science experiment."

Sara snorted into her latte. "Isn't that how all of Luke's phases start? Remember when he decided he was going to learn woodworking?"

"Three broken chairs and one very questionable coffee table later," Jace laughed.

You felt Cregan shift beside you, and his knee pressed a little more firmly against yours. You weren't sure if it was intentional or not, but you didn't move away. Instead, you found yourself leaning slightly into him, your shoulder just barely touching his.

"What about you?" Sara turned to you. "Any wild family stories?"

Before you could answer, Cregan's hand brushed against yours under the table. A light touch, almost accidental, but definitely deliberate. You saw the corner of his mouth twitch – he was listening, waiting for your response, but that small gesture said something else entirely.

"Nothing quite as exciting as kombucha brewing," you managed, hyper-aware of how close he was sitting. "Though my aunt did go through a phase of making her own cheese. Let's just say it didn't end well."

Jace burst out laughing. "Homemade cheese? That's a new one."

"Trust me," you said, "some experiments are best left to professionals."

Cregan's hand was still close to yours. His pinky finger had somehow found its way to rest against the side of your hand, a point of contact that seemed to send electricity through your entire body. You wondered if the others could see how close you were sitting, how every movement seemed charged with something unspoken.

"More coffee?" he murmured, so quietly that only you could hear.

You turned to look at him, catching his eye. There was something in his gaze – a warmth, a softness that made your breath catch. "Please," you whispered back.

Sara was still talking, Jace still gesturing, but in that moment, the rest of the café seemed to fade away. Just you, Cregan, and that small space between your hands that felt like it was holding entire universes.

His fingers brushed yours again. This time, you were certain it was definitely not an accident.

"Remember that time Professor Martinez spent fifteen minutes talking about his cat?" Jace was saying, but you were distracted by the way Cregan's fingers drummed a quiet pattern on the table, just inches from your hand.

"Mm-hmm," you responded, though you weren't entirely sure what you were agreeing to.

You reached for your coffee at the same time Cregan moved to adjust his sleeve, and your fingers collided. The touch was brief, but it sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with caffeine. When you glanced up at him, his ears had that telltale pink tinge, but he didn't move away.

The café had grown cooler as the evening approached – someone must have opened a window – and you found yourself unconsciously leaning into the warmth of his presence beside you. His jacket still hung behind you, and occasionally you'd catch its scent, mixing with the coffee aroma in a way that made you feel slightly dizzy.

"Cold?" he asked softly, noticing your slight shiver.

Before you could respond, he was already reaching back, adjusting his jacket so it covered your shoulders better. His fingers brushed against your back for just a moment, and you had to remind yourself to breathe normally.

"Thanks," you whispered, and he nodded, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

Across the table, Sara was telling a story about her dance partner's disastrous attempt at a lift, but you were lost in the way the evening light from the window played across Cregan's profile, how his lips curved slightly when something amused him, the comfortable weight of his jacket around your shoulders.

You told yourself it was nothing. That the way your heart raced when his hand accidentally brushed yours again was just caffeine, that the warmth in your chest when he leaned closer to murmur a quiet comment about Jace's dramatic retelling of events was just the coffee. That the way he seemed to angle his body toward yours, creating a bubble that felt separate from the bustling café around you, was just coincidence.

It had to be nothing.

But then why did it feel like everything?

As the afternoon wore on, the café slowly emptied, the hum of conversation fading into the clatter of dishes and the quiet shuffle of the barista wiping down the counter. The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the large windows, painting long shadows across the worn wooden tables. Jace was the first to leave, pushing back his chair with a knowing smirk that made you want to kick him under the table. His gaze flickered between you and Cregan, his amusement clear as he slung his jacket over one shoulder. 

"Have fun," he said lightly, though his tone held an edge of teasing that made your face warm. 

Sara followed shortly after, grabbing her bag in a rush. She leaned in for a quick hug, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered, "Text me later," in a way that sounded suspiciously like a warning. Then, with a grin thrown over her shoulder, she was gone, the bells above the door jingling in her wake. 

And then there were two.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The café felt quieter, more intimate now, the air thick with something unspoken. Cregan's fingers tapped idly against the edge of his coffee cup, his sharp eyes fixed on you in that way that made your breath hitch. You could feel the weight of the moment settling between you, the tension coiling tight like a bowstring.

You cleared your throat, forcing a casual tone. "About your jacket," you started, knowing full well you were playing a game. "I think I accidentally kept it from the other night. It's still at my apartment."

Cregan raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical, and you knew he wasn’t buying your innocent act. The truth was, you had definitely not forgotten his jacket. You had draped it around your shoulders before leaving, only to end up deciding not to bring it. 

"Did you?" he asked, his voice low, amused. 

You nodded, far too innocently. "Mhmm. Want to come get it?"

The corner of his mouth twitched, his lips tilting in the faintest ghost of a smile. "Might as well."

The walk back to your apartment felt shorter than it should have, the minutes slipping away as your steps fell into an easy rhythm. That now-familiar tension hung between you, humming beneath the surface, stretching with every unspoken thought. Your hands brushed – once, then again. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. The street lights flickered overhead, casting a warm glow onto the pavement, and in the quiet, you could feel his gaze on you, steady and unreadable. Watching. Waiting.

Anticipating.

"Sorry about the elevator," you said, pressing the stairwell door open. "It's been broken for weeks. Management promises they're fixing it, but..." You gestured uselessly.

Cregan just nodded, following you into the stairwell. The space was narrow, forcing you to climb single file at first, but he quickly moved to walk beside you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours on the tight turns.

The first flight of stairs passed in comfortable silence. By the second floor, you were both slightly out of breath.

"Remind me why we're taking the stairs?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Character building," you quipped, stealing a glance at him. "Also, excellent cardiovascular exercise."

His laugh was soft, barely more than a breath. "Is that what this is?"

You were acutely aware of how close he was. On the narrow staircase, your arms kept brushing, his hand sometimes grazing the small of your back as you navigated the turns. The proximity felt charged, electric.

"Almost there," you said, trying to sound casual. Your heart was racing, and you weren't sure if it was from the stairs or from him.

The third-floor landing approached, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. Something hung in the air between you – anticipation, possibility, a breath held just a moment too long.

You unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for him. He hesitated for the briefest moment, then followed, his footsteps slow, measured. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the distant sounds of the street outside.

Inside, the space felt smaller somehow, the air charged with something electric. The scent of vanilla and old books filled the room, mingling with the lingering traces of his cologne still clinging to the jacket draped over the back of your couch. A single lamp cast a golden glow across the walls, softening the edges of the moment, but not the weight of it.

You turned, glancing up at him. “Make yourself at home,” you said, your voice steady, though your pulse wasn’t.

Cregan’s gaze flickered over the room before settling on you. 

You reached into your closet and pulled out the perfectly folded jacket, holding it out to him with what you hoped was an innocent expression. "Here you go."

Cregan took it, something flickering in his eyes – a mix of surprise and... was that disappointment? He glanced toward the door, clearly preparing to leave, and you could almost see the moment he was about to say goodbye.

"Actually," you said quickly, "my TV's been acting up. Would you mind taking a look?"

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. It was the kind of smile that made your breath catch – part amusement, part something warmer. "Really?"

"Totally broken," you insisted, trying to look serious. "Completely non-functional."

"Completely?" Now he was definitely laughing, soft and low. "And here I thought we came up here just for the jacket."

You shrugged, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "Multi-purpose trip."

He followed you to the living room, still wearing that knowing smile. The TV sat quietly in the corner, looking suspiciously functional. But Cregan didn't call you out. Instead, he set the jacket down and moved toward the electronics, his fingers already reaching for the remote.

"Let me take a look," he said, his voice rich with barely contained amusement.

You bit back a smile. Busted – but not really.

Cregan crouched down in front of the TV, running his fingers along the back panel as he checked the cables. He moved with easy confidence, his broad shoulders flexing slightly under his shirt as he pulled one of the wires free. 

“One of these might’ve come loose,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. 

Before you could respond, he jerked his hand back slightly. A thin, red line beaded along his fingertip, stark against his skin. He barely reacted, just exhaling through his nose as he brought his hand up and – without hesitation – dragged his tongue over the small cut, as if it were nothing more than a papercut. 

You, however, were already pushing off of the couch. “Oh my god, Cregan–” 

He glanced up at you, brow raised. “It’s fine,” he said simply, his voice steady, like he hadn’t just sliced himself open on a rogue wire. “It’ll heal.” 

“It’s bleeding.” 

“Barely.” 

“That’s not the point,” you huffed, already moving toward the kitchen. “Stay there, I have bandages.” 

Cregan let out a quiet chuckle as you rummaged through a drawer, muttering something about stubborn men and their refusal to take basic medical care seriously. By the time you returned with a bandaid, he was still kneeling by the TV, watching you with open amusement. 

“Hold out your hand,” you demanded. 

“Is this really necessary?” 

“Do not test me right now, Stark.” 

His smirk deepened, but he obeyed, extending his hand toward you. His palm was warm, his fingers rough from years of use – evidence of someone who worked with his hands, who fought, who lived. You swallowed, focusing on carefully peeling the bandaid open before smoothing it over the cut. 

“There,” you said, pressing down gently. “Now you won’t die of infection.” 

Cregan flexed his fingers experimentally, shaking his head. “Didn’t realize a tiny scratch was life-threatening.” 

You shot him a look. “Mock me all you want, but you’ll thank me when your finger doesn’t fall off.” 

He laughed, low and easy, but his eyes lingered on you for a beat too long. And suddenly, the bandaid didn’t feel like the most important thing anymore.

From the bathroom, Cregan heard you call out, your voice taking on that slightly high-pitched tone he'd come to recognize as your embarrassed voice.

"Uh... so. The remote doesn't work because the battery is dead," you announced, sounding like you were hoping the floor might swallow you whole.

He emerged, drying his hands, to find you sitting on the couch looking like you'd been caught in an elaborate lie. Which, technically, you had been. The remote dangled from your hand, and you were avoiding direct eye contact.

"Shocking," he said drily, that hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Who could have seen that coming?"

"Shut up," you mumbled, but there was no real heat in it.

He stepped closer, taking the remote from your hand. "Batteries?" 

You pointed to a drawer, still not looking directly at him. "Top one."

His laugh was soft, barely more than a breath. Cregan pulled open the drawer, retrieving a pair of fresh batteries with an ease that made you suspect he was enjoying this a little too much. He popped the old ones out and slid the new ones in, his movements unhurried, deliberate. When he handed the remote back to you, his fingers brushed against yours – just for a second, just long enough to send a flicker of warmth up your arm.

“Moment of truth,” he murmured, stepping back with an amused tilt of his head.

You aimed the remote at the TV, pressing the power button. The screen blinked to life instantly, the room filling with the soft glow of the home screen. You let out a quiet sigh, shoulders dropping in defeat.

Cregan crossed his arms, leaning against the back of the couch. “So, to recap: you invited me up here for a jacket you had no intention of giving back, faked a TV malfunction, and then made me bleed – all in the span of fifteen minutes.”

You huffed, tossing the remote onto the cushion beside you. “You make it sound so calculated.”

He smirked. “Wasn’t it?”

You opened your mouth, ready to deny it, but the look on his face – the teasing glint in his eyes, the slight lift of his brow – made it clear he wasn’t buying whatever excuse you were about to throw at him.

Instead, you crossed your arms and leaned back. “Fine. Maybe I just wanted you to stay a little longer.”

The smirk faded, just slightly. His gaze flickered over your face, his amusement softening into something quieter, something warmer.

“You could’ve just asked,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Then, as if sensing the weight of his own words, he straightened, rolling his shoulders like he could shake it off. 

You tried to ignore the sudden heat that rose in your cheeks, still pretending that the whole situation – your really embarrassing scheme to get him to stay – was perfectly normal.  

You shook your head, pushed the thoughts aside as you rose from the couch and walked toward him. His gaze followed you, amusement danced in his eyes as you stopped in front of him. Without thinking, your eyes flickered to his finger – still wrapped in the bright pink Hello Kitty bandaid you slapped on him earlier. The absurdity of it all hit you again, and for a moment, you felt the urge to cover your face.  

But Cregan didn't let it slide. "You know," he drawled, holding up his hand, the bandaid on full display, "I felt the care and attention here, but–” He lifted an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitched, “Hello Kitty?"  

You rolled your eyes but approached him anyway. You focused on his finger, ignored the growing warmth that spread through you as you reached out, your fingers brushed his skin as you took his hand in yours. “They were the only ones at the store,” you muttered, glancing at him briefly, expecting him to laugh it off.  

He just stared at you, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Mm-hmm. I was sure they were,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with skepticism. “Couldn’t find any grown-up band-aids, huh?”  

You snorted and held his finger a little more gently, glanced up at him now, met his gaze with a faint, nervous smile. “They were cute. I thought you might like them.”  

He tilted his head, studied you with an intensity that made it hard to keep your thoughts from scattering. “You didn’t think I’d notice?” His voice was lower now, almost a whisper, and the playful teasing was gone, replaced with something... different.  

You felt his hip brush against yours, a subtle, accidental touch that sent a spark of awareness through you. The proximity was sudden, sharp. You leaned back against the counter, the cool surface grounded you as your pulse began to race in a way you couldn’t quite control. Your focus remained on his finger, but his proximity – the weight of his gaze on you – felt heavier than anything you’d ever known.  

His eyes flickered down to your mouth, just for a split second, before returning to your eyes, and it felt like the world narrowed to just the two of you. Your hand, still holding his, trembled slightly. You tried to tell yourself it was just the oddness of the moment, the intimacy of the small gesture, but deep down you knew there was more to it than that. His fingers, warm and strong, rested in your hand, his thumb brushed over your knuckles in that unconscious way he did, and it took everything in you not to close the space between you.  

The silence stretched between you, charged with everything unsaid. His fingers were still tangled with yours, warm and steady despite the slight tremor you felt in your own hand. When you finally looked up, the intensity in his eyes made your breath catch.

"I should probably go," he whispered, but he didn't move away. If anything, he seemed to lean closer, his free hand coming to rest on the counter beside you.

"Probably," you agreed, but your other hand had somehow found its way to his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

Time seemed to slow down. You could feel his heartbeat under your palm, fast and strong. His eyes dropped to your lips again, lingering this time.

"Tell me to go," he murmured, so close now that you could feel his breath against your skin.

Instead, you lifted your chin slightly, closing the last bit of distance between you. His lips met yours softly at first, hesitant, questioning. Then your hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and something in him seemed to break.

He pressed closer, deepening the kiss as his hand moved from the counter to your waist, pulling you against him. Your back hit the counter, but you barely noticed, too caught up in the feeling of him – the way he tasted like coffee and something sweeter, how his thumb traced circles on your hip, how he kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for weeks.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against yours. His eyes were dark, intense, filled with something that made your heart race even faster.

"I've wanted to do that," he said roughly, "for forever."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, your fingers still playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Is that why you were so quiet?"

He smiled against your lips. "Partly." Then he was kissing you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world to learn the taste of you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, unable to stop smiling. "You know Sara and Jace are going to be insufferable about this."

"Mmm," Cregan hummed against your lips. "They'll never let us hear the end of it." His fingers traced along your jaw, gentle and exploratory. "Sara's been dropping hints for weeks."

"Weeks?" You raised an eyebrow. "Try months."

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against yours. He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against yours. Then his mouth found yours again, and this time the kiss was different – long, slow, and dizzyingly passionate. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so, and you couldn't help but wonder if there was anything this man wasn't exceptionally good at.

When you pulled back, you toyed with the few hair strands that had fallen onto his face. He still hadn’t stepped back, still held you like he wasn’t quite ready for the night to end. And maybe you weren’t either.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of it settled between you, the knowledge that this – whatever this was – had changed something, shifted it into something new, something neither of you could brush aside with an easy joke.

Cregan’s fingers brushed up your arm, slow and deliberate, his gaze flickering over your face like he was debating something.

Then, quieter this time, more serious: “Should I stay?”

Your breath hitched. It wasn’t just about tonight. You could hear it in the way he asked, in the way his fingers curled slightly at your waist.

You swallowed, your voice softer now. “Would you, if I asked?”

His grip tightened, just slightly, just enough to make your pulse stutter. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I would.”

You exhaled, your fingers tracing absentmindedly along his collarbone. He was close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the warmth there, the hesitation.

Then you smiled, small and knowing. “Good.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. But he still stayed.

taglist: @smurfelle @elliaze @sillylittlepenguin181818 @lustrz-anna @lovelyteenagebeard @misshale21 @cecestea @n4tsha @inspirationquxxn @rin588 @anoravx @bbubbllejisoo @vividxpages @bucksplum @earth4angels @mattnott @princess-of-the-fandoms @shabnam2005 @nsr-15 @reeseelise @teasweeter @ginarely-blog @bpcr3yes @creganstarkk @st6rmbrn @marg141205 @shesneverreallythere @mother-homunculus @ohhdearmargot

[bogleech]

I'm actually not going to let this go until Gerry is at least as widely ridiculed as Human Pet Guy. That guy still didn't do anything half as disturbed as this fucking loser, let me pull up my favorites again:

Gerry messaging me from an alt pretending not to be an alt

Gerry claiming again that it's antisemitic of me to say the IDF are bad guys who do not represent the entire Jewish population. This is not, in fact, the same as saying they're "not jews anymore." Also bragging about supposedly baiting and sealioning me into saying whatever they believe I said wrong. I guess the stupid ass hell thing????

Calling me a "blorbo" like I'm a fictional character rather than a human. Also, I went and got the original hell comment to double check it:

.....This doesn't even say the IDF should go to hell. It says I hope people "excusing" the IDF's actions should go to hell, I just typoe'd it as "excising." I guess Gerry successfully gaslit me, since I fully believed I had said specifically "the IDF go to hell." Thanks!

Gerry accusing me of "lumping them in as pro genocide" in response to a comment in which I specifically state I do not see them that way. How else am I supposed to read them NOW, though? Because I defined that as "someone who thinks kids deserve bombs dropped on them," and Gerry's response is "how dare you say that about me......???????" What?? Not once do they ever simply say "no one deserves their town to be bombed" or anything like that. They absolutely refuse, because they do in fact believe that it's okay to bomb a whole community if some of that community might hypothetically be "hamas." They do in fact think it's acceptable that people who never hurt anyone else should die that way for some sort of greater good, or that only hamas can be blamed for those deaths by "forcing the hand" of the ones with those bombs.

Gerry admitting the IDF bombs, loots and tortures, even though most comments they call antisemitic are calling out just that very behavior. Gerry to my knowledge has never willingly blamed anything negative on the IDF since this comment and continues to attack people who do.

Gerry admitting the honest core of their beliefs and behavior. This isn't really about me, though. I mean, part of it is, I can definitely be vindictive. But I mostly ignored this asshole for the past year until the doxx comment, and now I'm getting more messages than ever from people who feel actually hurt and terrorized by this motherfucker. I've suffered ZERO fallout from their attacks, I am evidently too big I guess, but there are people who change their username to hide from this piece of shit, even fucking minors who dared to say "free palestine" once. Then there's @stoptheantisemitism, who is NOT gerry, but is impersonated by gerry's alt account @spottheantisemitism and other alt accounts, @stop-the-antisemitism and of course @stop--the--antisemitism in this very thread. Creating so many variants is a deliberate attempt to make it as hard as possible for casual rebloggers to remember which one is the real person. I mean, two alts only add dashes to the same username, and the other only moves one letter "p." I have no idea how tumblr staff can rationalize that as okay. But, again, if there's a guy who can't show his face without human pet jokes because he was just generally creepy, or everyone remembers sixpenceee's family having slaves, why can a user devote this much of their miserable life to "baiting and sealioning" people from multiple accounts and still have a usable blog left? ONE LAST THING!!!!!!!

In the notes on this very post, gerry is so bent on finding people to call out and slander they tried to find "misogyny" in a comment saying that women like studying bugs????????

Gerrysherry, the user who tells people I'm antisemitic because I think IDF soldiers are killing innocent civilians (rather than framed by some kind of Hamas conspiracy), believes my real name was a secret that I only just now accidentally revealed rather than the default way I've signed all my web content since the 1990's. Also believes that I have an employer, that "telling my parents" would affect a grown man, that my hippie mom would disagree with me anyway, and that the hatemail they got last year was all me rather than the natural and inevitable fallout of the supremely fucked up shit they say about the victims of a mass murder. Apparently would gleefully leap at any hypothetical chance at "doxxing" me though. Good to know. Literally wishes they could ruin my real actual life because I don't think Netanyahu is a hero.

[neovillains]

DEATHBED | PART THREE.

( NO INTEGRITY : FUSHIGURO TOJI ) you never typically accepted male clients, but after being the only one left in the office, you let your fear consider your safety. and now... you're kind of grateful for it. | watch time: 4.0k words.

── perverted gilf!toji fushiguro & esthetician!reader, fem-bodied!reader (s!her pronouns), toji gets a manzilian, high age gap, bribery, sadomasochism, facial, masturbation, oral fixation, blowjob/deepthroating, dirty talk, features esthetician!geto suguru, etc.

notes. i had so much fun writing this tee bee ayche. i want toji to cum all over my face. n e weighs... we almost done ! one more chapter to go !

gojo satoru | nanami kento | sukuna ryoumen

You never really took in male clients. It’s something you made sure of early in your career of being an esthetician. It only took one man to put the entire gender on the hard no list. However, as this older man stands in front of you, hazel green eyes that intimidate and should send alarms through your mind, you’re contemplating on making an exception. From his ID, he’s in his late seventies. He should be mature enough to handle what he’s requesting— a manzilian. 

Looking at the clock, it’s inching closer to six p.m., when you’re supposed to be clocking out for the evening. The clerk having left already and leaving you to your lonesome, anxiety spikes within you and being your sole reason for why you’re even considering scheduling an appointment with him. You inhale through your nose, exhaling through your mouth. You glance at his idea once more, reading his name as you’re typing his name into the system— Fushiguro Toji. 

Then, you’re glancing up at him. Salt n’ pepper hair, and lines underneath his eyes that show his years. His eyes pierce into yours, still waiting for you to confirm it. He cocks up an eyebrow, impatience growing inside of him. “Are you usually this slow?”

“Sorry,” you say under your breath, eyes going back to the screen as you click on the calendar, checking the most available slots. You grumble to yourself when you see that you have an opening just for tomorrow at five. You consider lying, but rationally, you know it would be better to get this over with quickly more than anything else. “I have tomorrow at five available. Is that fine with you?”

“Yes,” he answers curtly.

“And if you’d like,” your eyes light up when you see your male coworker also has an opening alongside your name, taking the opportunity. “Our male esthetician is open—”

“You’ll do just fine.” Your heart drops. You can tell that this man means what he says and that any type of persuasion would be shut down. But, you still try. 

“Are you sure?” you continue. “You might find yourself more comfortable—”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine with just you,” he interjects once more. The corner of his lips rising and when you look at that scar, anger fills you. You’d love to make it deeper. 

Of these years that you’ve been an esthetician, you think you’d have grown a backbone. You thought you had, but whenever issues with clients came up, you always had someone else along your side to back you up. Right now, that desperation to go home and the fear of being the only worker inside the building runs all sense away from your mind, making you too afraid to stand up for yourself in the possibility of experiencing any harassment. So, as quickly as possible, you type in the information you need, asking him for his form of payment before he slides his debit card into your hand and you click confirm. 

“Just check to see if you’re received a notification that your appointment has been scheduled and you’ll be all set for the night,” your voice is higher than typical, looking up at the man behind the desk and watching as he pulls out his phone. You can’t help but notice how veiny his hands are, littered in melanated dots as he swipes across the screen. When he sees the text in regards to the appointment, he gives a curt nod and a grunt. “Got it.”

“Great,” you say, letting out a deep breath as you reach for your handbag and head towards the door. “Well, have a good night! I’ll be seeing you tomorrow evening.”

However, as you reach for your car keys inside of your bag, you can still feel his calling presence over you. “You’re closing up, right?” 

“No,” you lie. “Our last esthetician’s cleaning up around back.”

“Hm,” he huffs, silently calling your bluff, but doesn’t say anything else about it. “Let me walk you out. It’s getting dark out.”

Oh, your eyes widen. That was the last thing you were expecting from him. Though, you still hesitate, glancing outside of the building. You typically park in the closest parking spot. Who wouldn’t? It’s very convenient, but it’s coincidental how you were running late today and someone else managed to snag your habitual spot. Now, you have to walk a fair distance to your car. “Thank you.”

The walk is silent and he never says anything to you, simply waiting for you to unlock your car door. He opens it for you, watching you drop your bags onto the passenger seat before getting inside yourself. Good night, he told you before shutting the door and walking away, never giving you a moment to respond back. As you start up your car, you wonder if your judgment has been misplaced. Maybe your appointment with the man wouldn’t be as bad as the nightmare stories you’ve heard and experienced. 

—

When you’re finished with your second to last appointment, you glance at the clock. You have fifteen minutes to prepare for your last appointment for the day, something you’ve been anticipating to get over with so that you can go home. Sanitizing the bed and cleaning out the wax melter, you’re surrounded by silence before leaving the small room. Conveniently, Geto Suguru— the only esthetician to work in the afternoon alongside you— is in the main area. Pulling off his gloves before glancing at you, he motions you to follow him. Bringing you to the side, a look of concern washes over his face.

“I can’t believe you accepted a male client,” eyebrows scrunched together, he gets straight to the point. “Why didn’t you mention to me that someone came in after I left? I would’ve come back to handle it.”

“I didn’t want to bother you with that,” you explain. “You were probably at home by the time he came in.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” Geto says. “You know I’m willing to drop everything if you need the help. We’re here for each other.” 

“Don’t worry, Sug,” you try to calm his worries. “I’m just going to hope and pray that everything goes smoothly and try to go as quickly as I can.”

“I’m going to wait for you tonight,” he says, leaving you nowhere to argue. Nonetheless, you try. 

“Sug,” your shoulders drop, exasperated. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t have to, but I will.” Just as he says that, the bells to the door jingle. You hear Geto’s deep sigh. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear—” In a low voice, Suguru whispers. “—That’s him, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, nudging him. “And go home—” you point. “—don’t wait for me.”

He doesn’t say anything, but underneath your skin, you know that there’s no way that he actually listened to you. Toji’s eyes are on you and you put on a bright smile. “Good evening. How’re you?”

“I’m doing alright,” the older man answers simply. You check the time, realizing you only have five minutes before his appointment officially starts. And instead of taking responsibility, you blame your lack of preparation on your coworker. Damn, Sugu. 

“That’s great,” you chirp. “Give me around five minutes and I’ll call you back to get started.”

He nods silently before finding a seat in the waiting area.  You put some pep in your step, heading back into the room and getting everything ready. Though you did the brunt of what you needed to do, you wipe down the bed once more heading to the door and poking your head out, you meet his sitting stature focused on the running television. 

“Fushiguro,” you call his last name out, catching his attention. “I’m ready. You can come on back.”

Leading him inside, you hold the door open for him as you gesture to the bed. “I remember you briefly telling me this isn’t your first time getting a manzilian, but would you like for me to do a brief rundown of what to expect?”

“If it means hearing more of your voice, then that’s alright with me, love.” The sentence catches you off guard, making your heart plummet to the pit of your ass. Your body stiffens up as you turn yourself away from the man so you don’t have to look him in the eye. The way he had said it so seamlessly makes your skin crawl. You feel a bit foolish to have dropped your guard simply because he offered to walk you to your car last night. Letting out a breath, you ignore his sentence. 

“Because you’re an older man, it might be more painful for you, so I’ll try to be as gentle as possible, but—” After your brief rundown of the expectations, you give him a bit of privacy before coming back inside. You change into another pair of gloves before reaching for the thing of wax and the strips. The thin veil of the paper-like cover rests over his lap as he lays patiently on the bed. You just want to get this done as quickly as possible. “Are you ready? First, I’ll be cleaning you up first, but do you feel prepared for me to start the entire process?”

Mhm is his only response before you’re asking him to rest his feet up. “At any point, you want to stop, just let me know.”

“I’m pretty sure with hands like yours, you’ll be treating me very sweetly,” he says. “Don’t worry, dear.”

Drowning out everything, you lift up the veil before pausing. Over the past couple of years, you’ve taught yourself to keep up a stoic expression, keeping yourself as calm and collected as possible. However, you can feel your eyes widen ever so slightly and you feel like the most unprofessional esthetician ever just at the fact that you’re gawking over this older man’s appendage. 

When he walked in last night, you had taken into account his build. You can tell that in his younger years, he did extensive workouts and deeply cared for his body. He was handsome for his age and you can tell that he knew that. He was silent, but there was a silent stir of confidence within him that you couldn’t ignore. And even now, while you’re stagnant, you can feel a heat of confidence building up inside of him. Still, however, you never look as you’ve calculated inside of your head that he’s at least eight inches, probably— most likely— bigger than that. And you don’t like how you feel something in the pit of your stomach, and it’s not due to discomfort. 

Just like you’d typically do, you clean him up. When you feel a tremor from his leg, you pause and finally look up. “Are you alright?”

“You can keep going,” he says, not directly answering your question. Shoulders dropping as you try your best to relax, you continue. And it’s apparent, the erection that’s building up as you clean his pubic hair. You’re gentle and careful with every move you make, noticing how his chest rises every time your glove-clad hands graze his length. It’s strikingly silent that it’s killing you. Typically, you liked to spark up conversations during your client’s appointments, but what were you to say to a man that’s getting hard from simply being cleaned?

After you finish cleaning him, you dispose of the cloth before switching into another pair of gloves. Reaching for the wax and the strips, you pause. “I’m going to start waxing. Just like before, let me know if you’d like to stop at any point.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says gruffly.  And with that, you adjust his legs before setting the wax onto the strip. A sense of haste runs over you as you plaster on the strip and then quickly ripping it off. It was your preferred method as the shock seemed to make it less painful. Majority of your clients liked that you said no warning and just ripped it off. 

It seemed to be the same way for Toji. Despite the curse muttered from under his breath, his cock jumped as a strip of hair was extracted from his skin. You glanced up, waiting for him to say anything, but he never did. Continuing forth, you noticed how his tip started to leak pre. You tried to ignore it, but you started to subconsciously go slower, which only seemed to be fortunate on the older man’s part.

Toji should feel some shame within him. To insist on you giving him a manzilian and for the blatant flirting he’d throw your way on occasion, but fuck, he doesn’t. The feeling of your hand against him, gently cleaning him before hastily pulling at his skin with no sense of TLC. It only continued to spark that heat within him, making him painfully hard. Precum leaked through his mushroom-shaped tip and he didn’t feel any sort of humiliation for it. He was a man and for him, this was normal. However, while he usually didn’t need anyone to touch his length directly, he was yearning for more the more you went on.

Your moves were getting slower and it was as though you were edging him now. Gnawing at his bottom lip, when he felt your hands touch at his pelvis, finally clearing off his inner thighs, he felt a pathetic sense of desperation run through him. “How much would it take?”

“Huh?” He had evidently caught you off guard, causing you to retract. 

“How much could I pay you,” he started, “to let me masturbate?”

Halting all actions, you nearly knock over the thing of melted wax. You stumble to catch it, making the older man chuckle. “There's no reason to make a mess now. ‘S just a simple question.”

On the other side of the door, the moment that Geto heard the slight fumble, he was quick to his feet, standing behind the door and knocking on it. “Everything alright in there?”

You curse to yourself, your coworker’s voice not doing anything to settle your nerves. “Yeah, Sugu. Just clumsy as always.”

There’s a pause before he responds, “Alright.”

When you no longer see the shadow of Geto’s shoes from under the door, you let out the breath you were subconsciously holding. “Don’t tell me you had a guard dog out for me. I’m not gonna hurt you, love.”

“I don’t know that,” you answer truthfully. “If you want, you could probably kill me right now.”

“Probably,” he doesn’t deny. “But, you’re not dead right now, so that should let you know all you need to.”

You look him in his eyes and then back to his hardened length. He chuckles before you could truly contemplate and dissect what he’s asked you. “How much?”

“Is there a possibility that I can say no?”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t have a few extra bucks in your pocket.”

“75,000 yen.”

“45,000,” he quips instead.

“70,000.”

“50,000.”

“60,000,” you watch his eyes squint, considering it. He nods, “Fine.”

You watch as he knocks off the veil, letting it slowly fall to the ground before wrapping his fist around himself. The size of his hand makes him seem small. He shudders, his hands feeling like ice against his cock as he waits. It calls for confusion from the both of you as he waits expectantly. “You can continue.”

“Continue what?” He finds your moment of idiocy to be adorable, making him chuckle once more, “Continue waxing me.”

“That’s unsanitary,” you start. “You could possibly start bleeding and I—”

“This entire situation is unprofessional and I could have your license revoked,” he finishes for you. “Would you prefer that instead? Don’t worry, if I bleed, I won’t report you, love.”

You slouch forward, reaching for another strip and trying to continue as if your client isn’t palming at his cock as you try to maneuver around him. Your hands start to shake as his fist moves up and down. He’d stop ever so often to rub over his tip, smearing the precum around it. So copious as he causes his length to glisten. 

You don’t like how you feel yourself growing aroused, clenching around nothing as you wonder what he’d feel like inside of you. And he finds your squirming to be adorable as you try desperately to keep yourself together as you rip hair from his skin. You could’ve finished a long time ago, but you’ve come to enjoy watching this. You won’t admit it, but you find it intriguing how a man finds pleasure in pain and there’s a boost of confidence within you knowing that you’re the one inflicting it. 

There are points in time where Toji would stop, feeling himself close to releasing. His hands would be back to the base of his length as you’d pull another strip. It wasn’t until you were on your last spot that he finally decided to let go. His balls would slap against his fist every time it came down and the wetness of himself jerking off while he was being waxed sounded the room. He wondered if your coworker could hear and he wondered that, if he did, what was stopping him from interfering?

And the possibilities that coursed through his mind only egged on his impending orgasm. Your touch rivalled between rough and soft. When your glove-clad hands gently rested against his thigh before the next hand pulled at the wax strip, it was all that it took for him to release. 

Your gasp was high-pitched, the feeling of cum hitting your spray as Toji’s head hit the bed in relief. He didn’t care, simply continued to aim for your pretty little face and you let it happen. Again, a next set of knocking came to the door. Geto, again. “(Y/N), are you sure you’re alright?”

You didn’t want to sound annoyed, knowing that he was only looking out for you and your well being, but you did remember telling him that you would be fine. “I’m alright! I just nearly burnt myself.”

“Shit,” you can hear from the otherside, a set of keys following that sent your heart racing. “Do you need help? Is it bad?”

“No,” you answer. You’d feel embarrassed to have him walk in on you in this current predicament, and it’d go against protocol. “I said nearly. I’m alright.”

Checking the time, it’s almost been an hour. With a sigh, you just want Geto gone. “Look, I understand why you’re staying late and I appreciate it, but I really am fine. Just go home. If I need help, I’ll call this time, okay?”

When he doesn’t answer, you ask again. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he sighs. “Have a good night.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When there’s silence, your older client chuckles. “You should've run him off a long time ago.”

You don’t answer him, watching as he comes to sit up before you place a hand against his chest. Your heart starts racing as you take into consideration what you’re about to do. “Wait—” despite his release, you can still see it. He’s still hard. Pulling off your gloves and aiming them towards the trash, your fingertips graze his shaft. “—Let me…”

You don’t have to say anything more before he gives you the okay and he’s leaning right back into position. The corner of his mouth, where his scar is, twitches upward. Looking down at you like this, he finds you so pretty like this. This young esthetician’s face was covered in his seed, and now she’s offering herself up to continue on the session. He’s never gotten to experience this, quickly believing he’s found himself a keeper. 

You reach for the hand that was previously connected to his cock, noticing the droplets of cum still staining them. You’ve become bold in the timespan, holding eye contact when your mouth opens and your tongue lulls out to clean off his fingers. Plump lips wrapping around the digits and suckling on them until the only thing that’s coating them is your saliva. When they’re nice and clean, you’re dipping to his length. 

Your dominant hand takes hold of it, your heartbeat picking up as you’re still incredulous to the sheer size of him. You pause, taking in a deep inhale before your mouth opens once more. You can still smell the stench of wax, the years of working making it ingrained in your senses that it nearly overpowers any bad body odor. Toji watches how your lips wrap around his thick cockhead, how your eyelashes flutter upwards to look at him. 

To think that the previous night, you were trying to ship him off to that long-haired brooding esthetician and now, that fear is leaving you to the point where you offered yourself up to him. He feels triumphant as he feels arousal leak through his tip once more, but this time, on your tongue. “I bet that pretty pussy of yours is all wet.”

He’s right. Your panties cling to your pussy, a wet patch well formed from the past hour and only worsening now that your lips are around his cock. His hand reaches to caress your face before it travels to the back of your head. Your hair combed into one, he grips at the band and forces you to take more of him. He lets out a breath, “Saw the way your cute body was squirming around watching me. All you young girls are just sluts nowadays, I swear. You’re the only one who holds no shame in it.”

He pushes your head down until your lips are at the base, the head of his cock, hitting the back of your throat and causing you to gag. The corner of your eyes prick with tears before he’s pulling you off and giving you a chance to catch your breath. 

“Ah,” he tsks. “Seems like I gotta train your throat to handle me. You’ll take down that stupid rule of yours, right? Just for me?”

You nod, inhaling deeply as your chest rises and falls. Toji chuckles. “Good girl. I’ll probably have to train that pussy, too, it seems— wrap your hand around the base.”

It’s so seamless how he goes to throw commands at you, and it should be embarrassing how obedient you’ve become. Doing as told, you don’t waste a second to wrap your mouth around him once more. However, he takes all control and fucking your mouth like you’re just a toy for him. 

You’re grateful that Geto left, not wanting him to hear what’s happening behind closed doors and how you’ve gotten yourself in this predicament. The man’s cum has long dried up on your face, but fuck, he’s imagining the possibility of making it messier. This time he has his imagination running rampant as he uses your mouth to get off. And you’re imagining the possibility of him filling you up, spurting his load in you as you let this old man take advantage of your body. 

His veins protrude, blue highlighting his skin in lines as he uses his strength to use you. Weakly, his hips rise to meet your lips as he’s enveloped by your wet warmth. This orgasm is all too quick to approach him and he has no intention to stop, feeling how your grip has tightened around the base. 

“Fuck,” his voice is guttural and raspy. “Gonna cum in your mouth, and you’re gonna swallow, right?”

You mumble around his length, but that short nod is all he needs. The vibrations sent waves through him and called for his release. You feel the way his cock twitches inside your mouth before tasting the salted seed kiss the back of your throat. And just like he asked, you’re swallowing him as you feel his grip on you weaken before finally letting go.

Gradually, you remove yourself from him and catch your breath, your chest rising and falling in a rushed rhythm. When the both of you have cleaned yourselves up, you leave together. Though, when Toji goes to walk you to your car, he squeezes your ass before holding the door open for you and leaning to whisper in your ear, “That pussy will be the next thing I claim the next time we meet, alright?”

Nodding, you whisper out a ‘yes.’

Bidding you a good night, Toji leaves you to your lonesome. When you get home, you make a small change to your rules.

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[darlingsblackbook]

Between the Lines

Gojo Satoru x Awkward!Reader

Summary : As the new teacher’s assistant at Jujutsu High, Y/N is used to being invisible—quiet, awkward, always on the outside looking in. She tells herself she prefers it that way, but when Gojo Satoru, the school’s most infuriatingly nosy teacher, starts noticing the cracks in her carefully built walls, she finds it harder to hide. He’s loud, he’s persistent, and worst of all… he might just see right through her.

Warnings : Shy!Reader, Awkward!Reader, Introvert!Reader, Lonely!Reader

♡♡♡

I had never been good at introductions.

Or first impressions. Or second impressions.

Or… people in general.

So when the principal of Jujutsu High offered me a job as a teaching assistant, I accepted before I could talk myself out of it. It was logical—stable work, a chance to put my skills to use—but now, standing in front of the classroom door, I was starting to question every decision that led me here.

The job itself wasn’t the problem. It was the social part. The talking. The being around others.

The inevitable awkwardness.

Here I am, standing awkwardly outside the door of Gojo Satoru’s classroom, a bundle of nerves in my stomach.

I have never met him before. Only heard of him in passing. The strongest sorcerer alive. An eccentric man, a little ridiculous but undeniably powerful. I have no idea what to expect, and that made me even more anxious.

I exhaled sharply and knocked before I could hesitate any longer.

“Come iiinnn~”

The voice was playful, stretching the words like taffy. I hesitated for a second before pushing the door open.

The room was not empty. Three students sat at their desks, heads turning as I entered. One of them—a boy with pink hair and a bright, open grin—tilted his head curiously. Another, dark-haired with sharp features, barely reacted. The last, a girl with fiery eyes, scrutinized me with clear interest.

And then, there was him.

Gojo Satoru.

He was taller than I expected, his dark blue uniform neat but his posture anything but. White hair, messy but somehow intentional and a blindfold shielding his eyes. He was the kind of person who took up space without any effort, like the air itself made room for him.

“Oh? A new face.” A grin stretched across his face. "And who might you be?"

I swallowed and tightened my grip on my bag. “Um. I’m Y/N. The principal assigned me as your new teaching assistant.”

For a moment, there was a silence. Then, Gojo’s smile widened. “Ohhh, so you’re the poor soul stuck with me?”

I- I was not so sure how to respond to that.

“I… guess?”

The pink-haired boy snickered. “Welcome to the chaos, sensei.”

Gojo clapped his hands. “Right! Introductions. These little troublemakers are my students. That’s Itadori Yuji—”

“Yo!”

“—Fushiguro Megumi—”

A silent nod.

“—and Kugisaki Nobara.”

The girl flipped her hair. “Good luck surviving Gojo-sensei.”

I gave a small, uncertain nod with an unsure smile. “Thanks…?”

Gojo tilted his head. “So, Y/N! Tell us about yourself.”

Oh no.

Not this question. Anything but this question.

My mind blanked immediately.

I was supposed to say something here. Something normal. Something that would make me seem approachable. But nothing came.

“There’s not much to say,” I finally muttered.

Gojo leaned forward on his desk, grinning. “Come on, there’s gotta be something. A hobby? Fun fact? Favorite food? Deepest, darkest secret?”

I swallowed. I hated questions like this. I never knew how to answer.

My hands curled around the strap of my bag. “I..I mean I like...reading, I don’t know.”

For a second, silence. A horrible, suffocating pause.

Then—

Gojo sighed dramatically. “A mystery woman, huh? Fine, fine, we’ll learn your secrets eventually.”

Something in me tensed at that idea.

But Gojo spared me and did not press. He just stretched lazily and turned back to his students.

I exhaled, shoulders loosening.

That could have gone a lot worse.

°•♡•°

The first few days passed in a blur.

I kept to my work, avoiding unnecessary interactions. The job itself was easy—assisting with lessons, helping with training schedules, sorting paperwork. It was everything outside of that that I struggled with.

Small talk. Social cues. Knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.

I avoided the break room, ate lunch alone, kept my head down. It wasn’t new—I had always been like this. And I had always told myself I didn’t mind.

But Gojo made it difficult to go unnoticed.

He was everywhere. Loud, teasing, impossible to ignore. He had a habit of appearing at the worst moments—leaning over my desk when I was trying to work, suddenly materializing beside me when I was lost in thought.

And he noticed things.

A lot of things.

“Hey,” he said one afternoon. “Do you always stand like that?”

I blinked up at him. “Like what?”

He waved a hand vaguely. “All stiff. Like you’re bracing for impact.”

I immediately stiffened more. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Gojo hummed. “You’re always tense. And quiet. Do I scare you?”

I frowned, caught off guard. “What? No.” I laughed awkwardly.

He gasped, hand over his chest. “So you just don’t like me?”

“That’s not—” I stopped, exhaling. “I just… I don’t talk much.”

Gojo tilted his head, as if considering something.

For a second, I thought he might press further. Ask questions I didn’t know how to answer.

But then he just grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ll warm up to me eventually.”

I wasn’t so sure about that.

But later, when I caught him watching me with something thoughtful behind his blindfold, I realized—

He wasn’t sure about me either.

°•♡•°

Even more days passed, blending into each other like ink bleeding into paper.

I kept my head down, did my work, and kept to myself. It was easy, really. No one expected much from me beyond my job. The students were polite, Gojo was… Gojo, and the rest of the staff had their own responsibilities. I did what was required, answered when spoken to, and let conversations pass over me like waves washing over a stone.

And yet…

Something gnawed at me.

I noticed things. I always had.

Like the way Itadori and Kugisaki bickered over lunch, their insults sharp but affectionate. The way Fushiguro sighed, exasperated but always there, always included. The way they trained together, argued together, shared jokes that only made sense to them.

They belonged.

Even the staff, as different as they were, had their own connections. Yaga’s gruff lectures, Shoko’s dry humor, Gojo’s infuriating yet oddly natural way of slipping into conversations like he had always been part of them.

Everywhere I looked, people had someone.

I didn’t even have a past friendship to reminisce about. No old friend I had lost touch with. No warm memories of sleepovers, of whispered secrets at midnight, of laughing so hard my stomach hurt.

I had nothing.

It wasn’t that I had never wanted friends. I had wanted them desperately. But there had always been something wrong with me—something that made people drift away before they ever truly got close.

Maybe I was too quiet.

Maybe I was too awkward.

Maybe I was just… forgettable.

Even now, at 22, I felt like I had already wasted my entire life away.

Everyone else had stories. Experiences. Things they could look back on with fondness or even regret.

I had empty days and silence.

I never checked my phone much, but sometimes, I left it untouched for hours just to pretend—just to imagine, for a second, that when I finally looked at it, I would see something.

A message.

A missed call.

A notification that was not just a useless app reminder.

But there was never anything.

The ache in my chest was familiar by now, dull but relentless.

I felt like I was missing something vital, something everyone else had but I simply… didn’t.

It was stupid.

I had a job. A roof over my head. A place in the world, even if it felt like I was just existing rather than living.

But still—

Still.

I wanted someone.

Someone to talk to about nothing and everything.

Someone to laugh with.

Someone who would see my name pop up on their phone and be excited to hear from me.

But I didn’t know how to reach out.

Didn’t know how to start.

Didn’t know if it was even possible for someone like me.

If Gojo noticed anything, he didn’t show it.

Not at first.

He still teased, still popped up at the most unexpected moments, still acted like the world was his playground.

But then, I started catching him watching me.

Just little moments, subtle shifts.

His head tilting ever so slightly whenever I hesitated before answering a question.

His focus lingering when I thought no one was paying attention.

At first, I just chalked it up to paranoia. But it kept happening.

The worst part was, Gojo wasn’t the type to care without reason. If he was noticing me, if he was watching me, it meant something had tipped him off.

That terrified me.

Because if he figured it out—if he somehow pieced together how hollow my life really was—I wasn’t sure I could handle that kind of scrutiny.

So I tried harder.

Tried to look normal.

Tried to pretend that I wasn’t weighed down by something invisible, something I didn’t have the words for.

But Gojo was sharp in a way most people didn’t realize.

And even if I could fool everyone else,

I couldn’t fool him.

The days continued to pass, each one blending into the next. I had fallen into a routine, and while there was a sense of comfort in that, there was also something else—something heavier, something I tried not to think about too much.

I wasn’t unhappy, exactly. I had a job, I had a purpose, and I wasn’t struggling. But the silence of my own life had become deafening.

At Jujutsu High, I was surrounded by people, but I had never felt more alone.

It was during lunch that I felt it the most.

I always sat outside, away from the busy chatter of the cafeteria, where students and staff alike gathered in their little groups.

It wasn’t like anyone had told me to sit alone. I had just… done it.

It was easier that way.

Or at least, that was what I told myself.

I had taken to watching the students from afar. Not in an obvious way, but just enough to see the ease of their friendships. The way Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi existed in a way that I had never known myself.

“Oi, Megumi, say ‘ahhh’—”

“No.”

“Come onnn, I made it with love!”

“I literally watched you drop that on the floor.”

Nobara pouted dramatically, only for Yuji to swoop in and eat whatever it was she had been trying to force on Megumi. The two of them laughed at something he said, and even Megumi, who always tried to seem indifferent, looked somewhat amused.

I turned my gaze away with a slight smile, focusing on my food.

It shouldn’t have made me feel like this.

It was such a simple thing—friends joking around, sharing lunch, teasing each other. It wasn’t as if I had ever expected to be part of something like that.

And yet.

I let out a quiet sigh and checked my phone.

Zero notifications.

The same empty lock screen. The same stillness.

I turned it off quickly and placed it back on the table, pushing my food around with my chopsticks.

“Not hungry?”

I looked up, startled.

Shoko had appeared beside me, a cigarette dangling between her fingers as she leaned against the bench. Her sharp eyes flickered to my barely-touched food.

“Oh,” I hesitated. “No, I just…” I trailed off, not really knowing how to finish the sentence.

Shoko hummed. “Gojo giving you trouble?”

I blinked. “What?”

She smirked, exhaling smoke. “He’s been staring at you a lot.”

My stomach twisted uncomfortably. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just gave a weak chuckle and shook my head.

“I think he just likes messing with people.”

“That’s an understatement.” Shoko stretched, then took another drag. “He’s nosy, though. If he’s paying attention to you, he’s probably noticed something.”

I swallowed, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious.

Shoko didn’t push. She just glanced at my food again, then nodded toward the cafeteria. “You should eat with them sometime. They wouldn’t mind.”

I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Maybe,” I lied.

She didn’t call me out on it. Just gave a lazy wave and wandered off, disappearing into the school.

I should have expected it.

I really should have.

But when Gojo’s voice rang out, disrupting my fragile moment of peace, I still nearly choked on air.

“You eat like someone’s forcing you,” he remarked, plopping down onto the bench beside me without a single care.

I froze.

He was too close.

I wasn’t used to people being this close.

Gojo didn’t seem to notice—or, more likely, he didn’t care. He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him, his arms sprawled over the back of the bench as if he owned the whole world.

I forced a weak chuckle, gripping my chopsticks tighter. “I eat fine.”

“Debatable.” He tilted his head toward me. “You’re all stiff. Like a scared little rabbit.”

I gave him a look, but I knew better than to actually argue. Gojo thrived off reactions.

Instead, I let out a breathy laugh and looked away.

He wasn’t deterred.

“So,” he continued, tapping his fingers against the bench, “why do you always eat alone?”

I nearly dropped my chopsticks.

The question caught me off guard—not because it was unexpected, but because it was so blunt.

My throat felt tight. “I just prefer it,” I murmured, staring down at my food.

“Really?” Gojo drawled. “Because I think you just don’t know how to ask to sit with someone.”

I swallowed, gripping my chopsticks so hard they might snap. “That’s not—”

“C’mon, am I wrong?”

I didn’t answer.

Gojo sighed dramatically, turning to face me fully. “You’re a weird one, you know that?”

I let out a nervous laugh, feeling my entire body lock up under his gaze.

“And you’re loud,” I mumbled before I could stop myself.

He grinned. “I am loud. But I’m fun, too.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just nodded weakly.

He tapped a finger against the table. “Seriously, though. You’re always off on your own. No friends? No tragic backstory?”

I blinked rapidly, caught completely off guard. “I—”

“Oh my god, do you have amnesia? Are you secretly a lost princess? A government experiment gone wrong?”

Despite myself, I let out a small laugh. It was quiet, but it was real.

Gojo grinned like he had won something.

“You’re impossible,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“I know,” he said smugly. Then, after a pause, his voice turned softer—quieter. “But really. You okay?”

The question hit harder than I expected.

I stared at my untouched food, feeling my throat tighten.

I didn’t know how to answer.

Because I didn’t even know what ‘okay’ meant anymore.

Gojo didn’t push.

He just sat there, waiting, as if he had all the time in the world.

But I wasn’t ready.

So I did what I always did.

I laughed awkwardly. Nodded.

And said nothing at all.

Gojo let out a hum, tapping his fingers against the table again.

He knew.

Maybe not everything, but something.

And that scared me more than anything.

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 6

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy, seizures, memory loss, hospitals, vomiting, blood and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lando felt like time was moving far too slowly.

He tried to keep himself occupied on the plane, but every moment felt like an eternity. His brain kept returning to thoughts of Lizzie, the words ‘multiple seizures’ running through his mind on a continuous loop.

He had never felt so out of his depth before. Racing? Sure. Even dealing with fans and the media? That was a walk in the park compared to the knot in his stomach now.

And worst of all, the not knowing was killing him.

He had no idea what Lizzie’s condition was truly like.

Was she not responding at all? Was she in a coma? Was she… was she even okay?

He barely managed to keep it together on the plane ride...The taxi ride from the airport to the hospital felt like an eternity. Lando fidgeted in his seat, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his knee.

Every second felt like an hour. Every minute felt like a decade.

Finall, finally, the Royal Sussex Hospital loomed large, its white walls and rows of windows a stark contrast against the grey English sky. Even though it was May, the cold air was biting at his exposed skin.

As he went through the doors, his nostrils were immediately assaulted with the sterile, clinical scent of the hospital.

"Elizabeth Treshton?" he asked at the reception, Lizzie's full name feeling foreign on his tongue. Did anybody ever even call her that? Lizzie was the name she introduced herself with, Lizzie was what friends and family called her…hell, even all the fans on her instagram account seemed to have adopted that name. Elizabeth Treshton seemed solely to exist to be put on her books and that was it.  

The receptionist looked up at him with a small smile. "Yes, she's on the fourth floor. Room 404."

Lando's heart leapt into his throat. "Thank you."

He made his way to the elevator, his mind racing. Fourth floor. Room 404. Four was lucky. Right?

The elevator ride up to the fourth floor was excruciating.

The hum of the elevator’s motor and the faint music playing in the background felt like nails on a chalkboard to Lando’s already frayed nerves. When the doors finally slid open, he practically jumped out into the hallway.

404.

The room number was emblazoned on the sign next to a door partially cracked open.

Lando paused outside, taking one last deep breath to try and steel himself.

Standing outside her room, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to knock, introduce himself, or just stay quiet until the door magically opened. He debated for a moment, his hand hovering awkwardly for a moment before rapping lightly on the door.

There was no answer.

Silence filled the hall.

And then a voice called out, raspy and weary: "Come in."

Lando swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as a desert. With a shaky hand, he pushed the door open and took a single step into the room.

"You're...Lando Norris." His eyes immediately snapped to a man in his late 40s sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed. Lizzie's dad. There was no question about it. He looked just like her.

It was almost more as a statement than a question.

Lando, slightly taken aback, nodded. “Yeah, that’s me. Uh, I came as soon as I heard. Is she...okay?” It was a stupid question, as his gaze fell on Lizzie...dead asleep in the hospital bed.

He wasn't sure what he had expected...maybe more machine's connected to her. 

Granted, there were a few…her heartbeat was silently broadcasted to everybody in the room…there was an IV-Line in her hand…and there were also white bandages wrapped around her forearm. They were nearly the same white colour as her skin. 

Lizzie’s father nodded, a weary smile on his face. "She’s stable. Hasn’t seized in over a day. But she’s been in and out of consciousness a lot. Not very responsive when she is awake, but the doctors say that’s normal."

Lizzie’s father took a slow, appraising look at Lando, like he was trying to piece together the weirdest puzzle of his life. “I must admit, I expected pretty much anything, but not you, to be honest," he finally said drily. "Richard Treshton. Most people call me Rick."

Lando nodded, tearing his gaze away from Lizzie for just a moment. "Nice to meet you, Rick."

He felt acutely aware of the fact that Lizzie’s dad was sizing him up.

Rick leaned back in the chair, his gaze never leaving Lando’s face. "How do you know Lizzie?"

Lando felt a pang of nerves. "We, uh...we’re friends."

Rick raised an eyebrow. "Friend with the benefits sort of thing, or...?"

The blood rushed to his face. "We had two dates!" Lando blurted out. "We haven't...talked about...labels yet."

Rick raised the other eyebrow, now looking rather amused. "Ah, two dates then. I see. But not...dating."

Lando huffed out a breath. "We’re not not dating."

Rick chuckled, now looking thoroughly amused.. "Right. Not not dating. Clear as mud. Two dates, huh? But you’re already flying across the Atlantic to be here? Even though I am quite sure that there is some partying to be had in Miami?"

Lando felt his cheeks redden even further, but he held Rick’s gaze. “I care about her.” The words felt a little too raw, a little too real, and the weight of them hung in the air.

Rick regarded him for a few seconds. Then a small, tired smile appeared on his face. 

"You really do, don't you?"

Lando nodded, unable to find the words to respond. He did care about Lizzie. Deeply. 

"Just don’t make me regret letting you near her, okay?” Rick said with a sigh.

Lando nodded firmly. "I won’t. I promise."

Rick studied him for a beat, as if searching for any trace of dishonesty. Then he gestured to a chair next to the bed. “Sit. Might as well make yourself comfortable.”

"Where's Mara?" Lando asked as he sat down, his eyes searching for the dog.

"I made Mara take Tasha out on a walk. She goes crazy when she is copped inside for two long."

Lando blinked twice. "You made the dog take Tasha out on a walk?"

Rick chuckled. "Technically, I told Tasha to take Mara on a walk, and she agreed. Tasha kept terrorising poor Lizzie everytime she woke…besides Mara was hard at work this week, she needed a break too….she was with Lizzie when the seizures started."

Lando sat down in the chair beside Lizzie's bed, trying to process everything he just heard. He had so many questions, but the one that was the most pressing on his mind was, "How did this happen? The seizures, I mean? Did something trigger them?"

Rick’s expression darkened. "She changed medications a few weeks ago. The new one didn't do a particular good job. Clearly." He sighed. "This is the worst it has been in...around 5 years," he said with a grimace. "Around the time Lizzie got Mara, we also found a combination of medications that minimized her seizures from every few days to every few weeks...This isn't normal for her," he told Lando seriously.

 "Yes, she has epilepsy, yes, she will always have to deal with it, but Lizzie is normally able to live a a mostly "normal" life most of the time. She hasn't been hospitalised like this since her school years."

Lando nodded, trying to wrap his head around everything Rick was saying. His gaze went down to Lizzie, so small and fragile against the stark white sheets of the hospital bed. He had only seen her mostly healthy and whole so far. Even that evening after the one seizure she had had, she had looked tired, but not…not like this. 

She had still been happy Lizzie who was snarky and witty and always ready to dish out a bit of playful banter.

This Lizzie was none of that.

She was pale and still, her face drawn and her body limp. Only the occasional twitch of her fingertips or flutter of her eyelashes indicated that she was still alive.

"Is this...going to happen again?" he asked weakly.

Rick’s expression was grave. "I hope not. Not to this extent, at least. She will have seizures in the future, but hopefully they won’t get this bad again.” He paused, studying Lando for a moment. "This is...a lot. I get it if you want to bail."

Lando’s head snapped up so quickly, it nearly gave him whiplash. "Bail?" he repeated vehemently. "You think I came all the way here to just bail?"

Rick shrugged a little. "No offence, kid, but you’re a world famous racecar driver. You’re known for being a party animal. This,” he gestured vaguely towards the bed where Lizzie lay, "is a whole nother level of commitment."

Lando bristled at that. “I am not afraid of commitment,” he snapped. “ I am not going to bail just because she’s ill.”

Rick just held his gaze for a moment, then chuckled. "You got a hell of backbone, kid. I see why she likes you."

Lando felt a small flicker of pride, but it was quickly overshadowed by worry. "How long do you think she'll be like this?" he asked, gesturing towards Lizzie. She looked so lifeless, so unresponsive.

"Ah, she'll wake up again in a few minutes and ask the same exact questions, she has been asking for the last 3 days," her father said drily. "Who won Miami?"

Lando’s jaw dropped. "Winning Miami is seriously the last thing on my mind right now," he said incredulously.

"Not on Lizzie's," Rick said with a laugh. At that moment, the door opened again. Mara ran into the room, tail wagging, immediately jumping up on the end of Lizzie's bed where there was a blanket waiting for her

Lando watched as Mara lay down on the blanket, head resting on her paws. She looked like she had settled in to stay. 

"You owe Mum 10 bucks, Uncle Rick" came the voice of a young women from the doorway. "Hi, I am Tasha."

Lando turned towards the doorway, taking in the young woman who had just entered. She was striking to look at, with shoulder-length blonde hair and bright green eyes. This must be Tasha. LIzzie's best friend.

"Hello," Lando said, surprised to find himself feeling a little tongue-tied for once. This young woman exuded a kind of confident energy that made him feel slightly...intimidated.

Tasha's gaze flickered over to Lizzie's form in the bed, her expression softening for a split second. Then she fixed Lando with a calculating look, head tilted to the side."Huh. So you are the Lando Norris."

Lando shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling under the spotlight. "Uh, yeah. That's me."

Tasha's gaze was scrutinising, like she was trying to peer straight into his soul. Then she grinned suddenly, her whole face lighting up. "Damn, Lizzie really wasn't kidding. You are pretty cute."

Lando blushed, caught off guard by how bluntly Tasha was speaking. "Uh...thanks, I guess?"

Tasha chuckled, clearly amused by his discomfort. “Relax. I’m not going to bite you. I just wanted to get a good look at the guy who’s snatched Lizzie’s heart.”

Lando’s blush deepened at that, his heart fluttering in his chest at the thought. He was saved of more interrogation by Mara perking up

Mara, who had previously laid still on the end of the bed, suddenly lifted her head, ears pricked. A low, quiet whine escaped her throat, and she turned her head towards Lizzie.

Lando followed Mara’s gaze to Lizzie’s face, where her eyes slowly fluttered open.

Her eyes were glassy and unfocussed, like she was trying to remember where she was. 

There was a beat of silence before Rick spoke up softly. "Hi, sweetheart."

Lizzie’s gaze slowly shifted, landing on her father. A small, confused frown pulled at her brows. "Dad?" she murmured, voice raspy. “Where...what…"

Rick shushed her gently, moving over to the bed. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re in the hospital. You’ve had a seizure.”

Lizzie’s brow furrowed in confusion. "Who won in Miami?" she croaked out.

"The race never actually started. The Miami Dolphins accidentally flooded the track, and now it’s an aquatic event," Tasha said brightly.

…at least Lando now knew what Rick had meant with Tasha kept terrorising Lizzie. 

Lizzie slowly turned her head towards Tasha, her eyes slightly unfocussed. For a second, she just stared at Tasha, as if trying to process her words.

"You made that up?" she finally said faintly questioningly.

Tasha grinned, completely unrepentant. "Yep. But the look on your face was so worth it. You looked like a baffled trout."

A flicker of a smile tugged at the corners of Lizzie's mouth.

It was the first sign of life on her face since Lando arrived. It wasn’t much, but it made him feel a tiny bit hopeful.

"I feel like a baffled trout," Lizzie mumbled slowly, "Where’s Mara?"

As if on cue, Mara let out a soft whine and shoved her head against Lizzie’s hand. Lizzie’s fingers automatically curled around her fur. "Hey girl," she murmured. 

She looked tired. And pale. And fragile. But still, in that moment, she was the most beautiful thing Lando had ever seen.

"So who's won Miami?" she asked, again.

"I did."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them

Lizzie looked up at him. For a second, she looked utterly baffled, like she was surprised to see him. Then recognition dawned in her eyes.

"Lando?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, unable to form words in that moment, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

Her eyes flickered over him, taking in his tired, rumpled appearance. "You're here," she said, her voice filled with wonder.

Lando could only nod, the lump in his throat making it impossible to speak. He felt the weight of Rick and Tasha's gaze on him, but he didn't register it. All he saw was Lizzie.

Lizzie’s hand was still buried in Mara's fur, fingers massaging the dog's head gently. Lando suddenly felt the need to touch her. To assure himself that she was really there.

He reached out, slowly, carefully, as if afraid she would disappear if he was too hasty. His hand hovered awkwardly above hers for a second, hesitating.

Lizzie's gaze flicked to his hovering hand, then back up at his face. There was a beat of silence, a loaded moment, a quiet invitation of sorts.

Lando hesitated for only a second longer, then carefully placed his hand on top of hers. Her skin was cool and smooth beneath his fingertips.

There was another beat of silence, the room heavy with tension. Then Lizzie turned her hand over, fingers intertwining with his. It was such a simple gesture, but it felt like everything. Lando exhaled shakily, squeezing her hand almost without intending to.

Lizzie's thumb rubbed over his knuckles gently, a soft and reassuring gesture. Lando was suddenly hyperaware of every detail about her. The warmth of her hand, the slight chapping on her lips, the circles under her eyes, the faint scent of hospital antiseptic on her skin.

"Either my brain is really scrambled, or you are actually here. Which one is it?"

Lando huffed out a quiet laugh. "I’m really here," he said softly. "Not just a figment of your imagination. I promise."

Lizzie’s eyes fluttered shut, relief and exhaustion warring for dominance on her face.

“You won?” She asked him, her voice slurring slightly.

Lando chuckled quietly, the noise bubbling up in his chest without his consent. "Yes, I won."

Her hand, intertwined with his, twitched slightly tighter at his words. "Really?" she repeated weakly.

"Really," Lando assured her softly. "Finished in first place."

He couldn't tell whether the emotions fluttering in his chest were joy or worry. Perhaps a strange mixture of both.

“I told you, you could do it,” she said simply.

Lando huffed out another laugh, the sound tinged with a hint of disbelief. "Yeah, you did. I should really start to listen to you more often."

Lizzie’s eyes flickered, fighting to remain open. She was losing her battle with sleep.

"You look tired," he said softly, rubbing the skin on the back of her hand with his thumb. "You should sleep."

Lizzie made a small, disgruntled noise. "Don’t wanna," she mumbled stubbornly.

"You need to," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "You need to give your brain a chance to rest and recover."

Lizzie opened her mouth to protest, but a massive yawn cut her off, her protest coming out as another tired groan.

"See? Your body’s betraying you," Lando said with a smile, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. Lizzie huffed, her expression somewhere between annoyed and too exhausted to care.

Her eyes were fluttering closed, trying to stubbornly refuse rest. But the exhaustion was winning, it was blatantly obvious. Lando gave her hand a light squeeze, bringing her attention back. "You need to sleep," he repeated, his voice even more tender this time.

Lizzie huffed again, but it was a weak sound, lacking any real defiance. She was giving in. "Fine. I'll sleep," she mumbled, her voice slurring with exhaustion.

She shifted slightly on the bed, still clinging on to Lando's hand like it was a life line.

Lando gave her hand another gentle squeeze, a silent encouragement. Lizzie let out a soft sigh, her grip on his hand loosening slightly as sleep finally closed in on her.

Lando watched, his heart feeling both heavy and light in his chest. She looked so small and fragile against the hospital sheets.

"I'll be here when you wake up," he whispered softly, not sure if she could even hear him. But her fingers twitched faintly, a last, desperate attempt to cling onto consciousness. Then, finally, her hand went slack in his, and her breathing leveled out into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Lando felt the tension ease from his body, a breath he didn't know he'd been holding escaping from between his lips. Lizzie was asleep, and it was the best state she could be in right now.

He looked up, suddenly remembering that they were not alone in the room. Rick was watching him silently, his gaze steady and observant.

Lando fidgeted under the scrutiny, his grip on Lizzie's hand unconsciously tightening. He'd almost forgotten about Rick and Tasha's presence, caught up in the intensity of the moment.

Tasha was watching him too, her expression hard to read. There was a hint of curiosity in her eyes, a glint that spoke of protective instincts.

"Relax, kid," Rick said, seeing Lando’s discomfort. "We’re not going to tear you apart."

Lando tried to suppress his nerves, but he felt very aware of the fact that he’s just held their daughter’s hand in front of them. "Yeah, I know," he managed to get out, his voice slightly shaky.

"Mara likes you, so I won't be too mean to you," Tasha said drily.

Lando let out a strangled laugh, feeling oddly reassured by Tasha's words. "Is...is that a good thing?" he asked tentatively.

Tasha rolled her eyes, but her expression was amused. "With Lizzie, it’s the highest form of approval you’re going to get."

[jmtorres]

the idea of this society breaks my head. nothing can get finished. new building construction? why bother? you're knitting something? no you're not, you might as well be Penelope frogging your progress every night.

but also nothing can be meaningfully recorded. scientific data? the day's work is all gone and fuck you if your experiment needed longer than a day to run. in the morning there's no record of what's been going on or how long it's been the same day; is someone trying to keep count? they have to do it by memory.

there's nothing new to read. and for a while it's the most well read populace, because why do 'work', but slowly everyone has eventually read everything and the society shifts to hungrily waiting for new short stories posted online at the end of the day, anything anyone could finish by dark.

You log into work. There's a counter with digits in millions on the website. The work slack is taken up with a discussion about who's reading what and where they got it from. You ask about the second quarter analysis you were supposed to be working on. Half the chat says "not it!" and someone, who's not your direct supervisor or even in your department, DMs you to say, Take the day off. Don't worry about it. Look, your boss is talking about Red Dead Redemption in the work slack, it's fine. What would you do with a day off? Shopping, no, bad idea, don't think about what you need to get done, think about more like your bucket list. Travel, hmm, it's a bit of a free-for-all, yes if you go to the airport you can get a ticket for wherever the pilots feel like flying, they're not really charging much either, the computer system wants them to but, well, somebody figured out how to break ticketing a while back.

Bewildered you ask, why? what is going on?

It's Groundhog Day, says your coworker.

No, it's not, you say, it's September??

I can't do this part, says your coworker, I can't explain it to you, just, work doesn't matter today, do something fun.

And then they log off.

Your boss is indeed talking video games in the main channel. The alerts channel has been disabled. The company CEO just posted a skydiving video, which isn't that out of the ordinary, but in a work channel?

Experimentally, you pull up a news website. There's nothing but a large number posted. Is it--yes, it's the same large number that was on your work's front page.

You don't know what it means.

You don't feel like having fun.

Apparently, you are living in a time loop. Also apparently, you are the only person on Earth who DOESN'T remember the previous iterations. This is the first time you've experienced today; the rest of humanity has been stuck reliving today for years now.

[vamptarot]

TMIs about your future spouse | PAC

pile one pile two pile three

how to choose a pile . . . choose whichever you feel drawn to or ask your guides to guide your eyes to the one that is meant for you! ᡣ𐭩

— ⭑.ᐟ this pac was inspired by soobin, as well as my own love for tmis! tmi means ‘too much information’, so things that could be awkward to share but are still entertaining or interesting to talk about! please keep in mind that this is a general reading still, so these aren’t necessarily something unique, just fun! so something that happens to a lot if people, but not everyone. so it’s supposed to show your future spouse’s/soulmate’s unique charm! this reading is intended to make you feel closer to them, to help you realise they are an actual person and not just an idea of a possibility that could happen in your life! <3 I am also sorry for the colour theme for this pac, I admit, I haven’t properly thought it through.

pile one : books

𐙚: 8 of cups,page of cups reversed, three of pentacles, the devil reversed, ace of cups reversed, five of cups, six of wands

bottom of the deck: seven of swords reversed

♡ ⢷ general TMIs

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ the very first thing I would like to mention is that the cards almost formed a big zero, but suddenly the cards fell out in a way they formed the number ‘10’. so this leads me to believe that your person grew up in an environment in which they were bullied for their looks but grew up ‘to be a 10’ because they put in the work to take care of themselves. this could be something some of you will be able to relate over with your person, you two could stay up and share your experiences with one another. the number 10 is significant here in general as well, for some of you their birthday is on the 10th! so the 10th of any month, but the first 4 cards fell out in a way they mirrored one another so I assume there are actually quite a few people here whose spouse was born on October 10th. - or maybe even you, which they find cool. - for a very small amount of you, your person is 10 years older than you. most people in this pile will definitely only have a 1-4 years of age gap with their love, but I am specifically picking up on a few people who will have a 10, or even 10+ year age gap with their lover. don’t be scared though, if you aren’t into it then it’s more than likely not you!

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they could potentially have an anxiety that is related to money! so there is a bigger possibility here that they grew up poor. I realise that there could be people in this pile who can’t relate to that, but regardless I wanted to mention it because it seems to be a part of their life that shaped their personality on a greater scale. they could be more attracted to people - both platonically and romantically - who can appreciate the little things in life, that are grateful for what they have and can take care of it well too. they seem to dislike people who take money for granted, but at the same time they don’t like it if people give too much power to it. it’s just that they wish to surround themselves with humble people who have a lot of gratitude.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they could have great potential to be really successful at life, at whatever they set their mind to and become ambitious towards. however their own doubts could at times stop them from completing tasks at hand that they subconsciously deem as difficult. they know they will be successful, but there is still that doubt at the back of their head that just yells ‘what if’, continuously building up the anxiety inside of them bit by bit. so they are quite the over thinkers, sort of scatter brained because they have thousand of thoughts and they are all going at light speed. - I almost said Godspeed, so they might have this term in their everyday vocabulary. - don’t get them wrong, they are still very disciplined and hardworking, their mind just presents them with several situations so they can be sure to take the right one. for some of you they could even have imposter syndrome.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they have an irregular sleeping schedule! of course, there are many people in this pile so the reason why for the irregular sleep schedule isn’t going to be just one thing. for some it’s insomnia, for another group is hypersomnia and for some people’s soulmate it’s really just because of their work. so you will really just have to wait and see! although I still think they prefer to stay up til late at night and wake up early. - sometimes they don’t even wake up but just continue the day.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ for some of you! they have special interests in different times of history. honestly Egypt and tudor era England is coming in strong! - yeah, typical/basic I know. they can still like it tho, up to them! - but also ancient China and Japan, especially the clothing. honestly, there seems to be a focus on the past. the cultures, fashion and social behaviour that were alive then. it seems to fascinate them how much people have changed yet stayed the same all at once! they just seem to have favourites. - this could be true in general. some of you will definitely have the ‘I hate everyone but you’ trope going on. - regardless they are highly intelligent and always willing to learn and educate themselves in every and any topic. they enjoy knowing things even if they seem useless to others. you can never know when you need to know something.

♡ ⢷ TMIs in love

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they might not be the most experienced when it comes to sexual things. it’s not that they aren’t experienced at all, but they much rather would prefer to control their desires than to give into them and waste time. it’s like they don’t want to do it if it’s not necessary. really hard to turn them on too. this is because… they are demisexual. if you don’t know what that is, it’s basically only being turned on if you are in love with the person you are sharing your experience with! - which no, it’s not normal for everyone! some people are aromantic and bisexual for example. - so they just pick their “battles” really carefully. for some of you they could even have purity ocd </3 that’s only a very selective few of you though!

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ I will be honest with you, they have been seriously in love before.. well, at least what they believe to be love. however, I genuinely can’t tell if they had a relationship or not because they overcomplicate the energy surrounding them and get all sentimental. this has also happened two times, but I am sure the second time they didn’t date.. it’s the first one that they overcomplicate, more than likely due to romanticising the idea of first love. hold on ✋🏻 don’t click off, I know you are annoyed. - rightfully! - this feeling of theirs won’t last forever, as they meet you they will mature and realise that ‘oh, this is what true love actually feels like’. - a channeled thought of theirs! - so by the time they are around they won’t think about that person! 🩶 they are also very single, so that’s that.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they have a tendency to get insecure about themselves sometimes! not their body, I think there are body parts they are very confident in yet humble about. it’s rather about their personality and their being as a whole. they might question if they are good enough to be with you or if they even deserve your love. it’s not that they wonder because they know they don’t, past experiences just left them scarred. they could have been put down a lot mentally, possibly even bullied and told that no one would want to have them anyway.. so that experience just stuck. it makes them wonder if it’s true or not. you know? tries to keep their cool but at the end of the day they are a sensitive soul. very shy too!

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ abandonment issues 🔥 sorry, I thought I would just be straightforward 🫡 they are really scared of being left behind by the people they love. though, it’s not an irrational fear at all to be fair. most people’s spouse/soulmate in this pile has divorced/separated parents. not gonna lie, it could have been the mom that’s left but of course that is personal to everyone’s experience. regardless, they could self sabotage and distance themselves if they believe that you will try to leave them. ‘I will leave before you can ever hurt me’, you know? so they could just need a lot of reassurance! nurturing is fine too, but it could make them embarrassed because they might feel like ‘they need to be stronger than this.’ - to point out, enjoying getting nurtured or giving it is completely fine and nothing you should be ashamed of, I am telling you how your person feels. - I do think they can heal from this habit tho! they are also an introvert. I wasn’t sure how to fit it, but I thought it’s important for someone here to hear it 🫶🏻

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ is interested in feminine people! no, you do not have to wear pink, bows and act like someone you are not. by feminine I mean someone with a gentle nature. kind, sweet, playful, well mannered, caring and a person that’s protective without being overbearing with it. a person with a silent strength. of course they might like it if you have feminine mannerisms too - as in your body language - but they don’t really consciously care about it, it’s a rather subconscious attraction of theirs! they care more for the person’s soul and not the body. - for some of you your person is religious, but I am sure that only applies if you yourself are religious as well! 🩷 - regardless, if you don’t think you embody these don’t worry about it too much. - I fully believe you do, you might just second guess yourself. -

— ✮⋆˙ pink , jang wonyoung , afro hair naturally but currently braided , ginger , shooting star , cosmos , cosmo and wanda , 90s shows , someone here likes niche movies (apes, star wars, kid shows ect.. bluey to be specific) , ‘timmy was an average kid that no one understands’ being stuck in your head , milk being spilled , starting the day of bad , red lipstick , April 4th , old fashion style? like classy 20s - 40s , swim - chase atlantic , smoke but from a candle , Aphrodite worshipper 🫵🏻 , bows but like dyi? on nails , leopard cubs , glamour , merida/brave , bears , a dog named bear ? black but not completely , ‘I got a pocket full of sunshine ‘

pile one, hold on because I got things to say. ✋🏻 I know most of you are girls/women but there are guys/men here that think I forgot them based on my reading style. I did not, the most manly men I have ever met had some sort of feminity to them. I felt your energy the whole time. 🫡 also, I know most of you doubt that I could actually get some of that information out bc ‘oh but you can’t get tmis with tarot’.. baby, I know you saw some other readers not being able to but I can. I am not saying this from a place of arrogance. as long as the person’s higher self is willing to share something with me I can channel it just fine. I am gifted and I WILL use it to help you because you deserve to have help, guidance and most important of all fun. obviously, these tmis are heavier than I expected, but if you wanna know more about your person who am I to stop that? I will channel to the best of my abilities for you 🫡 even tho I know some of you didn’t like some of the tmis and you know what? that’s fair you don’t have to 🤧 take care beautiful don’t let anyone dim your lights that even the sun would be jealous of mwa thank you for reading.

if you liked my reading please consider checking out my paid readings! there is barely any topic I will say no to and with every penny you are helping me!

pile two : soobin

𐙚: the magician, three of coins, hierophant reversed, the lovers reversed, wheel of fortune, eight of coins reversed, knight of wands

bottom of the deck: ten of pentacles

♡ ⢷ general TMIs

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they seem to be a rather pessimistic person. it’s not that they can’t have fun, it’s just that they are pessimistic without even noticing it you know. the kind of person to say ‘what if we won’t like it?’ when you suggest trying out something new. not bothersome though, could just lead to bickering or non serious fights in their daily life.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ I don’t think this person is an adult yet.. ? as in, I don’t think they are any older than 20. so my best guess is the majority of the people who chose this pile are quite young as well 🫡 if you are an adult tho, it’s just that your person is very child like. it’s not that they are not mature, but they haven’t exactly experienced things yet that would make them view life in a serious manner.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ not that talk active. they talk, but they probably use a lot of slangs as of now and have a rather casual tone when talking with anyone. you know how teenage boys talk? kind of like that. not completely though, I don’t think their vocabulary sounds like brain rot. they know how to speak respectfully to people if that makes sense.. ? like they can let go of the slangs if they want, they just use it to sound more friendly. - or if they are really young they are trying to sound cool. -

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ outside a lot! they are pretty extroverted so they enjoy going outside with their friends, or to work. which is great, they honestly seem very disciplined even though their energy is carefree and young. it’s not that they are not home at all, but being inside all day could overwhelm them a lot.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they more than likely have a fake friend that wants no good for them. they are blissfully unaware of this, but this “friend” seems to be quite manipulative towards them because they enjoy the control that comes with it. :/ - hope they break free from people like this. -

♡ ⢷ TMIs in love

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ has player tendencies. I am saying tendencies because they aren’t very successful with their attempts; although they would like to tell you otherwise lol they are unsuccessful bc at heart they are a lover boy/girl, they just didn’t embrace this part of themselves yet.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ doesn’t believe that there is genuinely someone out there for them. it stems from insecurity but also the fact that they don’t really seem to believe in true love. it’s like they wish it would exist, but in their eyes it does not. you will change this tho!

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ honestly wants to have a big family of their own when they are older and feel ready for it. do you know those kids who say ‘when I will have a family I will have 11 kids so I have a football team’? your person could’ve been like that lol like I don’t think y’all will have that many kids, but you guys will still have a pretty little family.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they might be a really cuddly person! not in public of course, but definitely in private. wants to cuddle with you as much as possible, especially when watching movies together or just chilling. might like the idea of you snuggling into them under their shirt or them doing this to you. - just depends on who is the more masculine one in the relationship. -

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ could honestly be very protective of you. not in a controlling sense, but your person is very brave and knows almost no fears. they will definitely be ready to call out anyone who disrespects you. maybe physically fight as well, but that’s incase you get harassed. probably has fantasies of being a protector. 🫡

— ✮⋆˙ brazil , ‘go ahead and cry’ (song), cold , tan skin , tiktok comment section , jump - p1h , rap songs , nose bleeds , football , sweat on forehead & hair (very specific thing to be attracted to. not judging, clarifying. ) , strawberries on pink shirt , chase ocean , choosing 2 piles (I see you) , hooves? as in hooves on horses , sailors ! , ⚓️ , purple eyeshadow , glittery eyeshadow , someone here is a latina , dandadan (esp the ost) , ‘love of my life’ , horror! , uzumaki by junji ito , book reader 🫵🏻

I am not going to lie to you, I am pretty much a big yapper but your partner was trying to be nonchalant so bad their energy affected what exactly I could say, how and just didn’t want to let me in on much. I think they like the idea of being mysterious so they force it even though they aren’t like that at all. also, I think they have a lot of tendency to lie bc throughout this whole reading their higher self tried to go ahead and lie to me in order to appear more cool and well mannered in front of you. if you are into mature men this is NOT your pile at all, this person is very immature and if they aren’t making you feel good this person isn’t for you my dearest. hopefully in the future I can do a better reading for you! thank you for reading.

if you liked my reading please consider checking out my paid readings! there is barely any topic I will say no to and with every penny you are helping me!

pile three : eye cream

𐙚: nine of wands rev, four of wands, ten of wands, the empress reversed, ace of wands rev, the hanged man, the sun rev, queen of swords rev

bottom of the deck: queen of coins

♡ ⢷ general TMIs

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ manspreads a lot. it could be that they are comfortable this way or that it’s to assert dominance quitely.. or, you know, just for space. I do feel like the reason is different for everyone, regardless there are many people in this pile who could perhaps find this gross. I understand, it’s not the most pleasant thing to imagine a random person doing.. but your future spouse is your future spouse!

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they might have a tendency to get depressed easily, perhaps they could even have a depression that’s related to a season like winter, or summer. this is different for each person but it’s winter for most people, it could drain their energy and they could feel rather exhausted.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ their view on religions isn’t exactly mature, they view it as limiting and at times they could be disrespectful while completely thinking that they are justified. this doesn’t apply to only christianity, they could think most if not all religions are completely out of touch and could potentially grow their ego by saying that ‘they don’t need religion to be a good person’ while completely missing the point or without bothering to further learn about whatever subject at hand. although I want to point out, this is only the case if you yourself are the same way. for the religious people in this pile - especially if you are muslim - your future spouse still isn’t religious but is very much open to learning and hearing you out. they could potentially have big puppy eyes while smiling as you tell them about your religion, experiences and what they mean to you. there is a little divide in this group when it comes to this matter but I wouldn’t worry much because you attract the kind of people who are pretty much similar to you!

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they don’t have too much creativity to them - no shade - but they are incredibly good at analysing things and media literacy! they might like to take apart scenes in a movie or show or perhaps even notice things other people normally wouldn’t. they have really sharp eyes and are incredibly good at understanding context that can sometimes fly by peoples head. they are quite intelligent and observant, they appreciate it when there is meaning or reason behind things.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they are a foreigner! I cannot tell where they are from, but it’s certainly a different country from yours. the country they are from seems to be known from their climate honestly, much different from what you are used to. for some of you it’s hot, for some it’s cold. for most of you they are from a hot climate and the owner of a tan skin! for the winter lovers, your spouse is from a cold climate! - while you might think I am making this up I am matter of fact just channeling the sort of person you will be pulled and attracted to. -

♡ ⢷ TMIs in love

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ hopeless romantic, their higher self was not able to wait til I get to this point 😭 definitely the sort of person who loves spoiling you rotten with a whole lot of love to give! one of their love languages is words of affirmation 🙂‍↕️ I almost said ‘love of affirmation’ - lmao - so I am pretty sure they will tell you they love you every single day either directly or in their very own way.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they seem very confident on the outside but tend to get very insecure due to past traumas caused by someone that they once loved. they don’t like to be open about this, and they don’t enjoy the vulnerability that comes with it. they don’t like to be pitied but also get sad while recalling the memories. since their feelings are left unresolved there might be a few issues that come up in the relationship between you. they no longer love the person, of course, but they will at times wonder if they are good enough for you, if you love them or you pretend. they seem very scared of betrayal.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ their type is a rather feminine and submissive person who can still stand up for themselves and be reliable. someone trustworthy, gentle, nurturing and kind hearted. yet, at the same time not really naive. someone wise, intelligent and nurturing. I feel pulled to say a ‘real women’ bc SOMEONE’s future spouse in this pac is very stubborn with mentioning that but for most people in this pile they are bisexual, so I don’t actually want to say that, but I am mentioning it just incase. - If you are a guy do not worry they are obviously a boy kisser my sweetheart - Eitherway, your spouse is very dominant. So that’s that! - Yes even if it’s a woman. -

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they have incredibly high standards. they are picky and they like to choose their partner well. so because of this they are a tad bit inexperienced. not insanely, but they would rather value themselves than to give themselves to someone who can’t see their worth. - their words, not mine. -

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ they are family oriented, aka you oriented. they are incredibly open minded, understanding, not forceful and will try to be open and accepting even when it’s hard or they don’t exactly understand you or what you are going through. let’s say you start out the relationship wanting a big family but down the line get scared of pregnancy and become unsure if you actually want a big family or not, they will be accepting and try to understand; and if you aren’t ready to talk about it they will wait for you to slowly open up bit by bit no matter how long it takes. they are patient, and they are loving. of course, this was only an example but I figured this would be a good way to show how much your spouse adores and loves you for the person that you are, rather than what you can give them.

— ✮⋆˙songs from your childhood, ‘tell me it’s you’, someone here has a new crush, a drama starring kim soohyun, mbappé, smudged eyeliner, your waterline having some sort of issue? 🧐, painted glittery nails, reddish orange, cracking your fingers, blond - bleached - hair, storm, prominent eyebrows, leia/leila/layla, recently bought yourself clothing, X, pearls - maybe pink ones? -, collecting seashells from a beach/shore, malaysia/indonesia, milky skin, sad puppy eyes by default

alrighty mighty my beautiful pile three I KNOW everyone in this group has read something they perhaps didn’t like but please know it’s because your group is the most diverse one, so many energies came through. either way I hope you could still enjoy this pile 🤧 I would NEVER purposefully say anything to upset any of you. 🩶 thank you for reading.

if you liked my reading please consider checking out my paid readings! there is barely any topic I will say no to and with every penny you are helping me!

[messenger-of-babel]

Jason Todd Who...

Summary: Thoughts about your relationship with Jason Todd.

Word Count: 1.6K

Notes: So this was supposed to come out a few days ago to maintain a 'one post a week' baseline, but my hometown kinda flooded, everyone got evacuated, I came back to work and my office building managed to flood and catch fire in the span of 24 hours. I'm still fine though! Currently splitting time with writing, work, and drying things out. Stay safe out there!

Love RiRi <3

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Thinking about a Jason Todd Who…

Has no idea how exactly he got into a relationship with you. Well, technically he’d like to call it a situationship, since neither of you have decided to put a label on it yet. He’d helped you out post patrol one evening, Bruce doing his head in as usual. He didn’t plan on drinking that night, but he still pushed open the door to the bar, hoping he could at least chat to James, the bartender, if he was on that night. It turns out that James was, in fact, on shift and currently occupied in the back corner near the pool table. His ears switched into overdrive hearing the ruckus, the years of vigilante training making his senses kick in keenly to try and respond. That’s when he saw you, being restrained by James and pool cue in hand.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Laughs to himself as his first response to seeing a bar fight, your opponent curled on the ground from where you had jabbed him with the cue. When his eyes met yours, your form wriggling in James grip, he was oddly delighted to see the challenging glare you sent to him. After about twenty minutes of exchanged words and threats of security, James lets you go and you sit at the bar, fingers tapping the wood in irritation.

“You shouldn’t drink if you get angry, you know.” He grins, following your shadow to the bar and leaning on the nearby stool.

“I’m not drunk.” You defend, eyeing him up and down. “I made that decision completely sober.”

Jason’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, really? Do tell me what he did to deserve being attacked then.”

“He was being an asshole.”

Yeah, Jason was going to like you.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Calls it a relationship to himself silently after a while but is still too nervous to say it in front of you. What if you didn’t think about it the same way? What if you were platonically getting coffee together every Thursday? That you only held onto him that tight when you rode with him because you were worried about falling off? That you were just friends that crashed in the same bed after a night out? He couldn’t help the flutter in his chest and the grin he wore so easily when you were around. He didn’t realise how much baggage he wore on his shoulders until you showed up and he felt like he could lift his neck for once. He knew he was fucked up, dying and coming back would do that to you. Yet he didn’t notice how the heaviness of it kept his eyes trained on the pavement, neck craning under the weight.

Yeah, Jason really liked you.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Dreads you coming over to meet the family, protesting the entire time. Not only because it was pouring outside meaning he had to take the car (meaning he couldn’t feel your arms around him), but because he still doesn’t know what you are. He’s been meaning to clear it up with you, wanting to ask so desperately, but every time that he’s tried the words catch in his throat. Like he’s back to being Robin, the young boy now trapped in a body way too big for him. So instead he just tightens his hands on the steering wheel, lost so deep in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the lovestruck glances you steal from the corner of your eye, or the nervous playing of your hands in your lap.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Is completely taken aback when you announce yourself as his partner at the door when Alfred asks who you are. His brain blanks out, just staring down at you with a wider than usual glance. His hands are frozen to his side, unsure of what he could do. What to even say. The old man just smiles when Jason flicks his gaze to meet his grandfather figure, the old man’s eyes crinkling in mirth.

“Then welcome in. Master Dick and Tim will be delighted to hear it.”

You smile so easily, so effortlessly as you take his hand and lead him into his own home (or ex-home as he liked to call it).

God, he liked you.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Scowls when he sees Tim pay Dick a $20 under the table as you introduce yourself again, his older sibling figure sending him a shit eating grin as he pockets the cash in his front jacket pocket. He doesn’t miss the way that Bruce’s eyebrow twitches up curiously as you say you’re his partner, before that critical gaze flicks to Jason, silently asking if the information is true. He gives a short tense nod, and the billionaire grips his chin in thought before running a hand over his face.

That makes a flare of anger peak in Jason, but he squashes it down for the sake of Alfred and the dinner he worked so hard to wrangle everyone in for. You’re too distracted introducing yourself to Steph and Duke to see the critical glances Bruce sends you, the duo more than eager to engage you in conversation. He hates the way that Jason can feel the gaze of Bruce bore into his cheek, like he was trying to carve a his own bat-shaped scar next to the white ‘J’. He hated that gaze. The gaze that he could feel before he was told to ‘take it from the top’ or to ‘do another set’. The gaze he used to try and thrive under when he was younger, pushing himself to the limits in the hope that it would soften up if he excelled. The gaze that felt like it was doing nothing but waiting for him to mess up, so it could devour him with sharp teeth and harsher words. He knew Bruce didn’t approve. Jason knew he didn’t care.

Jason liked you too much to let Bruce scare away his chance of happiness.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Has his breath stolen the moment you kiss him in the car. He feels like he’s drowning, but it’s the most blissful torture he’s ever experienced as you lean across the car console to cover his lips with yours.

“You were distracted at dinner.” You murmur softly when you pull away. Jason has to blink the stars from his eyes, his scarred hands twitching to rest at the back of your neck and pull you to him again.

“I was just lost in thought, that’s all.” He says back, fighting the tremor in his voice. Once again he feels like a young boy piloting a hulking, clumsy body, his mind and muscle out of sync. You hum in response, not fully taking his answer.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, calling myself your partner.” Your murmur after a slight tense silence. “I should have asked first.”

Jason swallows thickly. “I don’t mind.” He says quickly, a little too quickly if he was honest with himself. “I’m happy to try, I mean, if you want that.”

You smile, the sight that makes his chest flap. Like he had said the funniest thing imaginable, your sparkling gaze focused all on him.

You liked him.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Holds nothing back as soon as you two become an actual couple. He’s doing what he can (albeit it clumsily) to keep you around. He’s mostly mimicking other relationships he’s seen, readings articles on how to be a good partner late at night. He knows to be himself, he’s not an idiot. He knows that you would scold him if you saw the things that he was doing, but he couldn’t stop. He had had relationships before you, of course. Yet the difference this time was that this was you, and he wasn’t going to risk it going sideways the same way the others had.

The biggest thing he had found was trying to keep you away from the other side of him. The side that donned a mask when the sun went down and staked out rooftops with a blue and black spandex clad chatterbox, and a caped brat. It had been easily enough when you were apart, but now that you were living together in his little apartment, it was getting harder and harder to sneak out of your arms at night and crawl back into them in the morning. He cursed the fact that you were a light sleeper, leading him to nearly being caught one too many times. He knew that you were getting suspicious, but keeping your reservations to yourself in the morning.

Bruce still didn’t like you, even more so now that you were closer to Jason’s true side than ever. But maybe Bruce did like you. That was a thought that plagued him, preventing him from falling into the sleep he so desperately needed after a long patrol. You were curled into his side, chest rising and falling softly.

Maybe Bruce did like you, and he was trying to protect you. Trying to keep you away from the potential heartbreak of losing him, which was a constant threat in this line of work. Maybe he was trying to keep you from being harmed, something that Jason feared constantly about having you close. Maybe Bruce was trying to save you because he did like you, and Jason was condemning you by being with you.

You move slightly when he shifts, eyes flicking opening groggily. Your normally bright eyes are cloudy with sleep, and you meet his gaze.

“Jay?” you mumble.

He grins softly, calloused fingers brushing a piece of hair from your forehead.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Maybe Bruce did like you.

But Jason loved you.

[seungfl0wer]

*𝘼𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙒𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜*

Pairing: Minho x Reader (Fem)

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Daddy!Minho, Degrading, (Slut and whore used), Orgasm denial, Chocking, Spanking, Oral(M), FaceFucking, Creampie, Unprotected sex, Sorry for any mistakes or missing warnings

A/N: I’ve had this idea for awhile- kinda made it a little uhm- mean dom Minho lol so hope you enjoy.

-🖤

Minho had been gone for the day. Leaving for work early in the morning. Prying himself from you to get out the door. He had been gone for so long, and you were becoming incredibly needy. You texted him around 4 asking him if he was gonna be home soon. He’d texted back ‘not for a few more hours kitten’

As you waited you plopped yourself down on the couch sighing loudly. Not even the cats were coming to comfort you. You huffed whining loudly to no avail of course. You felt like you were going insane. Board and needy out of your mind you made your way to your room. Rummaging through the closet to find one of your toys to play with. Minho wouldn’t be home for at least a couple hours, so what he wouldn’t know wouldn’t hurt him right?

You rid yourself of your bottom lazily pressing the toy to your sensitive clit. Finally getting some relief, the first touch made you moan loudly. Body already arching from the bed. You had your whole body spread now getting yourself off to the thought of your boyfriend. Wanting nothing more than to have him come home.

Something you didn’t realize though was the Minho was watching. You had forgotten all about the cameras he had installed to watch the cats while he was gone. He would check them occasionally to check up on you. What he saw made an evil little grin come across his face. He watched as you toyed with your puffy clit, moaning loudly. Calling out his name as you grabbed ahold of the sheets. Oh was he gonna punish you, because you knew better. ‘Naughty thing’ he thought to himself. He made up some excuse to leave early, not telling you he was on his way to catch you in the act.

Unbeknownst to you as tears pricked at your eyes Minho had gotten home. You moaned out loudly finally cumming as your legs shook. In your daze you didn’t hear Minho opening the door. He stood there with that evil grin watching you “What do we have here?” He said from the door way.

Your body jumped at his words. “Minho I’m” you started to say before he cut you off.

“Who?” He said shooting you a glare.

“D-daddy I’m sorry” you said eyes avoiding his gaze.

“You’re sorry? You know better kitten.”

“I- I just missed you and I-“ you stuttered out.

“No excuses, you know you’re not supposed to touch yourself and especially not supposed to be playing with toys without me hmm?” He said in a stern voice.

“M’sorry” you said softly.

He moved to sit on the end of the bed patting his lap. You knew what he wanted but didn’t move. “M’sorry daddy please” you said trying to give him puppy eyes. Only for him to start counting. 1. 2. He started, you got up slowly slinking your way to him with a frown. You assumed the position laying your body over his lap. “Count”. He said before smacking your ass. “One” you whimpered out.

“Louder” he growled with another smack.

“Two” you said louder. He smacked your ass a few more times as you counted each becoming a bit harder as he rubbed it softly afterwards. The last smack was the hardest, making your body shoot up. “That one hurt” you whined looking back at him.

“It hurt? Is that why this bratty little cunt is dripping?” He growled pushing your body back down onto his lap. His hand roughly came down pushing his fingers into you with no warning. “This dirty little cunt is soaked? You sure it hurt that badly?” He said with a grin.

He pushed his fingers in and out of you his thumb coming up to press against your clit. “Daddy!” You cried out, your head feeling dizzy from his fingers working their magic. As you felt another high coming he could feel your body clenching around him making him chuckle. He removed his hands from you and before you could even whine he was man handling you in the bed. He pushed your body down, back against the bed. Your head was at the edge of the bed eyes glossed over as you looked up at him.

“Open that filthy mouth” he demanded as he lazily stroked his cock. You don’t remember when he took his pants off but they were gone. Thrown across the room somewhere with your own clothes. You looked up at him not really hearing what he had said. His hand found your face gripping it as he repeated himself “open. That filthy mouth don’t make me say it again.” He growled. And you did. Opening your mouth as wide as you could before Minho pushed in. His cock quickly filling your mouth.

He used your mouth roughly, fucking into it as his hands gripped at your hair. “That’s it- fuck take it- little brat couldn’t even wait for me to get home hmm? Such a little whore.” He groaned. His cock hit the back of your throat his head falling back at the feeling. Your hand moved on its own moving slowly down to your soaking cunt. His eyes shot to your hand smacking it away quickly. “You don’t learn do you?” He said with a low chuckle.

He leaned himself down as he fucked into your mouth. Hand coming down with a loud smack to your cunt. You jumped at the feeling head moving up taking more of him back your throat. “Fuck-“ he moaned out.

He quickly pulled out of your mouth maneuvering your body how he wanted it. He pushed your body down, stomach now laying flat on the bed before you felt him behind you. His cock head poking at your entrance. “Color” he said as he rubbed the head up and down.

“G-green” you mumbled out.

That’s all he needed to hear before he was pushing into you. His hands gripped at your hips as he fucked into you mercilessly. His cock head kissing your cervix so nicely. “I bet this is what you wanted huh? For me to catch you just so I’d punish you? Is that what you wanted kitten? Wanted me to treat you like the little slut you are?” He said.

Your brain was fuzzy however you knew you needed to answer “n-no- I- ah I just missed you” you cried.

“Missed me? So since you missed me you thought you could get yourself off without me hm? You know that I’m the only one allowed to touch the pretty little cunt. I’m the only one that is allowed to make it cum” he said.

“M’sorry” you cried louder.

His hand came down hard on your already raw ass “you knew you weren’t supposed to and still did. Right?” He said almost coldly.

“Y-yes” you answered.

“So do you think you deserve to cum?” He asked.

“Daddy-“ you said softly.

Another smack coming down on your ass “answer me”

“Please- I won’t do it again- just- I wanna cum with you please please” you repeated.

“Do you think I should let you?” He said again. “You did something knowing you shouldn’t so why should I let you?” He spat.

“M’sorry m’so sorry!” You cried feeling tears pricking at your eyes.

His hand came down around your throat, choking you slightly. “You’re gonna take everything I give you. No cumming. Got it.” He said against your ear. You only nodded knowing he wasn’t gonna let up. His body was now pressed firmly against yours as he rutted deep into you. “Let this be a lesson next time you decide to do something you know you’re not supposed to.” He growled against your skin.

He pushed once more deep into you before cumming, painting your walls white. His arms came around you pulling you to him. He left soft kisses to your skin as he came down from his high. “M’sorry” you whispered out.

“It’s ok kitten” he coo’d.

“Do you hate me” you said softly. He knew sometimes with punishments you felt guilty for whatever you did. He knew you’d need more reassurance.

“Kitten, I don’t hate you. You just gotta listen ok? I love you so very much” he said as he cupped your face to look at him. He kissed your lips softly holding you as close as he possibly could.

“I’m really sorry” you said again.

“Sssh it’s ok love, don’t apologize anymore. Everything done, so how about we go shower and I’ll cook us something hm?” He said with a sweet smile.

You shook your head yes but you held onto him tightly “can we cuddle a little more first? I really missed you today” you said looking up at him with those pretty eyes.

“Of course kitten. I love you.” He said kissing your cheek softly.

“I love you to daddy” you said back nuzzling into him.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

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