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hiddenreamers · 8 months ago

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I was in your music video - f1 drivers x singer!reader

SUMMARY: They say that if a poet loves you, they will write you into immortality. But if you date a musician, they might write you into the Billboard 100. Which is exactly what happens to your driver boyfriend.

Featuring: Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz Jr, Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, George Russell

Note: Yes, two songs are sung by male artists. Yes, I'm going to ignore that fact and you should, too.

Lewis Hamilton

He's been in the room maybe five times. The space always felt strangely sacred to him - this is where you write, compose and practice songs with your band; this is where the magic, so to speak, happens. Walls are absolutely covered with tour posters, polaroids and printed-out articles. There's a large mirror that seems to be a message board considering all the sticky notes and words written with a marker. The only somewhat de-cluttered space is surrounding the setup. It's an unspoken testament to being a musician in a band.

There's a certain tension inside the driver. You've never asked him to listen to a song before it's finished. Sure, he has listened through your albums before they were officially released but it was always just that - a recording, not a live version. So what's different this time? Why is it vital he hears this song early?

Walking through the room, Lewis has to carefully watch where he's going. He doesn't want to accidentally break something by stepping on a cable or kicking a box with unknown contents. Inside a garage, he knows what not to touch but a recording studio and instruments are pretty much an unknown world to him.

Lewis is standing around a tad awkwardly, hands in pockets, when the bassist pushes a big black box closer to the driver.

"Have a seat." The musician points to the chest.

Lewis frowns. "On the box?" he asks, unsure. "Is that okay?"

"It's the Lucky Chest, Hamilton," the bassist announces. The other band members snicker at the title. "You have to sit on it."

"What's lucky about it?" Lewis inquires. More than the seating choice, he's interested in the reason for laughter.

"The first time we played at a big festival," the guitarist begins, her story slightly interrupted by her tuning the guitar, "we were sitting on it and listening to Green Day's stage, wondering 'how the fuck are we supposed to play after them?'."

"We were doing like a punk-rock tribute thing," adds the drummer. He's adjusting his seat and judging by the constant up-and-down movement, he can't make up his mind. The process is finally over when he reaches to tap the high-hat and nods to himself, content.

"After we finished our set," you take over retelling the story, "Billy Joe Armstrong came up to us and said we did great."

"So now it's the Lucky Chest," concludes the bassist.

Perhaps it's another testament to being a musician in a band when multiple people together tell one story without cutting details or creating chaos. A true harmony, though a joke a little on the nose.

"Well, I'm honoured," Lewis says. An airy giggle escapes him as he's still thinking about how easily teamwork comes to you and your band.

"You should be." The guitarist points her finger at him in a joking but accusatory way. Then she looks over her shoulder. "Whenever you're ready, drummer boy."

Music fills the room and Lewis is instantly captivated by you. He noticed it the first time he saw you on stage, how something inside you changes the moment you hear the instruments playing. Intensity, fire - passion in its most primal form. But this time around, the look in your eyes is different. You're no longer looking at the audience but him specifically; instead of singing a song, you seem to be telling him something.

So he listens.

I'm a desert, you're an ocean It's your motion that I need Without you I am broken, left to thirst out in the heat

And how strange he suddenly feels: all of the sentiments he already knows but now that you've put them into words for the whole world to hear, he can't help but find some revelation in them. For a moment, there's only the two of you and your confession of desire. Every word resonates with him and Lewis feels like he could say all of those things about you, too.

The song is far from over but he has already decided - he will listen to it before every race.

Lando Norris

Nothing seemed different about that day.

Lando is streaming while you're still at the studio. In an hour or so, you will come back, he will end the stream and the two of you will sit down to eat something. You will talk about your day, he will say something silly and both of you will laugh. Just like you always did.

To his credit, Lando couldn't have known about the song because you never told him. Some part of you thought it would be a bit dramatic to announce that you've written a song about him but can't play it yet because it's not finished. It would spoil the fun, wouldn't it? Therefore, you decided to tell Lando only after he listened to the final product. Perhaps you also wanted to seem a lot more nonchalant about the whole thing, planning on giving him just an off-hand comment of "oh, by the way, this one's about you". Life, however, rarely turns out the way we plan and that's exactly what happened that night.

If it was just one or two people calling Lando "honeybee" on the stream, he probably wouldn't even notice. But even he will pay attention when the comments are going on hundreds if not thousands.

He can't help but grow flustered at the pet name born out of his visceral fear of insects.

"Who told you that?!" he yells in a comically angry tone, a poor attempt at hiding embarrassment.

The comments come flooding again, explaining the situation only in variations of your name and the title Espresso. And like a detective following a crime, Lando immediately searches the internet.

"I feel lied to," he speaks up. "She didn't tell me she has a new song coming out. Why am I the last one to know? When I literally live with her? This is so unfair, I'm obviously the biggest fan, I should know first!"

Lando plays the music video. From the first line of "he's thinking about me every night", his bashfulness only gets worse. What starts as an excited smile, grows into a flustered, giggly mess. Although his pride is on the line, he can't deny any of the claims you make in the song. Yes, he couldn't sleep one night thinking about you and texted you about that. Yes, he does call you often even though he hates making phone calls. And yes, Lando Norris is, in fact, wrapped around your finger. What a horse is everyone can see and similarly, everyone can see and define who Lando is when it comes to his girlfriend:

"Simp?" he reads one of the comments. "Look, maybe I am but at the end of the day I'm dating her and you're not so who's the real loser here?"

Lando can only laugh his heart out when the chat gets flooded with identical comments: You.

"Okay, I admit. I'm down bad for my girlfriend and I'm proud of that."

Tomorrow's headlines are bound to be interesting...

Oscar Piastri

Although Oscar has seen you in musicals countless times, this situation feels a lot weirder and more uncomfortable. When he comes to watch your show, he's in the audience and you're on the stage. Now you're sitting side by side on the couch in your shared apartment, about to see your first movie. You're both the audience and the creator, which leaves you unsure how to act.

Unfortunately, your discomfort only grows. Oscar seems to be enjoying the movie but joy is not granted to you on this day. With each minute, you know your big part is coming. Oh God, what is he going to think?

Then, you suddenly pause the film. Oscar looks at you confused.

"There's something you need to know before you watch this scene and listen to the song," you say before he can ask you about your strange actions.

Oscar's frown only deepens. "You're making it sound really serious."

"Because it is. The thing is... " you hang your voice, unsure how to put words together. How do you tell someone this without making things awkward? "This is more embarrassing than I thought it would be but the song you're about to hear, I wrote it thinking about you."

He's trying to smile but the shadow of embarrassment on his face doesn't go unnoticed. You can only hope it's good kind of nervous.

The movie is resumed. As your discomfort is barely tolerable, you're looking away from the TV, fidgeting ever-so-slightly. Once or twice, you glance at Oscar, trying to see his reaction. The problem is, he's sitting unbelievably still. True, Oscar Piastri tends to be on the calmer side but right now it feels off. As if lost deep in thought, he appears to be diligently contemplating the scene in the movie; picking apart the words that came to your mind while thinking about him.

When the song comes to an end, you pause the film once more. A tense silence falls between you and Oscar, both longing to say something and yet neither willing to.

"So?" you begin hesitantly. "What do you think?"

Oscar shifts awkwardly. "Erm... I don't really know what to say."

A nervous giggle escapes your lips. "It's really sappy, I know." You try to downplay the situation, fearing that his reaction is born out of something negative. Does he think you're clingy? Obsessive? Too dramatic to handle?

"It's not that," he quickly denies. "Well, okay, it is kind of sappy but it's good sappy?" Oscar's tone raises slightly, revealing that he's unsure whether it's the right choice of words.

"Good sappy?" you repeat.

It feels as though woe has weaved a nest inside your viscera. "Good sappy" sounds like a lovely, diplomatic euphemism used not to hurt someone's feelings.

"Yeah, it's just..." Oscar doesn't finish his sentence. He runs his hand through his hair, then rubs the back of his neck nervously. Finally, he looks at you but not in a way you're familiar with. There's something ethereal in his gaze, a glint of inexplicable emotion that would escape a less observant eye. "It's really beautiful," he says. "The fact that you feel this way about me?" You could swear there are tears in his eyes as he lets out a flustered giggle. "I can die happy now."

Carlos Sainz

As old tradition entails, the Thursdays before a race weekend are meant for golfing. And who is Carlos Sainz to not give in to the custom?

He's sitting in his car, impatiently ploughing through the traffic of the city centre. Why are people out and about at this time, anyway? Shouldn't they be at work? Wanting to get his mind off of the fact that he's going to be quite late to the game, Carlos turns on the radio. The man is mindlessly skipping through the stations until something catches his attention - the announcer introduces you as today's guest.

"Hello again, pretty girl," Carlos says to himself. A small smile enters his face.

"First of all, I'd like to thank you," the radio host begins. "Unfinished Business is just the album I've been waiting for this year. And not only me! Have you seen Billboard 100 lately?"

Your flustered giggle is just as adorable as always. "Yesterday evening, I think?"

The broadcaster sighs dramatically. "Then you have ancient news. I have the site pulled up now and check it every few minutes. Let me tell you, Unfinished Business has climbed twenty spots since morning."

"Oh, shoot."

"Indeed." The announcer laughs and Carlos does with him. It's such a familiar theme for the driver - you being more humble than you really should be, surprised by the success you entirely deserve.

"Now, to address the elephant in the room or rather on the music charts. Over and Over Again is like a love letter all of us have written but never sent. Tell me all about it!"

"I guess 'love letter' is a pretty good description," you explain. Curious, Carlos turns up the volume. "For some time, I was trying to put my thoughts together and tell someone how I felt but never could quite do it. I can write good songs but in real life, I'm pretty terrible at speaking my mind and talking about feelings. I just don't want people to misunderstand, you know?"

"What are you saying, hermosa?" Carlos asks aloud, although there's no one to answer him.

"At least you can write a song about it! We regular folk are stuck with memes and playlists."

"Thank God, I can!" You laugh and, as embarrassing as it may sound, Carlos feels a sudden warmth spreading through his chest. "I was struggling with saying what I wanted to say to him, so at some point, I just decided I could put those words and feelings into a song. He likes to listen to the radio when he's driving so he might even be listening right now."

Although nothing bad or negative is going on, Carlos feels himself growing tense, nervous. There's no doubt the "he" you keep mentioning is him but what exactly is it you've been trying to tell him? Is there something he's missing?

"Did you tell him you've written a song about him?" the radio host asks.

"It might have slipped my mind," you answer coyly.

The announcer only laughs. "Oh dear, what a way to find out! Without further ado, let's hear your love letter to the mysterious man. I really hope he's listening to us right now. Don't you dare change the station, you lucky guy."

To his own surprise, Carlos recognizes the melody - you've been humming it for weeks now. But as you begin singing, the words leave him in disbelief. Do you really... mean all of that?

Carlos is lost in the song, feeling as though the lyrics aren't just lyrics but your genuine confession; a true love letter, as you have said yourself. He's brought back to reality only when the car behind him honks and Carlos is a hair's breadth away from picking a fight with the other driver. Nothing requires more haste or attention than his girlfriend exclaiming to the whole world that he will always be the one for her and that she will love him over and over again.

Charles Leclerc

You don't hear Charles coming in - you're too lost in your own thing to remember there's an entire world outside of the song and the piano in front of you. On the other hand, Charles doesn't announce his arrival as he doesn't want to disturb you. To be perfectly honest, he's a little too curious to interrupt you. It happens very rarely that you practise outside of the studio and so Charles doesn't really get to hear your more casual singing, not an embellished performance for the audience.

As quietly as he can, he makes his way towards you. Charles casually leans against the doorframe, your back turned to him as you continue playing the piano. He barely bites back the smile that creeps onto his face whenever you effortlessly sing the high notes - they are difficult for professionals and yet you execute them so cleanly, they appear almost too easy.

The lyrics haunt him but in a truly delicious way. A particular note of sincerity in your voice makes the words stick to him like rain does to a reckless passerby. Sure, they will slip away, although not before drenching him; their vital piece will forever lie with him.

When the song comes to an end, Charles (without thinking twice) gives you a hefty applause. The surprise makes you almost fall off the chair.

"Shit, you scared me!" you yell at him. It takes a couple deep breaths and your boyfriend's apologies, to collect yourself. "How much did you hear?"

He shrugs, suddenly realizing that he wasn't supposed to hear even one note of the song. "Pretty much all of it."

Your expression must not be joyful as Charles resumes his apologies and poor attempts at excuses. Suddenly, you cut him off. "How'd you like it?"

For a moment, he only hums and mindlessly knocks at the doorframe, looking for the right words.

"I loved it," he confesses. A strange tension in his voice proves he's telling the truth. "It's a beautiful song."

"Good," you answer absentmindedly. Quietly, you nod to yourself before looking back at Charles, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "It would really suck if you hated a song about yourself, you know?"

His eyes grow wide and Charles seems to forget about blinking for a good minute. Judging by the changes in his expression, you can tell the exact thought process he's experiencing: realizing you've written a song about him, joy caused by that, remembering the lyrics and finally taking them personally.

The more observant fans might notice a new addition to his helmet: "Claire de Lune" written in elegant lettering.

George Russell

Common sense might tell you that a race car driver must have no fear. And that would be correct, although quite imprecise. They must have no fear on track, yes, but daily life is quite different from racing, isn't it? Or maybe George is discovering a range of emotions he has not known before.

Your relationship is fresh but that isn't to say it's not serious. The weight of the connection the two of you share is a major part of the reason why George has been dead set on taking things slow. The other part is him knowing what media circus will play out once the news breaks. It's hard to blame him for wanting to keep at least some aspect of his life private, especially one that means so much to him.

As understanding as you are, George's apprehensiveness is tiring. You perfectly understand his reasoning and to some degree share the sentiment but at the same time, you are just somebody in love - you itch to scream it to the whole world. Or, at the very least, share a picture of the two of you. Both of you haven't been middle-schoolers for quite some time now, so why act like ones?

George, like the supportive boyfriend he is, loves to see you in your element. He watches the music videos, yet, but he much prefers the dance practice videos, where you're visibly enjoying each second of the choreography. Therefore, when you upload a new dance video for your song, he's probably the first person to play it.

It's a catchy tune that makes even the most boring people want to dance a little. With his head moving to the rhythm, George doesn't focus much on the lyrics until something in the second verse catches his attention:

So used to hiding We built our kingdom around The right timing

The lines, understandably, hit a little too close to home to be a pure coincidence. Now suspicious, George replays the video - this time, he's actually listening to the words instead of focusing on your dancing. Any hesitation that he's the true recipient of the song is gone with the first line of "Say you want me". The desperation in your voice is simply too candid to be just an act for the sake of the performance.

With the song loudly playing on a loop, George is scrolling through his phone's gallery in search of the best pictures of the two of you. He can't help but mouth the lyrics along with your singing, only to randomly giggle as the thought once again settles - it's about him.

Your phone can't stop vibrating. The notifications are coming nonstop. What on Earth happened? Upon opening Instagram, the mystery is solved. The internet seemed to be set on fire when George posted a series of pictures of the two of you with a caption that earned a giddy chuckle from you: "Setting us in motion".

Max Verstappen

Max and you both understand how much support can change. Sometimes just knowing that this other person is out there, watching and cheering, can change everything. As such, the two of you try to attend each other's events as much as you can. Unfortunately, the universe isn't always kind and you end up on the opposite ends of the world. The only support you can offer then is watching the live-streamed event - just like Max is doing right now.

He's sitting in his driver's room in Singapore, while you're at an award show in the USA. Quite the distance. There's something unbearably humbling about having to watch your performance like most of the world, when Max is, without a doubt, not most of the world.

In the back of his mind, Max is still thinking about the conversation he had with you earlier. Although he never misses your performances, you made it a point to tell him to watch this one. In your own words, he's supposed to look out for something fun, like a detail that will make this show different from the others. So as though he is a hawk, or more of a vulture, Max is hyperanalizing everything that's happening on the screen. He's not about to miss your little surprise.

The song begins and as much as he wants to enjoy watching you in your element, Max is a missile on a mission. Nothing specific seems to catch his eye but that t-shirt you're wearing...

Max knows it all too well. Theoretically, it's his t-shirt but considering you wear it more often than he does, it's practically yours. Now it's styled to fit the concept and image of your bandmates but the colour, the logo, the number, are all unmistakeable. Considering how much you're touching the article of clothing, compared to other dancers, he's convinced he's found what he was meant to look for.

Before he can wonder why you've chosen to wear his t-shirt for your performance, it's you who gives him the answer through the lyrics:

I feel like for the first time I am not faking Fingers on my buttons and now you're playing Master of anticipation, don't you keep it all to yourself

Max Verstappen doesn't get flustered but if he did, he'd be beyond flustered right now. The realization hits him like a derailed train - the song that everyone has been obsessed with through the summer and that has pretty obvious sexual lyrics is actually about him.

And if he did get flustered, the emotion would be rather short-lived, giving way to pride. After all, the core meaning of the song is that he's a generous lover, right? Clearly, he's been taking good care of his girlfriend.

Now, each sung line of "Just the touch of your love" makes Max all the more frustrated that the two of you are so far apart. He's earned his title of "Master of anticipation" and he intends to keep it.

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opt1mistic · 4 months ago

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PERVY ROOMMATE!JINX HEADCANONS

jinx x reader. cw: perv activities, some nasty shit, smut? yeah kinda? idk, masturbation(both jinx & reader), implied sub!jinx, fem!reader, mentions of reader using lipstick. not proof read so ignore any and all mistakes. note: im very bad at writing headcanons so if these suck i am so sorry i tried…..

pervy roommate!jinx who has a whole collection of your stuff in her room. she stores it all under her bed in a box. she doesn’t take it to be like a creep or anything, but also dont get her wrong she totally is, but she just likes you a whole lot. she has all kinds of stuff in there, from socks, to tissues with lipstick on them(like joe goldberg style)

pervy roommate!jinx who sneaks into your room when you’re not home and digs around in your hamper for your used panties. bringing them up to her nose, inhaling your scent, and stuffing them in her pocket. then she’s walking out of your room like she didn’t just totally take your dirty underwear. and the things she does with them—or i should say to them—are nasty, god awful even.

and if you’re asking ‘what may those things be?’, well let me tell you. she will take that pair of underwear and bring it up to her nose, pretending that it was your pussy that was there instead of your underwear. then, her slander and delicate fingers slid down her body, imagining that it was your hand there, and not hers.

it would move down her body with every deep inhale of the lingering smell of your underwear, letting the musk take over her senses. her fingers slipped under the her pants, and then her own panties, cupping her cunt.

slick slipping through her fingers as she held herself, putting pressure to her clit with the base of her palm, rubbing it in slight circles. “auhh…” flows out from her mouth. her eyes shut, and her hand is practically shoving your panties in her mouth. while the other hand is now moving down, and her fingers are moving into herself. deep and far.

feeling the tightness of her pussy around her digits, and the tips of her fingers hitting the spot where she knew felt good. “uuuh…” she moans out, breathlessly and quietly.

little yelps fell from her lips the more she played around with herself, juices leaking down her hand, wrist, and on to her sheets. she socked.

this was so wrong, but it felt too good to stop. tears of pleasure streamed down her face, singing moans of your name left and right. her orgasm getting colder and closer.

and finally, jinxs’ orgasm hit, cum falling down the, now empty, walls of her cunt, bringing her white coated fingers to wipe them off of your underwear.

she fixes her own underwear and pants, leaving her room and bringing back your panties and putting them back into your hamper, hoping that you wouldn’t notice the white satin covering them.

pervy roommate!jinx who’s room is right next to yours. the walls are as thin as paper, you could hear everything happening on the other side. she puts her ear to the wall to listen to your pretty moans as you please yourself. you’re not even moaning all that loud, but again, the walls aren’t thick so a noise above a whisper can be heard.

sometimes, when pervy roommate!jinx is feeling extra risky, she would come to the door of your bedroom, slid her phone under your door, not too much so you couldn’t see it, and records your moans for her own personal use later that night when you’re sleeping.

pervy roommate!jinx who has tons and tons of naked pictures of you in her phone. theyre all lock up in a folder, ofc, so no one but her can see them. and obv, you’re not aware that she has any of these bc most of them were taken while you were showering, completely unaware someone was taking pictures of you. and some were taken when she sneaks into your room while you’re asleep,(naked for unknown reasons), and steals pictures.

pervy roommate!jinx who gets off to every single on of those pictures with absolutely no shame in her chest. such an innocent thing, getting off, turned perverted by looking at pictures of the girl she’s completely and utterly in love with, obsessed with, on a level above normal.

pervy roommate!jinx who stalks the socials of the girls you have over(dont even ask how she found them) and gets so jealous, because how could you like them and not her? did you think they were prettier than her? or did you just not like her?

#these definitely lack all kinds of volumes bruh #opt1mistic.com #jinx.#nsfw.#jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #jinx x you #arcane.

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thisapplepielife · 30 days ago

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Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event.

What Condition My Condition Was In

The fall happens faster than you'd ever imagine. Once the slide has started, it's nearly impossible to stop it. It just snowballs, and no matter how hard Eddie dug in his heels, down, down, down he went.

Record deal, gone.

Label, gone.

Band, gone.

He eventually landed on his feet, but just barely. All that money they made, and he has nothing left to show for it. Not a goddamn dime. Forty-five years old, with jackshit to his name. Working two jobs just to make ends meet is the only thing preventing him from crawling back to Hawkins, tail between his legs.

He picks up a little session work, his talent only heard as an anonymous guitar on albums that will go on to sell millions of copies. His name, nowhere attached. It's humbling, but at least he gets to play the guitar from time to time, and is even paid for it.

That's better than flipping burgers, or washing dishes. He's done both, hopping all around town, trying to earn enough money to cover rent and some rot gut whiskey.

Tonight, he steps out of the liquor store, bottle tucked under his arm, and drops his change into the box of the guy that often sleeps in the little alcove, tucked back and hidden.

Eddie has it bad, but others still have it worse. He's never not had a place to go every night. Not yet.

"Thanks," the guy says, and Eddie nods towards him. He's seen him dozens of times, but he's never really seen him, he realizes. Never really looked. Nor has he ever spoken.

Lots of nights he's asleep, or has his head tucked between his knees, hooded sweatshirt pulled over his head, tight. Hands over his ears. Like he's trying to block out the world. Eddie gets that desire, fully.

Tonight, he sees him. Hears him.

And feels like he's in the vicinity of a ghost.

"Steve?" Eddie questions, even if he's sure he's not right. Certain that this isn't Steve Harrington. Just someone with a similar voice. His mind playing tricks on him. But the brown eyes that look up from under his hood to meet his are familiar, way too familiar. Eddie tilts his chin down, more sure this time, "Steve."

"Maybe," Steve says, and at that, Eddie crouches down in front of him. Sitting his brown paper bagged bottle down, taking Steve's face in his hands. He has a fading black eye, and quite the beard that scratches against Eddie's palms.

Steve looks away.

"It's me. It's Eddie, from home," Eddie says. "We had, uh, a spring break together."

That's a bit of an understatement.

"Yeah, I'm not an idiot," Steve says, looking back at him, and Eddie laughs, delighted that maybe there's nothing irreparably broken in him. Maybe he's just down on his luck. Eddie knows how that goes, all too well.

They're all a little damaged after what they went through. How could they not be?

"Why are you in Chicago?" Eddie asks. Winter is fast approaching, and camping near the entrance to Joe's Liquor ain't gonna cut it.

Steve just shakes his head. Eddie's immediately mad. Where's Robin? Where's Henderson? Why is he out here, all by himself?

"C'mon," Eddie says, making a decision that is no decision at all. Standing up, and offering Steve his hands, "Up we go."

If a deranged Steve Harrington decides to kill him while he sleeps tonight, so be it. Steve saved him once, so as far as Eddie sees it, his life is Steve's to do with what he wants, anyway.

Steve lets himself get pulled to his feet, and then Eddie helps him gather up what little he has. It's not much. Steve pauses, "Where are we going?"

"My place," Eddie answers, "that okay?"

And he's relieved when Steve nods.

Eddie leads him into the bathroom, gives him a spare set of towels. They aren't fancy, but they're clean. He shows him the trick to get the right temperature of hot water, an elaborate song and dance, but Eddie's had to learn to perfect it to not get frozen or scalded.

He puts a new disposable razor on the sink, in case he wants it.

When he hears the shower curtain close, Eddie starts making a mental list of everybody's ass he's gonna chew out. Steve Harrington should have people, lots of people, and that he seemingly doesn't is infuriating.

Eddie never fell through the cracks. Wayne wouldn't let him. Or Gareth. Jeff. Goodie. They didn't stay together as a band, but he could always crash on any of their couches if he needed to. He'd have a safe place to go, where he's loved.

Why isn't Steve on Robin's couch somewhere?

Steve's hands are shaking when he gets out of the shower, and Eddie slides the bottle across the coffee table. Apparently they both have dealt with the shit they've seen in similar ways. Steve just seems to have it worse right now. Eddie's functioning, but it doesn't seem like Steve is if he wound up like this. All alone.

He looks better, all cleaned up, fresh from the shower. Clean shaven. Hair still wet, and too long. In Eddie's clothes. Fading yellow bruise under his right eye.

Eddie has a thousand questions, but he's too scared he'll run to ask them. So he stays quiet. And they drink the cheap whiskey together, passing the bottle back and forth, in silence.

Eddie makes up the couch for him, but isn't at all surprised when Steve slides in bed with Eddie in the middle of the night.

There's no reason to comment on it, he remembers exactly how to do this from that first summer, after. They were close then, and Steve stayed planted in his bed for months while they both recovered. Listening to music, reading magazines. Talking about girls, cars and weed. Boy stuff. Surface level stuff. Nothing that was close to uncorking the bottles they'd shoved the goddamn horrors they experienced in the Upside Down into just to survive.

Tonight, Eddie holds out his arm, and Steve curls in close.

"I'm fucked up," Steve says, and well, Eddie thinks, who ain't?

"Well, me too. I ain't gonna judge."

Steve nods against Eddie's neck, and then falls asleep, and stays asleep for twelve hours. Eddie just lays there, even if his whole body hurts. He gets stiff. His hips, mainly. Too much damage from the bats.

But he's unwilling to wake him.

Mainly because he's scared he'll disappear as soon as he does.

Steve stays, and Eddie takes him to work with him the next Monday. He's not sure Steve knows anything about tire repair, but Gus lets Eddie settle him into his own workstation and show him the ropes.

Eddie quickly notices that Steve flinches every time the air compressor fires up to power the impact wrench, his ear coming down towards his shoulder. Digging in the drawers of his assigned tool chest, Eddie finally comes up with a pair of soundproof earmuffs. They're big, and bulky, but Steve nods when Eddie holds them up, making the offer.

Eddie puts them over his ears, and Steve smiles as he adjusts them, then gives Eddie the thumbs up.

Turns out, Steve can change a tire, and fast. He's not as good with the patching jobs, so Eddie takes all those, and just gives Steve the straight swaps. It works well, and they sit a few feet apart, working during the days.

At night, still in their coveralls, they swing by Joe's and get two bottles and go back to Eddie's apartment, where they drink them on the couch. Watching mindless television. Steve enjoys ballgames, and it doesn't bother Eddie. The background noise of them. It reminds him of home, and Wayne.

Eddie still wants to ask: Where's Robin? Where's Nancy? Where's fucking Henderson?

He doesn't.

They drink, and they go to bed, and Eddie lays awake staring at the ceiling, not understanding how this happened.

It doesn't take long for Eddie to realize that Steve gets migraines. So, Eddie finds a pair of blackout curtains at the thrift store down the block that are actually pretty fucking amazing. There's one little hole, but it's nothing a little duct tape can't fix. He hangs them up, and his whole room is cast in darkness, even as the sun shines brightly outside.

Eddie gives him earplugs, a glass of water, and leaves him to rest.

Gus understands the days that Steve can't get out of bed and into work. Gus reminds Eddie of Wayne. No nonsense. But fair. And having your head splitting in two isn't nonsense, and therefore is excused without any commentary whatsoever.

It's a little lonelier without Steve in the garage, but Eddie works like he always does. Patching, changing, then rolling the next one in line inside.

After two days, Steve's back, and his workload and mood lightens.

Overall, Steve seems fine. He has more good days than bad, and that's always been Eddie's own personal benchmark for fine. He's funny, and just Steve. The same Steve that Eddie remembers from that spring break, and that summer that followed. Just older, and with a little more baggage. A little more damage.

But at the core of him, he's Steve Harrington.

And Steve Harrington shouldn't be crashing in Eddie Munson's dingy apartment.

In the end, Eddie can't let it go. He's running down to the corner pizza place, because they decided they needed to actually eat something tonight. They can't drink all their calories all the time. And a pizza sounded good, and cheap. Eddie likes cheap.

But, before he makes it to the pizza place, he makes a pit stop into the outdated phone booth. He hopes it still works. It did the last time he used it, but that's been a while.

Nancy Wheeler is the only one he could find a number for, and it has been burning a hole in his pocket. He presses the receiver to his ear, feeds it quarters, dials the number he hopes is good, and listens to it ring.

"Wheeler," he says when she picks up, and he can hear her wheels turning, trying to figure out who the fuck this is on the other end. He puts her out of his misery, "It's Eddie Munson."

"Eddie!" she says, and she sounds delighted, honestly. She laughs in his ear, and he likes the sound, but also kind of hates her. She let Steve end up on the streets. Alone. All of them are on his fucking shit list right now.

"Hey. I'm trying to get a hold of Buckley, do you have a good number?" he asks.

The line goes quiet, too quiet. Fuck. Is she dead? Is that what's happened? That would make sense, would explain this—

"Have you found him? Jesus, Eddie. Please tell me you've found him," she pleads.

Eddie didn't even know they were supposed to be looking for him.

He scrubs his hand across his eyes, brushing away the tears that are suddenly there. They're looking. They're desperate. He knows they are, he can hear it in her voice, and he nods, pressing his face into the glass of the phone booth. There aren't many of them left, and this one has definitely seen better days.

"Eddie," she says again, dragging him out of his stupor.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Eddie," she says, this time a demand.

"I've got him," he admits, and he hears the second her resolve shatters.

"You've got him," she whispers. Then she's screaming in his ear, a deafening sound, "Robin! Eddie's got him!"

"Where are you? We're coming!" Robin shouts in the distance, but clear as a bell.

Eddie takes a deep breath. They're not. Not if Steve doesn't want that.

"Uh, let me ask him first. Okay?" Eddie says, and kind of regrets that he didn't do that first. He was just too curious, too mad. Too scared he'd flee.

Nancy's quiet on the other end, and he hears the scuffle, the quiet argument over who's gonna keep the phone, ending with Nancy saying it's okay, he's okay, Eddie's got him.

Eddie's got him.

"He just stopped checking in one day," Nancy says, as if that explains it all. "We couldn't find him after that. We've looked, Eddie, we've all looked everywhere."

He knows they have. Believes that, and can't believe he ever thought they weren't. He feels guilty.

"He has a job, and a place to stay," Eddie says, "He's okay. Don't worry."

Eddie is sure all they've done is worry.

"Eddie, please," Robin says, muffled by the background noise, and Eddie hates to tell her no. He does. But he's not betraying Steve. He'll ease into it, feel him out.

"I gotta go," he says, and hangs the phone up before they can argue.

Eddie puts the pizza down on the coffee table, and Steve flips open the top of the box. He seems good, has seemed good for a while. As good as they can be, in the condition their conditions are in. He smiles to himself, he hasn't thought of that song in a long time. It makes him think of Wayne and his record collection. He needs to call home soon. Or visit, maybe. Depends on how this whole Steve thing goes.

He's scared Steve's gonna run, disappear. As a runner himself, Eddie's scared Steve will be one, too. He'll give chase, they all will. But he doesn't want to spook Steve.

"Can I ask about Robin?" Eddie asks gently, pulling the band-aid off, and Steve turns and looks at him. Smiling wide. He hasn't looked that happy about anything since he turned up. It catches Eddie by surprise.

"She's good. She's with Nance. Did you know that?" Steve asks, and takes another big bite from his slice of pizza. Like he's unbothered. Does he not know he's missing?

"Uh, no. Good for them. That's real good. And Henderson?" he questions.

"Also good. Married. Two kids. Doing science-y things," Steve says. "Still a smart little shithead."

And now Eddie's confused.

"That's good. Do they know where you are?" Eddie asks, and Steve pauses, like he's thinking about it.

"Probably not. I haven't checked in with them in a while. I should probably do that."

Eddie wants to scream, 'You think?!'

But he doesn't.

"Jesus Christ, Steve," Eddie says instead, laughing as he tosses his slice back into the box. "I thought you ran away from them."

"What? No, I just — they're all settled. Happy. And I'm, well, this," he says, motioning towards himself. "Brain damaged, and a drunk."

No. He's perfect. He's always been perfect. Flawed, and human, but perfect, and so fucking loved by all of them. Does he not know that?

Eddie startles him, he knows he does, when he cups both of Steve's cheeks in his hands. Just like he did crouched on that sidewalk outside of Joe's. Just like Steve did to him, hovering over his bleeding, bat shredded body in the Upside Down. Promising that everything would be okay.

He was right. Everything will be okay.

Eddie looks in Steve's eyes, telling him the truth, "They're worried to death about you. I didn't know what kind of situation was happening here, but I called them. I called Nancy. They're so worried."

"Oh. Shit," Steve says. "Maybe I've been out of contact longer than I've realized."

Eddie is baffled. But mainly he's relieved. Steve's okay. He found him. What if he didn't find him?

What if he wanders off again?

He can't think about that.

"C'mon," Eddie says, standing up, and shoving his feet into his shoes without untying the laces. Sweeping a handful of loose change into his palm from the table next to the front door. "Let's go call them."

He knows there's a long road ahead for him, for both of them, but this part is an easy fix. If Steve will stay with him, and fuck, Eddie hopes he'll stay, then maybe they can deal with some of their messed up shit together.

They walk down to the payphone, and Eddie really needs to figure out that whole cell phone thing. He will. For both of them. Get them back on the grid.

Eddie hands the receiver to Steve, feeds the slot quarters, and dials the number, then steps back.

It must connect, because he can hear Steve say into the receiver, "Hey. It's me. I'm sorry. I guess I got a little sidetracked."

Eddie grips the edge of the phone booth door that's still ajar. Holding his breath. Waiting.

Then, Steve laughs.

And Eddie lets out a ragged breath. Smiling.

Everything will be okay.

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event!

Notes: Title from Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In) by The First Edition.

#corrodedcoffinfest: may mayhem bingo #corrodedcoffinfest #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #thisapplepielife: corrodedcoffinfest #thisapplepielife: short fic #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #tw: homelessness #tw: alcoholism

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starsinthesky5 · 2 months ago

Note

How did songbird react to Joe’s heisman speech?

a/n: wrote this while watching the draft and started tearing up looking at clips of his speech 🥲

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

it was one of those slow, dimly lit sundays—the kind where the hours melt together and the quiet feels like a blanket of its own. they were tangled up on the couch, her body curled into his side, legs draped lazily over his lap, the worn fleece of the throw blanket tucked around their ankles. the afternoon sun streamed through the windows in gold streaks, warming the room, softening the world around them. joe’s fingers skimmed gentle patterns along her thigh, the tv humming softly in the background as youtube cycled through random thumbnails.

she wasn’t even really paying attention until she saw it—that thumbnail.

the video title was plain enough: “joe burrow heisman speech (full)”. the still image showed him in a stiff tux, standing behind a podium with a look in his eyes she hadn’t seen in full before.

vulnerable. proud. a little overwhelmed.

she gasped and sat up straight, nearly knocking the remote out of his hand. “wait—wait, go back. that one,”.

he groaned, “nooo, babe, come on. that’s like ancient,”.

but she was already reaching for the remote, grabbing it out of his hands and clicking play. “i’ve only seen clips,” she said, wide-eyed and already emotional. “i’ve never seen the whole thing. pleaseeee,”.

he sighed, but smiled, giving into her adorable request. he could never say no to her, not when she had that look in her eyes. “you’re ridiculous,”.

“and you were a baby,” she countered, already inching closer to him, climbing into his lap this time. “a soft baby, up there thanking people and…oh my god, you’re already tearing up in the thumbnail,”.

“i was not,” he mumbled, but his arms came around her anyway, letting her settle against his chest, her hand pressed lightly to his sternum as the video began.

the applause faded. the stage lit up. and there he was—22 and unsteady, standing in front of a room full of lights and cameras and strangers in suits. his hair shorter, face leaner, voice just slightly pitched with nerves. she immediately went still, breath held as she watched.

he started with thank-yous. to his teammates. to coach o. to lsu. his voice was calm, collected—until it wasn’t.

“coming from southeast ohio… it’s a very impoverished area…,”.

that’s when her chest started to ache.

she’d heard it before—those thirty seconds that went viral, that raised half a million dollars for his hometown in a matter of days—but she hadn’t heard him say it. not like this. not all the way through. not while she could feel the thump of his heart behind her palm, real and steady and still so full of that same pride.

“people there don’t get a lot of opportunities…i’m up here for all those kids in athens county that go home to not a lot of food on the table…,”.

his voice cracked—not dramatically, just enough to betray how much it mattered. and she broke. completely. a choked sob left her lips before she could catch it. joe turned to her immediately, just in time to see her bury her face in his sweatshirt. “oh my god,” she cried, muffled and breathless. “you were crying up there and now i’m crying and—this is so stupid—you didn’t tell me it was like this,”.

he blinked, stunned for a moment. then, like a traitor, he grinned and pulled out his phone. “you’re actually sobbing right now?” he whispered as he hit record. “you soft little thing,”.

“shut up,” she whined, blindly swatting at him with tears still streaming down her cheeks. “you looked like you were gonna fall apart the whole time! your little voice cracked and your hands were shaking and—and you didn’t even look up when you said athens county, you just…oh my god, my heart hurts,”.

joe laughed softly, kissing the top of her head as she practically dissolved in his lap. she was crying like he had just won the award again. crying like she could somehow go back in time and wrap her arms around the kid on stage. “hey,” he murmured against her temple. “baby. i’m right here,”.

but it didn’t matter. she was too far gone. she kept kissing his jaw through her tears, running her hands through his hair like he was the one who needed comfort.

“you’re such a good man,” she whispered thickly. “you were a good kid, and now you’re a good man, and i just..i’m so proud of you,”.

he went quiet at that. still. she could feel the way his chest rose and fell beneath her hand, the way his fingers curled a little tighter around her waist. her tears hadn’t scared him off or made him roll his eyes. he didn’t tease her after that—not really. he just held her, kissed the shell of her ear, the corner of her damp lashes, her trembling mouth.

“you didn’t need to do that,” she whispered. “you didn’t have to say any of that. and you did it anyway. you’re magic, joe burrow. always thinking of others even in your most special moments,”.

he didn’t say anything. he didn’t need to. this was her moment, her moment to see a side of joe she hadn’t seen before. he didn’t cry often, so seeing him up on that podium, infront of so many important figures, crying. calling attention to his hometown. calling attention to a growing issue in the community.

that’s what broke her. he had it all back then, truly. he didn’t need to do anything but accept his award and say a few thank-you’s. and he did just that, yet his heart was still with the people that shaped him into the man he was today. and he couldn’t go on without mentioning that.

that’s what made him so special.

the video faded out. the screen returned to the home menu. but they didn’t move. she was still in his lap, cupping his face now, wiping away the ghost of emotion that he wouldn’t admit had snuck up on him too.

and from that moment on, she babied him like he was the one who’d gotten emotional.

she wrapped him in the softest throw blanket they owned. made him a smoothie even though he didn’t ask for it. fixed him a plate of pasta with garlic bread she cut into hearts just to be dramatic. when he tried to get up, she pushed him gently back down with a hand to his chest. “you sit,” she told him. “you’re my precious heisman baby and you stay put,”.

“babe,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “this is so dramatic. you know this was years ago, right?”.

“you cried in a tux,” she replied. “you lost all rights to complain,”.

and he let her dote. let her coddle and coo and kiss all over him. let her fuss with his hoodie strings and call him “my sweet angel” while feeding him strawberries. and every time she started to tear up again remembering the speech, he kissed her until she was breathless and quiet, smiling against his lips.

later that night, long after she’d fallen asleep with her head on his chest and her hand over his heart, he unlocked his phone and played the clip back.

her face, tearstreaked. her voice, thick with love. her eyes, wrecked over him.

he saved it. of course he did.

because there was something about the way she looked at him when she cried like that—like she wasn’t just proud of the boy behind the podium, but in love with every version of him that had ever existed.

and he’d never stop being soft about it.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #yail asks #yail #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fic #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joeburrow #joey b

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icallhimjoey · 4 months ago

Note

I miss poppy and mark still and I miss that version of joe (and always bookstore joe) but that joe please he was such an idiot😭 I miss him and this is all your fault (said with so much love bye going to reread everything (again))

ok so it took me a good second, but, here you go bby <3 to the girls unfamiliar with poppy and mark: maybe have a look here Wordcount: 2.3K

---

Won’t Say It Until You Will

Sometimes you still don’t quite understand how you’ve gone literal years thinking Joe couldn’t fucking stand you.

You’d gotten so used to his stand-offish demeanor. To the arrogant smirks you’d catch just before he’d bite them back, just in time for Poppy or Mark to notice. To his overall unapproachability, and the heavy judgment that would drip off of him.

For years you thought you didn’t like Joe, simply because you were convinced Joe didn’t like you.

Didn’t like you as a person.

As Mark’s friend.

As someone that, through Mark falling for Poppy, was going to be in his life now.

You think you’re still adjusting to the sudden change. And the change was definitely sudden. Learning that, actually, Joe was trying to keep as much distance as he possibly could for the exact opposite of what you thought had been quite the shock. You might be adjusting for a while longer, still.

Which makes sense.

It is all quite the adjustment.

Joe used to be so weird around you, and you were always left to figure out why all by yourself.

The big difference now, though, is that every time Joe sees that you doubt yourself in whatever interaction you have with him, he’s quick to set the record straight.

He’s not allowed to say I love you yet.

You have to say it first for it to feel normal. Granted, barely anything about how this started feels normal to begin with. But this is something you hold onto. You tell him to shut up all the time, because you have come to know this look Joe will throw you.

This soft, adoring sort of dreamy stare Joe has a hard time containing. It’s truly quite something to be looked at like you’re the single best thing in current existence to someone. Like you’ve got shimmery diamonds and liquid gold where your heart should be.

It’s a shame it makes you frown the way it does.

“Shut up.” You’ll warn before he’s even gotten the chance to say anything.

And Joe used to reply with, “I didn’t say anything.”

That has since changed to a very dopey, a very smiley, “Okay.” that makes your nose scrunch.

Joe knows the rule.

Won’t say it until you will, no matter how many times the words will pop into his head and will beg to be released into your ears via his mouth. It’s nothing short of agony, because there’s moments where you’ll look at him like you used to. Before. When he kept his distance and would say the wrong thing, crack an unfunny joke that accidentally hurt your feelings, and – God, if he could just say those words and put your mind at ease the way the so desperately wants to...

He’s found different ways.

Has had to find different ways.

If you can’t hear the words, that’s fine. He’ll make you feel them just the same.

When you get into bed, one night, over at Joe’s place, you suddenly pause, halfway in.

“What?” Joe asks, already sort of smiling at your expression as he slides his legs under the covers on his side of the bed.

“Remember when...” you start, and immediately Joe’s aware that this can go one of two ways. You could either end up a giggling heap underneath the covers, or he’s going to end up kissing you silly to reassure every doubt from your mind.

You glance at one of his wardrobe doors and squint your eyes a little.

Joe’s scared it’s going to be the latter of the two options.

“I’ve actually never seen you wear that shirt again– have you...” you don’t finish whatever you were about to ask, and instead walk around the bed to check something. To see for yourself.

“What shirt?” Joe asks, sat up in bed, both hands in his lap over the covers, tongue pushing into his cheek as he watches you open the wardrobe.

You’re met with a meticulously well-organised row of shirts, jackets– Joe’s even got all of his trousers and jeans folded over hangers. All pressed and ironed, ready to make Joe look far smarter than he’ll feel.

You used to fall for it all the time, but you’ve since learned to see through most of it.

“How often do you get rid of clothes?” you ask, hands filtering through.

“All the time,” Joe says a little sheepishly, and jokingly adds, “You know I really only like... three things.”

Joe watches you filter through hangers at lightning speed, metal wire gliding over the rod and clanging together in your search.

You’re looking for something specific. Unsure of what made the thought pop into your head, you’d just remembered a specific shirt Joe wore once and wanted to see if he still had it. If there was maybe a reason why you hadn’t seen him wear it ever since that one night.

And, morning.

“Hmm... it’s not here.”

“What shirt are you even talking about?”

You throw Joe a look over your shoulder, eyes squinted, and for a moment you look like you’re contemplating something. Like you’re milling something over.

Then, suddenly, Joe gets it. He knows exactly what you’re looking for, and is immediately embarrassed.

“Oh. Yea, no. Do you mean the white– my white button down? I, um… that shirt, it’s… you’re right, it’s not– it’s not there.”

Joe stutters through a bad excuse, and for an actor, he’s a fucking terrible liar. You shove aside some of his jackets, and then…

“Come back to bed, please.”

There it is.

The white button down shirt you were looking for.

You grab the hanger and pull it out, ready to happily show Joe you found it, but as you move the fabric into the light, you notice it.

See it.

“Found i– oh, my God…”

This is the shirt Joe wore to Mark and Poppy’s wedding shower. The one he said he’d get dry cleaned after he wiped your face with the sleeve, after he dabbed both your make-up covered cheeks. The one of which he’d pulled the cuff into his palm to get the fabric real close under your eyes to get rid of the wet mascara that had traveled there through tears.

You’d shown him the brown and black marks right after he’d done it, and he’d said he was going to get it dry-cleaned.

“Joe, what the…”

You’re holding a dirty shirt.

Had this stains not come out?

Clearly not.

You’re both looking at a dirty shirt. At old make-up stains that… well, this shirt is ruined. Your eyes quickly glance at the tag in the collar, and you wince.

That is too expensive of a brand for a shirt to be ruined like this.

This is the reason why you hadn’t seen Joe wear it again.

You’d ruined his shirt.

God, and you had even told him that next day, that next morning, that a regular cycle in a machine wash was going to get the stains out fine.

Obviously, it hadn’t.

Because you’re staring at caked blotches of bronzer and dark streaks of mascara and– ... you can feel how you shrink in on yourself, stood there, in his bedroom, with a stupidly expensive badly stained shirt he’d been hiding from you because he hadn’t been able to get it clean and–

Upon the sight of your face dropping, Joe gets out of bed, careful not to make any sudden movements.

“Um.. I’ll have that.”

Two slow hands come into vision and carefully take the hanger from your grip.

“Thanks.”

The shirt, in all its dirty glory, gets gently put back in its place, hidden behind Joe’s jackets, before Joe closes the wardrobe doors entirely.

“Sorry,” is all you can think to say, voice small, a little wobbly. “I’m sorry, I thought… I ruined your shirt. That should’ve come out in the wash. Sorry. I will– I’ll replace it. I’ll–”

“No you won’t.”

You drop both your shoulders just as Joe grabs hold of both of them. His grip is strong enough to bring you into the room a bit more.

“And don’t look at me like that. I didn’t… that’s… I’ve never washed it.”

What?

“You didn’t ruin the shirt. It’s just unwashed.”

Joe softly chuckles at your face and you get lead back to bed as you try to puzzle together what you’ve just been told. What that even means.

There had been plenty of whispered conversations, late at night chats in the dark, where Joe would reassure you that he had never hated you. The outward dislike had always been an awful way to hide how he really felt, and Joe was going to be kicking himself until the end of time for how that had always make you feel.

Joe is never going to be able to make it right, he thinks.

But he can fucking try.

“That’s…”

“Disgusting? Yes. Absolutely.”

He’ll die trying.

“Why haven’t you…”

You’re scared to finish the question because you fear you already know the answer.

“Didn’t want to. So don’t worry about it.”

You get tucked in as your worries easily get dismissed, but it’s difficult to make your confused frown disappear.

Joe sighs when you keep looking at him like that, sits down on the edge of the bed next to you and goes, “You’ll make fun of me. But... that’s the… that’s what I wore when you slept in my bed for the first time. It’s not ruined. Washing it would ruin it, actually.”

Everything about that is confusing and will take a minute or two for you to process. Now, here, in the moment, it just makes you grimace with horror, and that in and of itself makes Joe laugh. Makes his eyes twinkle as he bites into his lip, head titled back and to the side a little.

He can’t really help it.

“To be fair... you were never meant to find that. Can you not tell Poppy?”

“Okay. I won’t tell Poppy.” You easily agree.

“But you’ll tell Mark?”

“But I’ll tell Mark.”

Joe drops his head forward in a silent laugh. Of course you will tell Mark.

And, that’s fine. Because it’s a memory he’ll cherish forever, even if you were violently drunk that night, and your hair still smelt of vomit even though Mark’s mum had really done her best to rinse most of it out. You had found Joe’s bed on your own, and had pulled him in to nap with you and– ...he doesn’t think that it was the exact moment where things changed a little, but it was a moment momentous enough to want to keep a souvenir.

It’s why he never washed the dirty button down shirt that proved to him he hadn’t dreamt it up.

He’ll never tell you how he also still has the empty yoghurt carton he had found in his kitchen after you’d left the next morning.

And he’ll also ignore the weird fall out you had after when he lied to Poppy about it. That’s not part of the memory.

Only the good stuff.

Like how he’d barely slept at all.

How he’d gotten to stare at you all night long.

How he’d finally, after hours of collecting courage, had softly let one of his fingertips stroke along the skin of your arm.

How that made you hum contently in your sleep.

If he thinks about it for too long, he could easily make himself cry. Looking at you now, all relaxed into the pillows of his bed, he could make himself cry.

When Joe looks at you a little too long without saying anything, dopey grin and all, your frown only deepens.

“Shut up.”

Joe knows it was bound to be said, but it still tickles him and he lets a throaty laugh escape him before he turns faux-serious.

“Ah. It’s made a return.” Joe scans your features and talks like he’s in a film, speaking to a villain. “That face. Are you even aware of how powerful it is? Makes me feel how much my soul wants to escape my body.”

That gets a little grin out of you, and it’s cute enough for Joe to want to tell the whole entire world how much he loves you. He wonders if you know how much it pains him. How often he can feel the scratch of the words in his throat, the violent urge to just let them free ever present.

But he won’t.

You’d just told him to shut up, so he will shut up, and instead will let those three words seep out in other ways. Through his hands that wander up to your neck. Through his fingers that swipe under your jaw, tipping your head back a little so he can easily kiss you.

You happily accept his kisses, because even though you’re still adjusting to all these little changes in your truth, it all ultimately means that Joe really, really likes you.

Really, really, really likes you.

And of course you know it’s more than that to Joe.

And that he really wants to tell you already.

But he’s not allowed.

Not yet.

Which is fine. He can just kiss you. And he will. Like he’s doing right now.

Joe still can’t quite believe he’s kissing you in his bed, and he can’t believe there was ever a time where he wasn’t.

When he pulls back, still sat on the side instead of under the covers with you, he hovers over you a little. Gives you a quiet moment, just in case you want to tell him.

And you will.

With time.

But not now.

“Shut up.” you repeat, giggling now at how lovesick he looks, and Joe can’t help grin in the way that he does.

He used to reply with, “I didn’t say anything.”

Instead he says, “Okay.” and goes for another kiss when he sees your nose scrunch.

Joe knows the rule.

Won’t say it until you will.

---

The Taglisted

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honeydippedfiction · 2 months ago

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Heat In The Sheets {JB9}

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Synopsis: We catch up right where we left off in the previous part, except now? A few weeks later, Y/N and Joe can't keep their hands to themselves. Their words making the other go a bit off the deep end leading to a very new hot single with a side of spiciness.

Warnings: Suggestive/Spicy Scenes, SMUT, Strong Language, Alcohol Use, Mature Themes, Mild Public Attention. MDNI🔞

Themes: Slow Burn to Situationship, Fame & Performance Pressure, Flirtation & Tension, Modern Romance, Group Dynamics, Female Empowerment, “No Strings” Situationship, & Luxury Lifestyle.

WC: 14.6k

A/N: ohhh this one is spicyyyy

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

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The studio smelled like sage and ambition.

Y/N was in the booth, hoodie cropped, sweatpants on, hair pinned up, and eyes closed. She was in it — the beat slow and bass-heavy, her voice a velvet slide over the instrumental. Her lyrics hit that sweet, sensual, teasing spot — the kind that made producers lean back in their chairs and just listen.

“—got you dreamin’ with your eyes wide, Craving all the ways I waste your time…”

The red recording light blinked.

Her engineer, Dez, leaned over the console. “Damn. That’s the take, Y/N One more adlib and you’re golden.”

She gave a thumbs up from the booth, lips parted and breath a little short from the emotional layering. She took a quick sip of her tea, letting the moment settle before sliding her headphones back on.

That’s when her phone — resting right beside her lyrics notebook — lit up.

Text message from: Joseph 🏈 a.k.a QB1.

“What city we flirtin’ in next?”

Y/N blinked.

Hard.

Then blinked again.

She reached for the phone, thumb hovering, mouth tugging into a slow, dangerous grin.

Outside the booth, Dez’s voice crackled through the headset: “Yo, you good?”

Y/N cleared her throat, biting her lip as she tapped the mic. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

She muted her mic, pulled her phone close to her chest like it had told her a dirty little secret, and read the message again.

“What city we flirtin’ in next?”

She shook her head, laughing under her breath. This man.Like he knew she was trying to be good. Like he had ESP for distraction.

She typed back with one hand:

“Don’t start. I’m tryna work, sir.”

“But I’ll be in Atlanta next. Why?”😉

Another message lit up before she could lock her screen:

“Because I’ve got a bye week coming up. And I’m tryna see you.”

Y/N straight up dropped her pen.

From the mixing desk, Dez raised a brow through the glass. “Yo? What’s happening in there?”

Y/N grabbed the mic again, voice just a little breathless this time. “Give me like… five minutes.”

She muted it again and slid down the wall of the booth, eyes wide, trying so hard not to smile like an idiot.

Kayla, who’d been sitting quietly on the couch scrolling through TikTok, looked up and immediately clocked the expression on Y/N’s face.

“Ohhhh, don’t tell me…”

Y/N held the phone up. The messages visible.

Kayla screamed into a throw pillow.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N sat on the studio couch now, one leg tucked under her, phone in hand, still warm from that last message.

Across the room, Kayla was eating fruit out of a plastic cup like it was popcorn, eyes glued to Y/N like a Netflix original was unfolding in real time.

"You gon' call him or just stare at your screen and blush like a Disney princess?" Kayla teased, sticking her spoon in her mouth.

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “You are the loudest person alive.”

Kayla: “And yet not wrong. Tap that little FaceTime button, let me see what he look like in 4K.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You’re not about to make this weird.”

“It’s already weird, you texting a quarterback like he’s not a national treasure. Let the man talk.”

With a deep breath — and a smirk she couldn’t suppress — Y/N hit the audio call.

Ring. Ring. Click.

“Yo.” His voice came through low, calm, laced with that slight rasp that always made her pause.

Y/N bit her bottom lip, trying to sound unbothered. “You got my whole studio session off track.”

“I’m honored,” Joe said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “You looked too focused. I had to remind you I exist.”

“Oh, believe me,” she said, stretching out the words, “you’re hard to forget.”

Across the room, Kayla let out a high-pitched gasp. “GIRL—”

Y/N threw a pillow directly at her face without breaking eye contact with her phone. Kayla cackled.

Joe chuckled through the phone. “Is that your friend?”

“She’s a menace,” Y/N muttered. “But yes.”

Kayla yelled from under the pillow, “Tell him I said hi and he better treat you like Beyoncé on a yacht.”

Joe laughed again. “Noted. Beyoncé standards, got it.”

Y/N tucked her chin into her hoodie, shaking her head. “So you’re trying to pull up to Atlanta during your bye week?”

“Thinking about it,” Joe said casually. “Unless you’re gonna pretend you’re too booked to see me.”

She grinned. “I am booked.”

“…But?”

Y/N sighed, slow and playful. “But… I could be flexible for the right visitor.”

“Good answer.”

The air between them fizzed for a moment, both just… smiling into the call. Like the tension was still there, but now wrapped in something softer.

Then Kayla coughed loudly. “Tell QB1 to bring one of his fine lil teammates for me and some lemon pepper wings for himself.”

Joe: “Deal. Tell her she’s gotta share the wings though.”

Y/N groaned. “Y’all are gonna get along way too well.”

“You love it.”

“…Maybe.”

She was smiling again. Big.

“I’ll text you flight info,” he said. “If I book it.”

Y/N leaned her head back, satisfied. “I’ll be waiting.”

She hung up and dropped the phone to her lap, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath for five minutes.

Kayla, still under the pillow, just said, “Welp. I hope your stage wardrobe in Atlanta is ‘boyfriend-fit-but-make-it-denial’ because that man is coming to see you.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

She just smiled.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The Atlanta air was humid and heavy with anticipation.

Y/N stood near the arrivals exit of Hartsfield-Jackson, hoodie up, sunglasses on, head down like she was anyone but a rising star. Her driver was parked out front with the black SUV, and Kayla had stayed behind at the hotel, promising to "give her a full 30 minutes before calling for the play-by-play."

She checked the time. His flight had landed ten minutes ago. Her heart had been doing this annoying flutter thing ever since.

It’s just a casual link. You are calm. Cool. Unbothered.

She repeated that in her head…right up until she heard the distinct thud of his sneakers and the low, unmistakable sound of his voice saying, “You tryna act like you ain’t been waiting for me?”

Y/N looked up.

Joe stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, grey tee clinging to him in all the right places, curls slightly mussed from the flight, eyes trained directly on her.

And that smirk?

Yeah. She felt it in her knees.

“You’re late,” she said, folding her arms, lips twitching.

“I’m early,” he corrected, taking the final few steps toward her. “You’re just impatient.”

She tried to stay steady, cool, detached. But when he leaned in for that hug, arms sliding slow around her waist, pulling her flush against him?

Whew.

Her hands curled around his shoulders on instinct. And for a second, they just stood there. Breathing each other in. Neither one pulling away fast enough.

“You smell like expensive perfume and bad decisions,” he murmured against her neck.

Y/N let out a quiet laugh, stepping back. “You wanna be one?”

He looked her up and down, eyes darkening just a little. “Already am.”

She snorted and turned, leading him to the car. “C’mon, Burrow. Let’s get you settled before you start saying things I’ll actually act on.”

Joe kept pace beside her, slow and deliberate. “That a challenge?”

“More like a warning.”

They got into the car, Y/N sliding in first. Joe followed, throwing his backpack on the seat beside him. The driver pulled away smoothly, and suddenly it was just the two of them in the quiet luxury of tinted windows and tension so thick it could be bottled and sold.

Y/N glanced over at him. “You hungry?”

Joe didn’t miss a beat. “Little bit. You got room service at your hotel?”

She smirked. “You assume I’m letting you upstairs.”

He leaned in, his knee brushing hers. “Nah. I’m just saying… I wouldn’t mind watching you eat in that hotel robe.”

Y/N looked out the window with a coy smile. “You tryna get your invite revoked before you even make it to check-in?”

Joe just chuckled, voice low. “You’re the one who picked me up from the airport like a girlfriend.”

Her head snapped toward him, mouth open.

“I did not. This is hospitality.”

“Mmm. Looked a lot like interest to me.”

Y/N leaned closer, their knees locked now. “Interest and availability are two different things.”

He studied her for a beat, then murmured, “Guess I’ll figure out which one you’re offering… later.”

The car went quiet again, but the energy?

🔥🔥🔥

Neither said a word the rest of the ride, but the air between them was practically humming.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The hotel lobby was sleek, modern, and way too quiet for how loud the tension between Y/N and Joe still was.

Y/N stood beside him at the check-in desk, arms folded, pretending not to notice how good he looked in a basic white tee and joggers.

The woman at the front desk glanced between them and smiled just a little too knowingly. “Welcome, Mr. Burrow. You’re in one of our premium suites. Miss Y/N has already approved you for a guest pass to the private floor.”

Joe shot a look at Y/N.

She didn’t meet his eyes. Just said coolly, “Didn’t want you stuck with the regular folks.”

“Mmm.” He leaned in a bit, voice low. “Or you wanted easier access.”

She turned to face him slowly, lips parting with a quiet smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself, quarterback.”

But she didn’t deny it either.

By the time they made it back to the studio a few hours later, Y/N had shoved the tension just far enough to the back of her mind to get into work mode.

The booth lights were dim. The beat was knocking. And she was on a roll — hair tied back now, hoodie sleeves pushed up, voice sliding over the mic like melted honey.

Joe sat on the couch behind the glass, hood up, watching her with that same calm intensity he had on the field. Locked in. Focused. Like she was the only thing worth watching.

Kayla? Sat beside him with her legs crossed, scrolling on her phone, but not quiet.

“Ohhh, she’s in her zone now,” Kayla whispered to Joe, nudging him. “You might get ignored for a full hour. Don’t take it personal.”

“I’m not,” he said, eyes still on Y/N. “She’s doin’ her thing.”

“Exactly. Let her cook.”

Y/N slid her headphones off after the last take, voice still warm from singing.

Dez’s voice came over the talkback: “One more pass and we’ll stack harmonies.”

Y/N nodded and leaned back in, catching Joe’s eyes through the glass. He smiled, just a little — a soft, private kind of thing that made her heart thud, even if she didn’t show it.

But Kayla noticed.

Kayla always noticed.

“Mmm,” she said, leaning toward Joe, mock whispering. “You keep looking at her like that, and next thing we know there’s gonna be a remix called ‘QB1 (The Bedroom Edit)’.”

Joe chuckled. “You’re wild.”

“I’m right, though.”

Y/N caught them whispering and raised a brow through the booth glass. She hit her mic. “Y’all wanna stop flirting so I can finish my verse?”

Kayla grinned. “Only if your boy toy stops undressing you with his eyeballs.”

Joe just leaned back with his arms stretched across the couch. “I’m innocent.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and turned away, hiding the way her lips curled into a smile.

By the time the session wrapped, the track was fire, Kayla was still acting up, and Joe hadn’t moved from his spot — just watched, quiet and steady, like every part of her process fascinated him.

Y/N stepped out of the booth, pulling off her headphones. “You good over there, QB1?”

Joe stood up slow, stretched, then gave her that same easy look. “Better than good.”

Kayla fake gagged. “Ugh, y’all are so soft spicy. I hate it here.”

Y/N threw a pack of fruit snacks at her.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The hotel suite smelled like her vanilla body butter and late-night room service. The city lights spilled in through the tall windows, casting a warm haze over the living room where Y/N had her legs tucked up under her on the plush sectional.

Joe sat across from her, hoodie off now, grey joggers slung low on his hips, a black tee stretched across his chest. His curls were messy, eyes half-lidded, and a glass of whiskey sat untouched on the coffee table between them.

She sipped from her wine glass and raised a brow. “You sure you don’t want anything? You’ve been nursing that drink like it’s your last.”

“I’m good,” he said, voice low. “I’m not really here for the whiskey.”

“Oh?” she asked, lips curving. “What are you here for, Burrow?”

He didn’t answer right away — just let his eyes linger a little too long on the exposed skin of her legs under the oversized tee she’d changed into.

Then, softly: “Still figuring that out.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose and looked away, biting the inside of her cheek.

This man was dangerous.

They'd been talking for over an hour — bouncing from music to football to random childhood stories and somehow back to music again. The conversation flowed easy, the silences even easier. But the space between them? Getting smaller with every minute.

Joe finally leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You always this guarded?”

“Only when I don’t wanna lose focus.”

“From what?”

She gave him a look. “From why I’m here. My tour. My work. My goals.”

“And you think I’m gonna mess that up?”

Y/N tilted her head, voice a whisper. “I think I’d let you.”

That made him sit back. That damn smirk tugged at his lips again, but there was something else in his eyes too. Something softer.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said after a beat. “You wanna keep this light, fun, surface-level — I’m cool with that. You wanna keep the guard up? I’ll respect it.”

Y/N’s heart beat a little harder. The truth was, he wasn’t asking for anything. But being seen like this? It was new. And a little terrifying.

She swirled her wine, watching the red liquid catch the light.

“I don’t wanna catch feelings,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Joe stood up, walked over, and sat beside her — not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

“Then don’t,” he said quietly. “Just let yourself enjoy it.”

She looked at him. And this close, she could see the tired in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The quiet longing he wasn’t saying out loud.

Y/N leaned her head back against the couch and let the silence stretch.

“You staying the night?” she asked eventually, voice soft.

Joe glanced at her sideways. “You want me to?”

She shrugged, smirking. “Depends if you’re gonna keep being a good boy… or test that little arrangement we made.”

His jaw flexed slightly. “You testing me right now.”

“And if I am?”

He turned toward her slowly, eyes dark, heat rolling off him like steam.

“Then I’m failing.”

Her breath caught just a little.

But instead of leaning in, instead of pushing further, Joe stood up and stretched. “Go shower. Get your rest. You’ve got another city tomorrow.”

Y/N blinked. “You leaving?”

He walked to the door connecting the suite’s bedroom and looked back with a quiet, dangerous grin.

“Nah. I’m just giving you time to decide how much trouble you want.”

Then he disappeared inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

Y/N stared at the space where he’d been, her chest rising just a little faster than before.

This was getting… real.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The bathroom lights were warm and soft, but the inside of Y/N’s head? Loud.

She stood barefoot on the cool tile, arms crossed, lips twisted, pacing from the sink to the shower and back again. Her hair was tied up, her makeup gone, skin dewy and glowing from her usual nighttime routine — and yet none of that calmed her racing thoughts.

“He said go shower like he’s not six-foot-something and fine in the next room…” she muttered to herself, tugging at the hem of her tee.

Her reflection stared back at her, unimpressed.

Y/N sighed.

She was not supposed to like this man’s energy this much.

The way he looked at her like she was more than a moment. The way he didn’t push. The way he said “just enjoy it” like he meant it.

Like he actually respected her boundaries and her grind, even while clearly thinking about what was under this oversized t-shirt.

She groaned quietly and leaned forward over the sink, bracing herself.

“Why’d he have to say it like that?” she whispered. “Just let yourself enjoy it.”

Kayla’s voice echoed in her head, pure chaos and conviction: “Girl, climb that white boy like a tree!”

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. “Kayla is the devil.”

But… also not wrong.

She paused, looking toward the door. His voice replayed in her head again, smooth and low: “I’m just giving you time to decide how much trouble you want.”

Trouble.

God, he was trouble. But she’d handled worse. And this? This wasn’t danger.

This was choice.

She stepped back, grabbed the glass of water she’d brought in with her, and took a long sip.

Then?

She marched out of the bathroom, slow but sure, bare legs brushing against each other with every step toward the bedroom door.

Her hand hovered over the handle.

Heartbeat steady now. Not because she wasn’t nervous — but because she'd decided.

Y/N didn’t want commitment.

She didn’t want complications.

But she did want him.

Tonight, at least.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N’s fingers wrapped around the door handle with a purpose this time, her breath steady, the pounding in her chest like a drumbeat urging her forward.

She turned the knob, and the soft click echoed in the room. It was dark, but not pitch-black, the city lights casting a soft glow that highlighted the edge of the bed and the silhouette of Joe lounging there, leaning against the pillows. He’d taken off his shirt, and his broad shoulders were just enough of a tease under the dim lighting.

The air between them felt thick. Like something was about to break.

He looked up when she stepped inside, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he raised his head from the pillows. “You decided?”

She didn’t say a word — just took a step further in, shutting the door behind her with a soft click that seemed to reverberate louder than the silence.

Her eyes flicked over to him. His shirt was just tight enough to remind her of every muscle beneath, his jawline sharp and tempting. He didn’t move immediately — instead, he stayed leaning against the pillows, watching her, waiting.

Y/N didn’t need to say anything. She couldn’t — because the weight of the unspoken was louder than anything else.

She just reached for the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it off slowly, one motion after another, her gaze never leaving his. When it hit the floor, she walked toward him — a steady, calculated pace that only fueled the heat building in the room.

Joe sat up straight, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to her every curve, every inch of bare skin now on display for him. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

She stopped in front of him, her body close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her. “You said you weren’t here for whiskey,” she said, voice low, teasing. “But are you here for this?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hands moved to her waist, pulling her a little closer, but not too much, giving her space to change her mind. “I’m here for whatever you decide,” he replied, voice gravelly.

Her heart was racing now — but her head was clear. She wasn’t too far gone to remember her choices.

And she was choosing him tonight.

With that thought in mind, Y/N leaned down, her lips brushing against his in a slow, teasing kiss. At first, it was soft, gentle, just a taste. But Joe’s grip tightened on her waist, pulling her in closer as his mouth parted against hers. That’s when the kiss deepened, his tongue gently coaxing hers in a dance that made her stomach tighten with need.

She pulled away just enough to catch her breath, lips barely touching his, and let out a soft chuckle. “You’re gonna have to work for this.”

Joe’s chest rose with a sharp intake of breath, his fingers lightly trailing up her spine as he spoke. “I’m ready to.”

Her fingers brushed through his hair, pulling his face closer to hers, and this time, she didn’t hold back. She kissed him like she wanted to, no more games.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The morning light filtered through the curtains in soft slivers, casting warm lines across the room. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open slowly, the weight of the previous night’s events settling over her in a gentle haze. Her body felt satisfied — not just physically, but in a way that was new, that she didn’t have the words for yet.

She stretched, feeling the soft sheets against her skin, and blinked into the quiet of the room. There was a low hum of energy, a silence that felt comfortable. Not the kind of silence that felt awkward or forced. Just… peaceful.

It was then that she noticed Joe.

He was sprawled out next to her, his arm across the bed, face turned toward the ceiling, breathing slow and even. He was shirtless, his toned chest exposed to the soft morning light. There were slight indentations on his skin where the sheets had left their mark, and his body, relaxed and still, gave off an easy warmth.

Her eyes wandered over him for a moment longer than necessary, appreciating the view, but there was something oddly intimate about seeing him this way. She wasn’t used to seeing athletes — especially one like Joe — so unguarded, so vulnerable. There was an easy grace about him that she hadn’t expected.

And then she remembered she was still wearing his shirt.

Y/N blinked, glancing down at the oversized fabric draping over her frame. She smiled to herself, the soft cotton more than a little comfortable against her bare skin. Joe’s shirt.

Her lips curved upward, but she didn’t say anything just yet. Instead, she let her fingers brush against the sleeve, adjusting it slightly as she gazed over at him. He wasn’t awake yet, but she didn’t mind. There was no rush. The peace of the moment felt strange, but she liked it.

But the tension from last night hadn’t really gone away. It hung in the air between them, like the unspoken words they both had yet to fully acknowledge.

It was then that Joe’s voice broke the quiet, soft and a little groggy. “You’re still wearing my shirt.”

Y/N couldn’t suppress a small laugh. She tilted her head and gave him a side-eye, her gaze lingering on his chest. “What? This old thing?” She pulled at the sleeve of his shirt, making it slide more comfortably over her bare legs. “Guess I like how it feels.”

Joe’s eyes flickered open, meeting hers with a lazy, half-smirk on his face. His gaze traced over her, lingering on the shirt she was wearing before meeting her eyes again. “You look good in it. Might just keep it.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with a hint of a smile. “I don’t think that’s part of the agreement, is it?”

Joe chuckled, his muscles shifting under the sheets as he propped himself up onto his elbow. His bare chest was even more apparent now, the light accentuating the contours of his body. “Maybe not. But I’m flexible.”

Her laughter was light, teasing, but it held a note of something deeper. “You really didn’t waste any time, huh?”

Joe gave her a lazy grin, his eyes playful but his expression a little more serious than it had been the night before. “I’m not a man who likes to waste time, Y/N.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the way his voice lowered, at how the words held more weight this time. He wasn’t just speaking casually. There was something else there. She cleared her throat, trying to shake off the seriousness that was creeping in.

There it was again. That shift — the undercurrent of something deeper. A promise that maybe this wasn’t as casual as they both tried to play it. She caught his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, the tension simmering in the room like an unspoken challenge.

But then, like he could sense the exact moment it shifted, Joe broke the tension with a lazy smile. “You’re really making me work for that shirt, huh?”

Y/N grinned, playing with the sleeve of it. “I’m just getting my value out of it.”

Joe rolled his eyes, but it didn’t hide the way he was enjoying this back-and-forth. He leaned in a little closer, his voice softer. “You’re not gonna make me beg for it, are you?”

Y/N’s heart skipped. She fought the urge to laugh and play it off, but instead, she gave him a sideways look. “Depends. How badly do you want it?”

The room felt warmer, the playful edge turning into something else — something charged, something that would either be left unresolved or set into motion.

He smirked, his hand moving toward her waist. “Bad enough to make you reconsider this whole ‘no strings’ thing.”

She raised an eyebrow, sitting up slightly and adjusting the shirt as she looked down at him. “We’ll see. No promises.”

Joe’s smile was slow, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes as he settled back against the pillows. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

And Y/N? She wasn’t sure if she was ready to let this whole thing get complicated yet. But right now? She liked the challenge.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The morning haze was still thick in the room, the quiet hum of the city below barely breaking the silence between Y/N and Joe. She stretched, her body still basking in the warmth of the sheets, and checked her phone for the time—she was definitely running late for the studio.

She stood up, the light from the window casting shadows on her as she moved toward the bathroom, but before she could open the door, she felt the weight of Joe’s gaze on her.

He was still propped up in bed, looking like he hadn’t moved an inch, though his eyes were locked onto her every step. The teasing smile tugging at his lips was enough to send a small thrill through her, though she was doing her best to keep her cool.

"Where you going?" Joe's voice was low, laced with playful curiosity.

Y/N paused, glancing back over her shoulder at him. "Gonna shower," she said nonchalantly. "Studio session in an hour, so I’ve got to get ready."

Joe’s smirk grew, and he raised an eyebrow. “You know, we could save some water if we shower together. Be efficient about it.”

Y/N stopped in her tracks, her hand still on the bathroom door handle. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but she wasn’t about to let him get to her. "Really?" She shot him a teasing smile. “You’re going to suggest that after last night?”

Joe leaned back into the pillows, clearly amused. “I don’t see why not. We’re friends, right?” He threw her a playful wink. “Friends help each other out.”

Her eyes flickered for a second, but she caught herself, shaking her head slightly. “Nice try, but I’ve got things to do.” She gave him a knowing smile, the kind that let him know she was still in control here. “I’ll pass on the water-saving idea.”

Joe chuckled, watching her intently as she slowly turned the doorknob. “I’m just saying… I’ve got no problem sharing space. I’ll even let you take the hot water.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. She was trying to keep things light, trying to remember that this arrangement was exactly what they both wanted — fun, no strings attached. But damn, the way he made even the most innocent things sound charged made it hard to keep up that front.

“Thanks, but I’ll manage without you in there,” she teased, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside. “Besides, I’m sure you’re not in the mood to hang out with me while I try to get my hair under control.”

Joe's eyes softened just a bit, but the playful glint was still there. “I’m sure I could find something to entertain myself.”

Y/N gave him a final, teasing look before the door clicked shut behind her. She pressed her back to the cool tile of the bathroom for a moment, letting out a deep breath. The tension between them was so palpable it was almost suffocating, but she had no intention of letting it cross any lines. Not yet, anyway.

As much as she might have enjoyed the idea of testing the waters, of getting wrapped up in the heat between them, she knew that wasn’t the deal. No strings. Just fun.

She glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror, shaking her head. She was in control. She had to be. She had a career to focus on.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Later:

Joe lounged on the bed, casually scrolling through his phone, but there was an obvious quiet in the room. The tension still hung between them, unresolved, but neither was eager to address it. Not yet.

After a few moments, Y/N came out of the bathroom, her curls still wet from the shower. She was dressed now in a simple, yet effortlessly cool outfit, one she knew would look perfect under the stage lights. The way she moved, the easy confidence in the way she carried herself, was enough to make Joe’s thoughts wander for a moment.

Her eyes met his briefly, and she flashed him a playful smirk. “Guess I’ll leave you to your own devices for now. Studio time calls.”

Joe’s eyes followed her as she grabbed her things and walked toward the door. “No goodbye kiss before my flight to New Orleans?” He raised an eyebrow, voice slightly teasing.

Y/N smirked over her shoulder, her fingers brushing the doorframe as she glanced back at him. “Gotta keep you coming back don't I?” She winked before stepping out into the hallway, leaving Joe behind, still lounging on the bed, his mind swirling with both thoughts of her and the very arrangement they’d agreed to.

For now, they were keeping it light. Casual. But there was no denying the heat between them — and neither of them was willing to admit that it could ever be anything else.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The studio was already buzzing when Y/N arrived. Her producer was setting levels, her engineer running mic checks, and Kayla was stretching on the couch like she hadn’t just spent the night talking mess and hyping up the energy between Y/N and Joe. Y/N dropped her bag on the counter and slid her headphones on, ready to jump into the work she actually woke up early for — her career.

But of course, Kayla wasn’t about to let her just slide in quietly.

“So…” Kayla stretched the word out dramatically, her voice cutting through the music playing softly over the studio monitors. “Where’s Mr. QB1? He still recovering or…?”

Y/N didn’t even look up. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Oh, don’t even try to act like you’re above this conversation,” Kayla said, sliding off the couch and walking over to her with a knowing smirk. “Did anything happen after I fell asleep? Because I saw you sneakin’ off again. And don’t say it was just for water.”

Y/N kept her voice light, unbothered. “We talked. We flirted. We slept.”

Kayla narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. “Slept or slept?”

Before Y/N could reply, her phone buzzed on the soundboard with a soft vibration, screen lighting up with a preview that made her freeze.

Kayla, nosy as ever, leaned in immediately. “Oop, is that him?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Instead, she slowly reached for the phone, heart skipping a little as she saw the message.

Joe 🔥: Thought you might need some inspiration.

Attached was a mirror selfie. Shirtless. Morning light catching on the curve of his chest, grey sweatpants hanging just low enough to be a problem, hair still tousled, his smirk cocky as hell — like he knew what he was doing.

“Oh my God,” Kayla gasped dramatically, peering over Y/N’s shoulder. “That’s illegal. He should be arrested. Actually no — never mind. That’s art. He can stay.”

Y/N bit her lip to hide her laugh, locking her phone with a shake of her head, but not before saving the photo to her hidden album.

“Girl,” Kayla said, fanning herself. “Tell me that man didn’t just send you a thirst trap while you’re out here trying to hit vocal runs.”

Y/N sighed dramatically, eyes closed like she was begging the universe for strength. “I came here to work. I did not come here to be tested.”

“Well, now you’ve got visual motivation,” Kayla teased, nudging her. “That’s better than any pre-workout.”

Y/N gave her a look, but her lips curled into a reluctant smirk. “He’s such a menace.”

Kayla snorted. “And you love it.”

“I like a little chaos,” Y/N admitted with a shrug. “But this is just fun. You know that.”

Kayla raised her hands in surrender. “Hey, you said no strings. I’m just here for the commentary.”

Y/N exhaled, looking at her phone one more time before tucking it in her back pocket and heading toward the booth. “Let me finish this take before I start responding to half-naked quarterbacks.”

Kayla grinned. “Ooooh, so you are responding. Interesting.”

Y/N shot her a playful glare from behind the booth glass.

The track started playing. A sultry bassline rolled through the speakers. And even though her voice stayed on-key and her delivery was professional… Joe’s smirk was still burned into the back of her mind.

The booth was warm with stage lights and energy as Y/N laid down the last few ad-libs of the track. Her vocals dripped with confidence, sensuality, and power — all laced in the way only she could deliver. Still, even with the music pumping through her headphones, that image of Joe — shirtless, smug, and very aware of what he was doing — lingered in the back of her mind like a bass note.

She pulled the headphones off as the final beat faded, stepping out of the booth to a quiet round of nods and a “fire, as always” from her producer.

Kayla greeted her with a knowing smirk. “You were singing like you had a certain quarterback on your mind.”

Y/N didn’t dignify it with a response. She just grabbed her water bottle and took a long sip, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Her phone buzzed again. Another message. Joe: Studio going okay? I can send more “inspiration” if you’re falling off.

Y/N rolled her eyes but her smile gave her away. He was enjoying this way too much. And she wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand.

“You know what,” she muttered, unlocking her phone. “Two can play.”

Kayla perked up. “Wait. What are you doing?”

“Just reminding him that I can dish it out too.”

Y/N walked toward the mirror in the corner of the studio and grabbed her phone. She tugged the collar of his shirt — the one she still hadn’t returned — slightly off one shoulder, letting it fall just enough to show some skin. Her makeup was glowing, curls still a little damp from her earlier shower, and she had just the right amount of post-session shine to her skin.

She snapped a pic.

Head tilted. Eyes low. A subtle smirk curving her lips.

Attached it to a message.

Y/N: Thanks for the inspo. Thought I’d return the favor.😌✨📀

“Sent,” she said with a flick of her wrist.

Kayla gawked. “Oh my God. You really hit send. Girl, you’re bold.”

“Why not?” Y/N said with a shrug. “We said no strings, not no spice.”

Kayla threw herself onto the couch, cackling. “This arrangement is a whole movie. I’m just lucky enough to be in the front row.”

Y/N laughed, but there was a smugness in her tone now. She knew what she was doing — and Joe had started it.

Her phone dinged.

Joe: You really wanna do this right now? Bet.

Followed by a smirking emoji and then...

Joe (again): Don't think I won't get on the next flight back there.

Y/N’s brows raised. She didn’t even try to hide her amused expression. "Mmm. He's mad now."

Kayla clutched her chest. “And here begins the escalation.”

But Y/N just smiled, satisfied. “Let him sweat. It’s good for the skin.”

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N had barely made it halfway through her post-studio smoothie when her phone buzzed again — this time, not a text.

It was a FaceTime request.

Joe Burrow is calling…

Kayla saw the name pop up and immediately lost her damn mind.

“Oh. My. God. He’s FaceTiming you?!”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips curving as she casually wiped her mouth and smoothed the edges of her hair. “Guess I poked the tiger.”

Kayla giggled, already grabbing her own phone to "casually not record anything, swear."

Y/N let it ring twice — just to be a little petty — then finally accepted.

The screen opened and there he was, looking annoyingly fine even through a grainy front camera. Hair still messy, chain resting against his chest, and yeah — still shirtless.

“Hey, QB1,” she said sweetly, leaning back in her chair like she hadn’t just sent him a thirst trap two minutes ago.

Joe’s smirk was immediate. “That’s how we’re playing now?”

“You started it,” she shrugged. “I just returned the serve.”

Joe let out a low laugh, head tipping slightly as he leaned back, his face taking up most of the screen now. “Right. Except your serve hit different.”

Y/N tried to stay unfazed, but her grin was already creeping. “If you’re that easy to distract, I’m gonna start sending you selfies every time you play.”

“Oh yeah?” he raised an eyebrow. “Want me throwing interceptions?”

“You’d never,” she teased.

His gaze dropped — just enough to scan what she was wearing now: her off-shoulder crop top, sweats riding low on her hips. His jaw tensed slightly, eyes narrowing in that familiar hungry way.

“You’re real lucky I’m not there right now.”

“Mmm, am I?” she said, drawing lazy circles on the rim of her smoothie cup with one nail. “You’re the one that said no strings, remember?”

Joe smirked. “And I stand by that. Just saying… strings or not, I remember exactly what you sound like when you—”

“Joe!” she cut in with a scandalized laugh, sitting upright as Kayla screamed dramatically in the background.

Joe just laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m just sayin’... studio must’ve been real inspired today.”

“It was,” she replied, smug. “Track’s fire. You’ll hear it eventually. If you behave.”

“I don’t plan on behaving,” he said smoothly, voice dropping a notch lower.

Y/N’s breath caught, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes and grinned. “This is exactly why I shouldn’t have answered this call.”

“Nah,” he murmured. “You wanted to.”

She didn’t deny it.

They stared at each other for a beat too long — not soft, not deep — but charged.

Then Kayla’s voice broke the moment: “Tell your man I said hi!”

Joe smirked. “Hey, Kayla.”

“You better stretch next time, QB1,” Kayla called. “I don’t need my bestie putting you on injured reserve.”

Y/N nearly choked on her smoothie.

Joe’s eyes crinkled in laughter. “Y’all are a problem.”

“Facts,” Y/N said, recovering with a bright laugh. “But we’re your problem now.”

The silence that followed was heavy in all the right ways.

No promises. No pressure.

Just tension. Fun. Fire.

And a little bit of “what are we doing?” wrapped in late-night calls and low-cut shirts.

“Joe,” Y/N said slowly, her voice dripping with warning and just a hint of amusement, “you’re talking real spicy right now for someone who’s not even in the same zip code.”

He leaned closer to the screen like he was about to climb through it. The chain on his neck swung slightly as he tilted his head, that cocky grin only getting deeper.

“I’ll be in your hotel room before the lights in that studio go off,” he said, voice low and steady like a promise. “Waiting. In. Your. Bed.”

Y/N blinked. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Across the room, Kayla clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “Oh my GOD!”

Y/N dragged her hand down her face to hide the rising flush in her cheeks. “You’re full of it,” she said, but her voice had the smallest crack in it — just enough to give her away.

Joe noticed. Of course he did.

He smirked, slow and lethal. “We’ll see.”

And with that, he gave her one last up-down look through the screen — lazy, lingering — then ended the call.

The screen went black.

And for two full seconds, there was only silence.

Then—

“GIRLLLLL!”

Kayla spun dramatically in her chair and fake-fainted straight out onto the studio couch. Legs in the air. Hand to her forehead. Fully committed to the scene.

“Girl, if you don’t hop back in that booth and write about this man and what he did to you, I swear to God I will break into your Notes app and do it for you!”

Y/N stood there, hand still holding her phone, staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed her.

“That man…” Kayla wheezed, fanning herself with a lyric sheet, “...just dropped a whole audible on your ovaries through a FaceTime call. What are we doing still standing here?!”

Y/N groaned and sank into the studio chair, eyes wide. “I hate that I liked that.”

Kayla leaned over the arm of the couch, serious now. “Nah, babe. That’s not just like. That’s inspiration. And the way you were singing earlier? We’re about to have a whole QB1 EP in here.”

Y/N laughed helplessly, throwing her phone onto the couch. “I am not writing a song about Joe Burrow.”

“You already have!” Kayla pointed out. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

Y/N raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! Maybe one song.”

Kayla sat up, eyes sparkling. “Make it filthy. Make it sexy. Make it sound like FaceTime and temptation and hotel key cards you didn’t ask for.”

Y/N bit her bottom lip, finally letting the grin rise to the surface. “Temptation, huh?”

Kayla nodded, smug. “Girl. You’ve got a man waiting in your bed. You better give the people what they want.”

And with that, Y/N stood up, adjusted her mic, and stepped back into the booth — heart still racing, smile still blooming.

The beat started.

The tension followed.

And the song?

Yeah… it was already writing itself.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The beat that pulsed through the speakers was a slow, bass-heavy groove — sensual and smoky, with just enough bounce to keep it playful. Y/N closed her eyes as the instrumental filled the booth, her fingers brushing lightly against the mic as she let the melody settle into her bones.

Kayla was watching from the couch, legs crossed, chewing on a Twizzler like it was a cigar. Her eyes gleamed. “Alright now. Don’t be shy. You got that QB1 energy flowing through your veins. Give me something that’ll make him blush.”

Y/N cracked a grin and rolled her shoulders, stepping up to the mic like it owed her money.

The music kicked in again — and then, like magic, the first lyrics slid out of her lips like honey:

🎶 You said you’d be waitin’ in my hotel bed

With that look in your eyes, got me losin’ my head

Chain on your chest, not a single regret

You’re a full-course meal, boy, I’m skippin' the rest🎶

“OHHHHHH!” Kayla shouted from the couch, practically levitating. “I knew it! That’s the first bar?!”

Y/N smirked in the booth, voice sultry as the hook rolled off her tongue:

🎶 FaceTime got me actin’ different

Can’t lie, I’m feelin’ your position

Late night, no strings, just tension

But I’m playin’ with fire, yeah I’m itchin’🎶

Kayla slapped the lyric sheet on her lap. “She said no strings but tension?! Oh, we’re lying now!”

Y/N giggled but kept going — her voice lower now, with that teasing lilt that had gotten her compared to Doja and Sabrina in the same breath.

🎶 Hands on my hips, say you miss how they move

Talkin' real reckless, got nothin’ to prove

But boy, if I pull up, you know what we’ll do

We ain't in love, but you stuck like glue🎶

Kayla screamed into her Twizzler.

“Girl. GIIIIIRL. Are we gonna release this before or after he comes back for round two?!” she hollered.

Y/N ended the run with a soft, spoken outro, voice close to a whisper:

🎶 No calls, no claims… just heat in the sheets

But damn, baby… you play me like you read the beat.🎶

As the track faded, Y/N stepped out of the booth, face flushed and glowing. She grabbed her water, breathing a little heavier — not just from singing, but from letting herself feel every word.

Kayla looked like she’d just watched the final episode of a messy Zeus series. “That man is never gonna survive hearing this.”

Y/N raised a brow. “You think he’ll know it’s about him?”

Kayla didn’t even hesitate. “Babe. You described him down to the chain and the hotel sheets. He’s gonna be in the locker room losing his mind.”

Y/N sipped her water and let the smug little smile settle on her lips. “Good.”

Kayla leaned forward, whispering like they were in a church confessional. “You know what you just did, right?”

Y/N raised a brow.

“You just made a thirst anthem. And if he’s really in your bed tonight?”

Y/N smirked. “Guess he’ll get a live performance.”

The air in the studio was heavy — not with exhaustion, but satisfaction. The kind that came from knowing you just created something that could live on people’s playlists, in the corners of their minds, and maybe... in a certain quarterback’s locker room too.

Y/N leaned over the mixing board, headphones still around her neck as she tapped her screen. The final bounce of the track had just been sent to her phone.

She opened her text thread with Carmen — her manager and gatekeeper of all things brand, image, and release timing — and attached the file.

Y/N:Just wrapped. You’re gonna wanna hear this one ASAP. Might be the lead for the deluxe. Let me know.🔥🎧💋

Send.

And now... she waited. Carmen was fast, but not instant.

Kayla, on the other hand?

Immediate.

“Okay so when this song drops,” Kayla said, dramatically spinning around in the studio chair like it was a throne, “we need a cover art with you in his jersey, but only the jersey. Hair messy. Lip gloss poppin’. You know, like post-decision but pre-sin.”

Y/N shot her a look. “Pre-sin?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Y/N just laughed, throwing her empty smoothie cup in the trash. “You’re too much.”

“I’m just saying, you can’t write a song like that and then show up to his hotel room in sweats and no lip liner.”

“I’m not showing up. He said he’d be there.”

Kayla raised an eyebrow. “And you believed him?”

Y/N paused, just for a second, then gave a sly smile. “Yeah. I kinda do.”

Kayla clutched her chest like it was personal. “Oh my God. She’s got faith in him now. This is worse than I thought.”

Y/N grabbed her bag, checking her phone one last time. Still nothing from Carmen — but she wasn’t worried. The song was a hit. That was obvious from the first hook.

“I’m out,” she said, adjusting the oversized shirt she’d thrown on over her crop top — still Joe’s shirt, by the way, and yes, Kayla noticed.

“You wearing his shirt to go see him in bed? That’s diabolical,” Kayla cackled. “That’s how you end up with a man writing lyrics about you.”

Y/N just shrugged with a smirk. “Let him.”

As she turned toward the door, Kayla called out one last time, voice high-pitched and dramatic as hell: “Text me when it’s over — no, actually — text me midway through with a single emoji so I know if I should light a candle or call TMZ!”

Y/N laughed as the door shut behind her, Kayla’s laughter echoing into the hallway.

Down the elevator, out the back of the studio, and into the cool night air — the whole city humming like it knew she was on fire.

She tapped open her phone one last time as the driver pulled up to the hotel.

Still no text from Carmen.

But one very recent message from Joe.

Joe: Room key’s at the front desk. Come upstairs.

I’ve been thinking about Private Party..

Let’s see if you can sing it like that in person.😈🛏️🎶

Y/N smiled slowly, slipping her phone into her bag as the hotel doors parted.

The song might’ve been done.

But this night?

It was just getting started.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The hotel lobby was quiet, cloaked in the soft hum of low jazz and the click of designer heels against marble. Y/N walked in with slow, steady steps — confident, cool, but under the surface?

Her pulse was a drumline.

At the front desk, the concierge didn’t say much. Just handed her a sleek black key card with a knowing smile. Room 1510.

She took it, thanked them, and slipped into the elevator like she wasn’t about to commit emotional arson.

Her phone buzzed as the elevator rose.

Joe: Door’s unlocked.

She didn’t text back. She didn’t need to.

Ding. Fifteenth floor.

Y/N stepped into the hallway, walked down the plush carpet like it was a runway, and paused in front of the room.

Deep breath.

Then she pushed the door open.

The suite was dim — the only light spilling from the cracked bathroom door and the glow of the city skyline through the massive windows. Joe was there, exactly like he said he’d be. Propped up against the headboard, no shirt, gray sweats hanging low on his hips, phone in hand — but he wasn’t scrolling. He was waiting.

And when he looked up and saw her?

His jaw tightened just a little.

“You came,” he said, voice low, rough.

“I said I would,” Y/N replied, stepping inside and gently closing the door behind her.

He looked her over slowly. Eyes dragging over her bare legs, that shirt — his shirt — still clinging to her like it belonged there, and the sly smile tugging at her lips.

“That mine?” he asked, nodding toward the shirt.

Y/N’s smile deepened. “You left it. I just… kept it warm.”

Joe set his phone aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“You looked good in the booth earlier,” he said, standing now, walking toward her. “But this?”

His hand slid along her waist as he stopped in front of her, fingers brushing the hem of the shirt.

“This is different.”

“Told you I make better music when I’m distracted.”

“You call that distracted?”

She tilted her head. “What would you call it?”

He leaned in, lips just a breath from hers.

“Focused.”

There was silence — not the awkward kind, but the charged kind. The kind that stretched like a live wire between them.

And then Y/N spoke, soft, teasing.

“Wanna see if I can hit those high notes without the mic?”

That was it.

The line snapped.

Joe’s mouth was on hers in the next second, hands gripping her thighs as he walked her backwards toward the bed. Their kiss wasn’t careful — it was weeks of teasing, texts, “no strings,” and restrained desire unraveling all at once. Her fingers slid through his curls as he groaned into her mouth, backing her into the mattress like they were keeping score.

And right now?

Nobody was losing.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Later…

Clothes forgotten. The city lights flickering across tangled limbs. Her laugh low against his shoulder, his voice rough with post-confession praise.

Y/N rolled onto her back, breathing hard, eyes on the ceiling.

“Well,” she said, “that definitely wasn’t on the setlist.”

Joe turned his head, smirking. “Nah. That was the encore.”

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The room was wrapped in that hushed, golden stillness only the earliest morning hours could bring. The city was slowly waking outside, but inside this suite, everything was soft and slow.

Y/N stretched out on the bed, Joe’s arm lazily slung across her waist, his bare chest rising and falling behind her as he started to drift.

She blinked at the ceiling, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.

“You still breathing back there, QB1?” she teased softly.

Joe’s voice was gravelly and low. “Barely.”

She laughed under her breath, shifting enough to glance at him over her shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded, hair a mess, lips a little swollen. He looked exactly like what last night had been: dangerous in the best possible way.

She leaned in just enough to murmur near his mouth, “Good. You needed humbling.”

He gave her a sleepy smirk. “And you needed reminding.”

“Mmm.” She let her fingers trace lightly down his chest before rolling back over. “Of what?”

“That I back up the talk.”

Before she could sass him again, her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She groaned, reaching for it, already prepared to ignore whoever it was.

Until she saw the name.

CARMEN 💼🔥6:02AM

Her body jolted upright. “Oh snap—!”

Joe blinked, eyebrows raised. “What?”

Y/N was already reading the message, wide-eyed:

CARMEN: This. Is. The one.

The song is HOT. Smart, sexy, marketable — I’m obsessed.

You free this afternoon? I’m setting up a photoshoot for the single art. Think ‘post-call glow’ meets ‘don’t-touch-my-man-but-maybe-do.’

Also: tell your mystery muse thanks for the inspiration 😏

Y/N covered her face, letting out the quietest squeal.

Joe grinned behind her. “Let me guess…”

She turned, already smirking. “Your debut as a muse was well-received.”

He propped himself up on one elbow. “I inspire greatness. Comes with the contract.”

“Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, brushing a loose curl away from her face. “So... cover shoot today?”

“Mhmm. Carmen’s got something cooking.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, letting his fingers trail down her back. “You gonna wear that shirt again?”

She swatted his hand away, laughing. “I’m not making the single art that on-the-nose.”

He just smiled — slow and proud. “Don’t worry. You already hit the mark.”

Y/N rolled out of bed, dragging the sheets with her. “You staying here or sneaking out like a cliché?”

Joe leaned back into the pillows, fully at ease. “That depends.”

“On?”

“If you want me back after the photoshoot.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She just gave him one last glance, that same spark in her eye from the studio, from the hotel door, from every time they broke their own rules just a little.

Then she grabbed her phone, flipping it toward him as she walked to the bathroom.

“I’ll let the music decide.”

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The studio-turned-photoset was buzzing. Carmen had turned a single text into a full-blown production — ring lights, wind machines, stylists pacing around with garment bags, and a playlist bumping Y/N’s own discography like they were manifesting a Grammy on the spot.

Y/N stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of the jersey she’d thrown on over her body — nothing underneath but sheer black stockings that clung to her thighs like a secret.

Simple. Bold. Sexy in a way that whispered more than it shouted.

Carmen, arms crossed and shades on indoors like the industry icon she was, nodded approvingly.

“This is the cover. No chains, no gimmicks — just vibes and legs. Dangerous.”

Kayla popped into frame from the side, already filming BTS for Instagram. “Y’all better thank this white boy when this hits Billboard. Matter fact—” She pointed her phone at Y/N. “Tell the people who inspired this look, babe.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, smoothing her hair back as the stylist gave her final touch-ups.

“Just a lil quarterback chaos,” she said with a smirk, meeting her own gaze in the mirror.

Kayla turned to Carmen. “Be honest. If we had him shirtless in the back of the shot looking like a touchdown snack—”

“No,” Carmen deadpanned. “But also… yes.”

“Girl,” Y/N said, trying not to laugh as she was pulled onto the set. “You are not turning this into a softcore NFL porno.”

Kayla raised both brows. “Tell that to the song. That wasn’t a diss track, baby, that was a confession.”

The set was dressed like a soft, luxurious dream. The bed — king-sized, dressed in crinkled white linen sheets — sat in the middle of the soundstage, surrounded by warm lighting and moody shadows. Candles flickered on the nightstands. A pair of sneakers tossed at the edge, a helmet in the corner like an afterthought. Just messy enough to feel intimate. Just curated enough to be art.

Y/N sat on the bed in full look: An oversized jersey barely reaching mid-thigh. Black thigh-high stockings that caught the light in all the right places. No jewelry — just the subtle gleam of lip gloss, the confidence in her eyes, and the story in her body language.

Kayla, behind the monitor, gasped like it was the Met Gala.

“OH, we are eating. Up. Dinner. Dessert. Three courses and a take-home bag.”

Carmen didn’t even look up from her notes. “Let’s hit the angles before I send these to press. Wide, overhead, then give me that chin-down-eyes-up moment that makes men forget their passwords.”

The photographer gestured. “Alright, Y/N — give me ‘I know what I did last night and I’d do it again.’ But make it… poetic.”

Y/N let out a slow breath, settled into the soft dip of the mattress, and leaned back on her elbows. The jersey rode up just enough to flash a bit of stocking top — suggestive, but never obvious.

Click.

She turned her head, lips parted slightly, eyelids heavy. Like she’d just rolled out of a memory and was daring someone to ask what it was.

Click. Click.

She arched her back, fingers tangled in the sheets, knees bent — the jersey stretching across her curves like a trophy he forgot to take home.

Click.

Kayla shouted, “Y’all better frame this and put it in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame!”

“Someone get this girl a drink and a warning label,” Carmen muttered with pride.

“Do not let her see that man until the single drops,” Kayla added, fanning herself dramatically. “She’s already about to do numbers and body him emotionally.”

Y/N smirked, eyes narrowing as she stepped under the lights. The photographer counted her in, and just like that — she flipped the switch.

One hand tugging slightly at the jersey’s hem. One leg bent, toes pointed. Eyes locked on the camera, heavy-lidded and unreadable. A look that said I know what I did… and I’d do it again.

The shutter snapped like a heartbeat.

Then again.

And again.

From the sidelines, Carmen and Kayla whispered like proud chaos agents.

“Get that side profile. Ooh, YES. Make it look like she just got off the phone with him and is thinking about round two.”

“Y’all need to relax,” Y/N called out, not breaking pose.

Kayla leaned in close. “Oh baby. This is relaxed. Wait till we shoot the deluxe version.”

The photos kept rolling. She knelt, shifted, tossed her hair, bit her lip. The jersey rode just high enough to make people wonder. The energy? Tease meets takeover.

Y/N laughed under her breath between shots, shifting again — this time, pulling the jersey off one shoulder as her eyes locked on the lens with a slow-burning intensity that said: No strings. No lies. Just heat.

Click.

And just like that — the photo.

The one they’d use for the single.

The one that would blow up Twitter, hit promo billboards, and sit framed in her tour dressing room for years to come.

Carmen checked her phone and grinned. “The single goes to pre-save at midnight. I’ll have final selects in an hour.”

And the second the last flash popped and the photographer called, “That’s a wrap,” Y/N stepped off the platform like she was floating.

Kayla was already texting a group chat with fire emojis.

And Y/N?

She picked up her phone, tapped her messages, and typed one simple line.

Y/N: You inspired the cover. Thought you’d wanna see it first.

Attached: one photo. Jersey. Thighs. Glare like she owned his soul.

As she climbed off the bed, slipping on a robe, her phone buzzed again.

A beat later… Joe's reply:

Joe: You really wore my number on a bed and expect me to stay calm?

Y/N: Didn’t say anything about staying calm. Just said I’d send it first. 😏

Kayla leaned over her shoulder and screamed.

“Ohhhhhh, he’s DONE for. Like cooked. Burnt. BBQed and well-seasoned!”

Y/N just grinned and tucked the phone into her pocket.

“Good. He started it.”

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe was propped up on the couch in Y/N's hotel suite, wearing nothing but the worn-in black joggers he’d had on earlier. His hand lazily scrolled through his phone, but his attention wasn’t really on it. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to the door, waiting, hoping.

The room was quieter than it had been earlier — when they’d been laughing, teasing, the vibe still light, the chemistry there but under wraps. Now, it felt more like the stillness before a storm.

His thumb hovered over the photo Y/N had just sent, that damn shot of her in the jersey, propped up on the bed with that look in her eyes — like she was ready to rock his world. The message? Simple, but damn effective:

Y/N: You inspired the cover. Thought you’d wanna see it first.

Joe could barely breathe. She knew exactly what she was doing when she sent that. She knew the effect it’d have on him.

He hadn’t been able to get the image out of his mind since — her in that jersey, legs stretched out, looking like she had every right to sit there, knowing she was the hottest thing in the room. His pulse quickened as he stared at the photo again, the visual lingering like a promise.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t expected her to actually send it, much less tease him like this. The song had come from a place of playful energy, but this? This was different. This was... intimate. And now, here he was, his body practically vibrating with the need to be near her again.

Just then, the door creaked open.

Y/N stepped in, the soft click of the door echoing behind her. She hadn’t bothered to knock, and why would she? She knew he was still here.

But damn, she looked different. Even though she was in her comfy clothes — black joggers and a loose tank top — there was something in her energy that screamed confidence.

She caught his gaze immediately. Her lips curled into a small, knowing smirk.

“You been waiting long?” she teased, her eyes flicking to the phone in his hand.

Joe didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring at her like she was a problem. “You know what you’re doing to me, right?”

She cocked an eyebrow, walking toward him slowly, letting the silence hang between them for a moment. Her hands slipped into the pockets of her joggers, her posture casual — but the smoldering intensity in her eyes wasn’t lost on him. She was aware of her power, and she knew he was waiting for her to make the next move.

“You like the photo, huh?” Her voice was low, teasing.

Joe chuckled, though it was edged with frustration. “I didn’t expect you to actually send it. But here I am, still thinking about it.”

She didn’t say anything for a second, just letting her eyes sweep over him as she stood there. He could feel her eyes on him like a physical thing, like she was already stripping him down with her gaze.

“And here you are,” she said finally, stepping closer until there was barely any space between them. “Waiting. All hot and bothered.”

Joe’s hand twitched. He wanted to reach for her, but he was getting off on the slow burn, the anticipation. He had to admit, she had him wrapped around her finger.

“You want me to make it easier for you?” she asked, voice dripping with the kind of playful challenge that made his pulse race.

“God, you’re killing me.” His voice came out a little rougher than intended. His hand reached for hers, but he stopped just before he touched her. The tension between them, thick as ever, had him second-guessing every movement.

Y/N stepped into his space, deliberately brushing her body against his as she let her fingers skim over his chest. Her breath was warm against his neck as she whispered, “That photo... it wasn’t just a tease. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Joe’s chest tightened, and his grip on his phone was suddenly too tight. He bit back a groan as he tilted his head slightly to look at her. “I’m not sure you’re ready for what happens next.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” she said with a dangerous grin, tilting her chin up. “But the question is... are you?”

Before he could answer, she pulled back with a smirk, the teasing shift back in her stride. He was left sitting there, burning up with nothing but that fire from her touch and the question of what happens next.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed again.

It was a message from her.

Y/N: I’ll be waiting in the bed when you figure it out. 😏

Joe growled under his breath. This was going to be dangerous.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N wasn’t surprised when she heard the door click open and shut softly, and the quiet thud of shoes being kicked off. She wasn’t even under the covers yet, just lying there in nothing but her jersey from the shoot and a black thong, the room dark except for the dim glow of the bathroom light left ajar.

She listened for a moment, heard the rustle of clothes, the whisper of bare feet on the floor. Then the bed dipped behind her, a warm body sliding up against hers from the back. She felt the soft brush of lips against the nape of her neck, a hand sliding up to rest on her stomach.

“You figured it out then,” she whispered, a smile playing at her lips as she felt the length of him hard against her backside.

“I told you,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hot as his hand started to move higher, slowly, teasingly, “you know exactly what you do to me.”

She pushed back against him, feeling him harden even more at the pressure. His hand slid up to cup her breast, fingers finding her nipple through the fabric of the jersey and giving it a gentle pinch that made her inhale sharply.

“Do I, now?” she said, arching back against him as his lips trailed down from her neck to her shoulder, his other hand sliding down to grip her hip.

He didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he pushed her onto her stomach, his weight settling over her as his hands worked under the hem of the jersey. He kissed down her spine as he pulled it up, and she lifted herself up enough for him to pull it off entirely.

Y/N gasped as she felt his teeth skim over a particularly sensitive spot on her lower back. His hands were everywhere at once — gripping her thighs, kneading her ass, fingers teasing between her legs until she was panting into the pillows.

“Joe…” she breathed, pushing back against his hands.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growled against her skin, his fingers finally, finally slipping inside her. She was wet already, so ready for him, and she heard him groan behind her as he felt it.

His fingers worked her slowly, torturously, as he kissed and bit his way up her spine. When he finally withdrew them, she whimpered at the loss, but then she felt him shift— and suddenly he was flipping her onto her back, settling between her legs as he looked down at her.

“Such a fucking tease,” he growled as he kissed her, hard and deep. His hands pinned hers above her head as he ground against her, the thin fabric of his boxers and her panties the only thing keeping them apart. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer as their tongues battled for dominance.

He broke the kiss to trail his lips down her neck, nipping sharply at her collarbone. Y/N arched into him with a whimper, her hands still pinned over her head. He loved doing that, loved making her feel that edge of pleasure and pain. And she loved that he knew just how far to push her.

When he finally released her hands, she immediately reached for him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him back up to kiss her. He groaned into her mouth as she rolled them over, straddling him as she broke the kiss to look down at him.

“You like it when I tease you,” she said, a smirk playing at her lips as she started to grind against him.

He gripped her hips, thrusting up to meet her movements. “I like it when you’re like this,” he countered, his eyes dark with want. “All confident and in control.”

She leaned down, her breasts brushing against his chest as she nipped at his earlobe. “And I like it when you give me exactly what I want.”

He flipped them over again, pinning her beneath him as he looked down at her with a mix of amusement and desire. “Is that so?”

Y/N didn’t get a chance to answer. Instead, she felt his hand slide down between them, fingers slipping beneath her panties to find her clit. He started circling it slowly, and her back arched off the bed with a gasp.

“Joe, fuck,” she breathed, her hands gripping his shoulders as he worked her higher and higher.

He kissed her again, swallowing her moans as he drove her to the edge. When she was close, so close she could feel it in her toes, he pulled back, his fingers slowing to a maddening pace.

“Not yet,” he murmured against her lips.

She whimpered, but nodded. He withdrew his fingers, and she bit back a frustrated sound.

He made eye contact with her as he brought his hand up, slipping his fingers into his mouth and groaning at the taste of her. Y/N felt her body pulse with need at the sight.

“Need something?” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“You,” she breathed. “Now, Joe.”

“Oh, you think you deserve my cock now after that little stunt you pulled?” He was still smirking, but the heat in his gaze told her he was just as affected as she was.

Y/N reached for him again, but he pinned her back down to the bed, his grip firm on her wrists. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, “I’m really going to give you something to write about this time, baby.”

Before she could say anything, she heard a rip. Her eyes widened as she felt the cool air on her skin — he’d torn her panties right off her.

“J-Joe!” she gasped, but it turned into a moan as he got comfortable between her legs, pushing them further apart.

“You did this,” he reminded her, his mouth watering at the sight before him. She was so wet, so ready for him. He blew lightly against her soaked pussy, watching her clench around nothing.

“You know, for someone talking all big and bad…” he started, pausing to lick up her slit, making her moan, “… your pussy tells an entirely different story.”

He dove in, tongue flat against her as he licked up by circling her clit with the tip of his tongue before plunging his tongue inside her.

He groaned at her taste, at how fucking wet she was. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider as he feasted on her. Y/N’s hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his mouth.

“So good,” she panted, her hips moving in time with his tongue. “Oh God, Joe, don’t stop!”

He hummed against her, the vibrations sending shockwaves through her. His tongue found her clit again, and he started sucking, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud relentlessly.

Y/N cried out, her body tensing as the pleasure built and built. She was close, so fucking close—

And then he pulled back again, leaving her gasping and trembling.

“Joe!” she whined, trying to pull him back down. But he held firm, a devilish grin on his face as he looked up at her.

“What was that about me being ‘hot and bothered’?” he teased, his chin glistening with her arousal.

She glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.” He kissed her inner thigh, then bit down gently. Y/N inhaled sharply at the mix of pleasure and pain.

“Maybe I do,” she admitted, her voice breathy. “But right now, I just want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

His eyes flashed with heat at her words. “Careful what you wish for, baby. You might just get it.”

With that, he moved back up her body, kissing and nipping as he went. When he reached her mouth, he kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as she rolled her hips against his. She could feel his hardness against her stomach, and it made her whimper with need.

“Impatient, are we?” he murmured against her lips, grinding against her in slow, torturous circles.

“You have no idea,” she breathed, nipping at his lower lip. “I need you, Joe. Now.”

Something in her voice must have gotten to him, because suddenly he was reaching for his boxers, pushing them down just enough to free his cock. Y/N reached down to grip him, stroking him slowly as she looked up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his hips thrusting into her hand. “If you keep doing that—”

She cut him off with a kiss, hard and demanding, as she positioned him at her entrance. He growled into her mouth as he thrust in, filling her completely in one smooth motion.

Y/N moaned into his mouth, her nails digging into his back as he filled her. He was so deep, stretching her so perfectly. For a moment, they just stayed like that, savoring the feel of each other.

Then Joe started to move, pulling out slow before slamming back in. Y/N gasped at the sensation, her legs wrapping around him to pull him deeper.

“Joe,” she breathed, her head falling back against the pillows. “Yes, like that!”

He set a brutal pace, pounding into her with a force that had her sliding up the bed. He followed her, though, never breaking rhythm as he gripped her thighs and pushed them back.

When he threw one of her legs over his shoulder, she cried out, the new angle letting him get even deeper. Her moans turned to screams as he hit that spot inside her, over and over again.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growled, his thrusts becoming erratic. “You feel so fucking good.”

She placed one hand on his chest, trying to push him away — not because she wanted him to stop, but because the pleasure was becoming too much, too intense. She felt like she was going to combust.

“Nuh uh, baby,” he growled, grabbing her hand and pinning it above her head again. “Be my good girl, take this dick like I know you can, so stop running.”

And with that, he adjusted her again, this time fully in the mating press with her legs pinned against her. Y/N was trapped, nowhere to go, and all she could do was submit to the pleasure as it built and built.

He was everywhere — inside her, surrounding her, all she could see, hear, taste, smell, feel was Joe, Joe, Joe. And she never wanted it to end.

When she finally came, it was with a scream of his name. Her entire body shook with the force of it, waves of pleasure crashing over her. Joe didn’t stop, though, thrusting into her through her orgasm and extending it until she wasn’t sure where one ended and another began.

“Joe, please,” she gasped, her voice hoarse from screaming. “I can’t… I need… oh God!”

He leaned down to kiss her, swallowing her cries as he continued to pound into her. His grip on her was tight, possessive, like he was trying to merge their bodies into one.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, leaning down to kiss her again. Y/N met him halfway, her tongue tangling with his as he drove into her.

Y/N felt another orgasm building, impossibly soon after the first. She tore her mouth away from his to gasp, “Fuck, Joe, I’m gonna—”

He didn’t let her finish. Instead, he pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes locked on hers as he growled, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

She could feel the tension building, the delicious ache low in her belly. Joe must have felt it too, because he reached down between them, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in slow circles.

“Make a mess baby, you deserve it,” he murmured against her lips.

Y/N’s breath hitched, and then she was coming apart beneath him, her walls clenching around his cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. Joe didn’t let up, pounding into her through her orgasm until she felt him tense above her.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming erratic. “I’m gonna—”

“Inside,” she managed to gasp, her arms tightening around him. “Please, Joe, I need you to come inside me.”

That was all it took to send him over the edge. With a groan that was almost a growl, he buried himself deep inside her, spilling his cum as his hips jerked against hers. Y/N could feel his cock pulsing inside her, and it dragged out her own pleasure, making her shake beneath him.

They stayed like that for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. Y/N’s legs were still wrapped around him, her body still trembling with the aftershocks. Finally, Joe kissed her softly before pulling out, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him. Y/N curled into his side, her head on his chest as they both tried to calm down.

As their heart rates slowly returned to normal, Joe pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Still think you were the one inspiring me?” he asked, a hint of smugness in his voice.

Y/N lifted her head to look at him, a lazy grin on her face. “Oh, I inspired you, alright. And you definitely inspired me right back.”

He chuckled, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah? Think you’ve got enough material for your next album?”

She bit her lip, pretending to think about it. “Well, we might need to do some more… research. You know, for inspiration.”

Joe laughed outright this time, the sound warm and rich. “Oh, is that so? Well, I guess we’d better get started, then. Can’t let your muse go to waste, after all.”

And with that, he rolled her onto her back, ready to begin their ‘research’ all over again. After all, practice makes perfect, right?

“I’m not going to apologize for sending that picture.”

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The room was quiet… or at least, it was.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Joe groaned low in his throat, cracking one eye open as the obnoxious buzzing of a phone rattled across the nightstand like a damn fly that refused to die. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the darkness, and turned his head.

Y/N was knocked out beside him, one arm stretched above her head, the other wrapped in the sheets — the duvet still barely hanging on her body. Her lips were parted slightly, lashes brushing against her cheekbones, skin glowing with that “post-sin peace.”

Joe smirked. Yeah. She’s breathing alright.

But that buzzing? It wasn’t stopping.

He sighed, leaning over her to grab her phone.

Screen lit up:

KAYLA 🧨

Are you still breathing?? Or did that man snatch your soul for real?? Don’t make me call the hotel front desk.

Joe snorted softly through his nose.

Of course it was Kayla.

He glanced down at Y/N, her chest rising and falling in that calm, rhythmic way that told him she was still deep in dreamland. She probably didn’t even hear it. And honestly? She deserved the rest.

But that didn’t stop him from unlocking her phone with her Face ID while she was asleep — yes, he was that guy now.

He tapped a response:

Joe (on Y/N’s phone):

She’s still breathing. Barely. She’ll hit you back after she gets some water and stretches those legs you keep bragging about. 😏

Then he placed the phone gently back on the nightstand, laid back down beside her, and watched her for a moment. She stirred slightly, brows pulling in like she could feel his eyes on her even in her sleep.

He reached out, brushing his fingers along her thigh under the covers — barely there.

“Go back to sleep, superstar,” he whispered, voice still rough from sleep. “You earned it.”

He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder and let himself relax again, the scent of her skin, the warmth of the sheets, and the faint smile pulling at her lips more than enough to convince him that this chaos was worth every second.

Even if Kayla did show up later with an airhorn.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open to the soft sounds of running water coming from the bathroom and the faint scent of her body wash mixed with Joe’s cologne. The sunlight was brighter now, casting warmth across the rumpled sheets and across her still-sore, very satisfied limbs.

Her phone buzzed again on the nightstand.

Still groggy, she reached for it, barely able to lift her head off the pillow. She blinked the blur away and unlocked the screen.

And there it was.

Kayla 🧨

“Ohhhh okay quarterback. I didn’t know you stretched her out this morning 🫣” “Not the LEG comment 😭 you really texted me like that?” “So when should I drop the playlist? I’m thinking a little H.E.R., some Kehlani, followed by pure HEATHENRY.”

Y/N frowned, confused.

She scrolled up… and saw it.

Sent earlier this morning:

She’s still breathing. Barely. She’ll hit you back after she gets some water and stretches those legs you keep bragging about. 😏

Her jaw dropped. “Oh, hell no.”

She sat up so fast the sheets fell to her waist. She whipped her head toward the bathroom just as the steam started rolling out from the cracked door.

The water was still running.

Her eyes narrowed.

She launched herself out of bed, snatched her robe from the chair, and stomped toward the bathroom door like she had bail money saved.

She knocked once. Loud.

“Joseph Lee Burrow.”

The water turned off instantly.

“…yes?” His voice was casual. Way too casual.

“You used my Face ID. While I was asleep. And texted my best friend as me?”

A pause. Then: “Technically, I didn’t say I was you.”

“Oh my God.”

He cracked open the door, steam curling around his bare shoulders and dripping wet chest, towel wrapped low around his hips like he knew exactly what he was doing.

His smirk was criminal. “Good morning.”

Y/N folded her arms across her chest, robe hanging off one shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re cute. And that I slept too good to stay mad.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned against the doorframe, water glistening down his torso like he was trying out for a damn cologne commercial. “So… playlist?”

She squinted. “Kayla already has it in a folder. Titled ‘Y/N & the Quarterback: A Tragedy in Moans.’”

Joe burst out laughing.

“Wait—”

Suddenly, Y/N’s phone lit up again.

Incoming FaceTime: KAYLA 🧨

“Oh no,” Y/N groaned.

Joe reached for it before she could deny the call. “Let her live.”

He answered.

Kayla appeared on screen with her bonnet slightly lopsided, a mug of tea in hand, and zero shame. “Good morning, lovebirds—OH MY GOD HE’S STILL WET.”

Y/N snatched the phone, blushing. “You need help.”

Kayla sipped her tea. “No, you need help. I know that man threw your back into the wall last night. That jersey didn’t even stand a chance.”

Joe smirked from behind the door. “You’re not wrong.”

“GET OUT THE SHOWER AND PUT SOME CLOTHES ON,” Y/N shouted, laughing as she shut the bathroom door on him.

Kayla was howling. “Girl. The way he leaned into the camera like it was an OnlyFans teaser. I’m never recovering.”

“I hate y’all.”

“You love us.”

Y/N flopped onto the bed again with a sigh, tossing the phone onto the comforter as Kayla kept talking from speaker.

She stared at the ceiling, shaking her head and smiling to herself.

Then her phone buzzed again.

This time, it was from Carmen.

Carmen 💼🔥

Final cover shot approved. I’m sending you the draft for promo. And heads up: Billboard just hit me up. They want you for a digital cover… and they know who inspired the single. 👀

Y/N let out a soft, stunned breath.

From studio days to bedroom plays… she wasn’t just dropping a song anymore.

She was about to drop a moment.

JB9 Taglist: @lilfreakjez, @dasia21, @superanastasia1981, @gg-trini, @wickedfun9, @irishmanwhore

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infinito2017 · 2 years ago

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Infinito 2017 - Overcoming the Nothing and the Ignorance of Virtual Reality

Infinito 2017 - Overcoming the Nothing and the Ignorance of Virtual Reality [cover]

#infinito 2017 #joe left hand records #hip hop #black music #75dab #black art #biko70 #aco #gtd #boom bap

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foundtherightwords · 7 months ago

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Fallen Empires - Chapter 1

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Warnings: violence, domestic abuse, non-explicit smut

Chapter warnings: mention of blood and injuries

Chapter word count: 5.1k

A/N: I started this fic all the way back in April, when we first got the news that Joe was cast as Caracalla in "Gladiator 2". I did a ton of research, read books and academic papers about Caracalla and his reign, the whole shebang. Then in July, we got the confirmation that Joe played Geta instead, but by then, I'd already written about 30k words and didn't want to throw it away. Since I never was going to follow the movie anyway (no spoilers here!), I thought, OK, if the great Ridley Scott wasn't going to be historically accurate, then neither am I! So I replaced "Caracalla" with "Geta", changed a few details, and here we are.

The biggest change I made is that Geta was the one that killed Caracalla, not the other way around (this is a historical fact so it's not a spoiler for the movie.) Their confrontation also followed history (which happened in the presence of their mother, Julia Domna.) The remainder of Geta's reign is based on the real reign of Caracalla - his various military campaigns, the war against Parthia, and his infamous assassination (attempted assassination, in this case) by Justus Martialis while peeing on the side of the road now all happen to Geta. Also, Caracalla is described as sometimes wearing a blonde wig, so my headcanon is that the ginger hair in the movie is a wig as well (sorry Joe, I know you were working that wig for all it's worth, but I can't take it seriously.)

Prologue

Once upon a time, two brothers founded the greatest empire in the world...

He and his brother had grown up with the tale of Romulus and Remus, as any child of Rome would. But unlike other children of Rome, he and his brother had also been told that they would one day inherit the empire that those two brothers had built.

Nobody told them the birth of that empire had come at the price of fratricide. Nobody told them that only one brother was destined to be emperor.

They knew anyway.

The only question was, after the blood had run dry, which one of them would be left standing?

He, for one, refused to wait for an answer. He would find his own. So when the Fates dealt him their blow, he fought back and reclaimed his destiny from them. And as he stood over his brother with the blade still dripping blood in his hand, as he looked at the shocked faces of the Praetorians, as he avoided his mother's horrified eyes, filled with the tears he didn't allow her to shed, he thought he'd done it. He'd had the answer.

"You all saw!" he shouted at them, daring them to contradict him. "You saw what he was going to do, how he was coming for me! I did what I had to do to protect myself!" No one said a word in response. Perhaps they thought, and rightly so, that it would be unwise to oppose a man holding a bloody sword. "He was a tyrant and a would-be murderer," he continued, indicating his brother. "There is to be no mourning of him." His mother flinched, her arms closing instinctively around her son's still-warm body, but she, too, said nothing. "I want his image removed from all paintings, coins melted down, statues destroyed, his name struck from records. Let it be known from this day forward that it is a capital offense to speak or write his name!"

His orders were carried out, of course. He was the Emperor now.

But in wiping all images of his brother off the face of the Earth, he also had to remake his own. They had been so intricately linked, so connected in the minds of the citizens of Rome, two sides of the same monstrous coin, that he had to become someone else to be seen as the true heir, as the sole emperor. Gone were the wig and the makeup. Gone were the flashy clothes and jewelry. He cropped his hair short, grew a beard, and dressed himself in the simple garb of a legionary. He went on campaign after campaign to expand the Empire. Caledonia, Germania, Alexandria, Parthia. He would become a soldier-emperor, like his father. He would become a conqueror, like Alexander the Great. He would build an empire, like Romulus. Because he, like Romulus, was the brother who survived.

Only he didn't expect the price of surviving would be so high.

Chapter 1

The smell of blood was in the air.

As he staggered over the rocky ground, he could smell it all around him, on him, in him, and there was no escaping it. The sharp metallic tang of it brought back unpleasant memories of battlefields, of death and screaming and decay. But this was no battlefield. It was quiet, far too quiet; there was none of the clashes of swords and armors, the panicked whinnying of horses, or the groans of dying men. The only sound was his own ragged breathing and the hammering of pulse in his ears. There were stabbing pains on his back and between his ribs, and it hurt every time he drew a breath. There was a pounding somewhere on the back of his head—he must have hit it when he fell down the slope, though he no longer remembered where that slope was. He no longer remembered anything except for a burning feeling of anger and hatred, almost stronger than the pains of his body, though at whom or what that anger was directed, he didn't know. And underneath it all was a threat of fear. He had never been afraid of anything. Yet now the cold breath of Phobos was on the back of his neck, driving him on, urging him to get away, as far away as he could.

His head felt heavy and light at the same time. More than once, he stumbled over a rock and went down on his hands and knees. That was when he realized he was clutching a dagger in his hand, a dagger sticky with blood—his own or someone else's, he no longer remembered either. He pushed himself up by the hilt of the dagger and continued on. His lungs burned, his skin was icy cold despite the warm spring sunshine, and his limbs were so numb he was afraid the dagger might slip from his fingers. He must not let that happen. That dagger was important somehow. And he walked on, over the rocks and the uneven ground and the thick undergrowth.

He came across a stream, its banks overflowing from the winter rain. He still had the presence of mind to tuck the dagger into his belt before plunging in. The water was much deeper than he'd expected. His feet went out from under him. The pains in his back and his ribs melted into one scorching spear that went through him from chest to shoulder blades, and he had no strength left to fight the current. A branch of driftwood floated past. He held on to it, by instinct rather than a conscious desire to live. Doing so hurt his chest, but the water cooled his pounding head and washed away some of the searing pain and the blood, so the smell no longer assaulted his nostrils. He let the stream carry him away.

So this is how it ends, he thought, feeling blood and life drain out of him. This little stream was to be his River Styx. Not for him the glorious death of the battlefield. Not for him the quiet, peaceful death after a lifetime of ruling and conquering. Not for him even the sudden, tragic death of a great man cut down in his prime. No, for him would be an ignominious death, befitting an ignominious life. Somehow he'd always known it. This was what the Fates had in store for him.

He never quite lost consciousness, though he didn't know how long he floated. At some point, the light shining through his eyelids lost its brightness, but he couldn't tell if it was because the sun was going down or he was dying.

Hands came down on his shoulders. It brought the pain back, and that was how he knew he was still alive. He'd stopped floating. Someone was hauling him up the bank of the stream, dragging him by the arms. So they'd found him, then. He was dropped unceremoniously over the rocky ground, where he lay motionless, waiting for the soft whisper of a sword being drawn from its sheath, for the final blow to end his misery, for eternal darkness to engulf him at last.

When it never came, he forced his eyes open.

For a moment, he thought he really was dead, and he was facing Charon—a dark shape loomed over him, with fire for eyes and a hairy, oddly-shaped head. The words of the Aeneid, learned from his youth, came to his mind unbidden.

A sordid god: down from his hairy chin;

A length of beard descends, uncombed, unclean;

His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;

A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire...

Now he knew he was dying. Since when did he start remembering poetry?

Something warm and moist brushed his face, a snort stirred his wet hair, and the illusion broke. It wasn't Charon that stood over him, but some sort of animal, perhaps a horse. The fiery eyes moved, and he realized they were a torch, held in the hand of a person—a real person, with a cowl covering the head, keeping the face in the shadow. Savior or executioner?

He twisted his head to avoid the animal's inquisitive nose. Even such a tiny movement hurt. A pair of small feet, clad in old leather sandals, stood beside him. A pair of slim ankles, brushed by the long hem of a dark gown. A woman's feet.

Gentle hands turned him over. He tried to focus. In the light of the torch, he found himself looking into a pair of green eyes, as green as the hills of Caledonia, as green as the forests of Germania, as green as the water of the Euphrates, eyes that soothed and calmed and took away his pains.

And, as he looked into those eyes, Emperor Geta, the Imperator Caesar Publius Septimius Geta Augustus, uttered the one word he'd never thought he would say, in all twenty-eight years of his life: "Help."

Darkness took him then.

***

Daphne stared at the soldier lying on the bank of the stream by her feet. He was a soldier, that much she was certain of, despite his lack of armor. It was a good thing too, for he would've sunk to the bottom of the stream had he been wearing all those heavy metal plates. But what had happened to him? How did he come to be here, all bedraggled and bloody? Had there been a battle nearby that she didn't know about? Ever since the previous spring, when war with Parthia had broken out again, Daphne had seen her fair share of soldiers marching through the countryside. Her village was too small, tucked away as it was amongst the hills, to receive much attention from the army, but she'd heard complaints of people from bigger towns who had had their crops taken, their draft animals seized, and their lives disrupted by the war. Even her younger brother, Attikos, had been recruited by the army. He was now serving in a garrison somewhere in the north, and every day her family lived in fear that he would not come back. Daphne, whose own life had been disrupted by another war that took place nearly ten years ago and thousands of miles away, tried her best to ignore the battles that raged on just across the border, knowing there was nothing she could do about them.

But now, it seemed, the battles had found their way to her.

The soldier at her feet let out a groan, and her healer's nature took over. Putting the torch down, she slipped her hands under his arms and lifted him up. The soldier, though muscular, wasn't a big man, and Daphne was strong from all the climbing and walking she had to do every day, so with only some grunting and heaving, she managed to put him on the back of her donkey, Midas, who was hovering helpfully nearby. "Come, Midas," she said, and with the torch in one hand, she led the donkey back to their camp, in one of the many caves that dotted the bottom of the hills.

That spring, as soon as the pistachio trees began putting out their clusters of green blooms tipped with pink, Daphne had left her hut for her bi-annual journey to gather herbs and medicine, while hoping that nobody at the village would be so inconsiderate as to fall ill or go into labor while she was away. It was a journey she had been making with her grandmother since she was old enough to tell wild carrot from poisonous hemlock, and one she'd always looked forward to as a child. For days on end, the two of them would wander up and down the hills and valleys of the Balikh River, searching amongst the new growth that had sprung up after the winter rain, looking for leaves and flowers with healing powers. For Daphne, it had been like playing, running through the plants, gathering up armfuls of fragrant leaves and flowers, cooking on an open fire, sleeping under the stars or in a cave. It was the only playtime she ever had. In the autumn, they would come back for roots and seeds and dry branches, but she loved the spring trip the best.

Now, as a grown woman, Daphne still loved the journey, though she also understood why her grandmother had taken her along all those years ago. It wasn't because Daphne had been that much help, or because her grandmother had wanted to give Daphne a rest from helping her mother and taking care of her brothers. It was simply because the old woman wanted someone to talk to. Back at the village, there were always people coming and going, seeking help. Out here, with nothing but the sky above and the ground beneath her, Daphne sometimes felt as though she was the only person alive in the whole of creation. There was Midas, of course, but as sweet as he was, a donkey was not much company.

So it was with a strange sense of relief and gratitude that Daphne lowered the soldier onto the ground, stoked the fire higher, and cut open his tunic to look at his wounds. Yes, this was something odd and unsettling and perhaps dangerous as well, but at least she wouldn't have to be alone with her thoughts for the night. She would have company, even if he was unconscious, and more importantly, she would have something to occupy herself with.

The wounds—there were two, one on his back near the shoulder and one between his ribs, just below his chest—were deep but clean, clearly made by a blade. Whatever had happened to him, the soldier had certainly been favored by Fortuna. His cloak had softened the blow, and the blade had only gone through the fleshy part of his shoulder. At the front, the blade had also been deflected somehow and had slipped between his ribs instead of burying itself in his heart. There was no blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, and his breathing was shallow but steady, meaning his lung had been spared. The soldier's trip down the stream had cleaned the wounds, leaving only a small trickle of blood.

Daphne opened her jar of vinegar, which she always brought along in case she found some plants that needed preserving, cut a strip of linen from the soldier's tunic, which was ruined anyway, dipped it in the vinegar, and carefully cleaned the wounds again. There was also a rather nasty bruise on the back of his head, but that would have to wait. Thank the gods she had her suturing needle and thread with her. She'd never gone on a long journey without them, not after the time she fell down a ravine and cut her foot. Had she been further away from home then, she would not have made it back. Yet another reason her grandmother had insisted on bringing along a helper.

The soldier's flesh trembled and twitched under the vinegar cloth. Daphne, bending over the wounds, didn't see him move. She only heard a hiss of steel and jumped back just in time to avoid the blade as it flashed in the firelight, right across her face. The soldier shot up, a dagger clutched in his hand, his eyes wide open, dark and enormous in the dimness of the cave. They were blank and unfocused, and she knew he saw nothing at all.

"Murderer!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "Traitor!"

Something hot and wet oozed down her cheek. Daphne clamped a hand to it and felt pain blaze across her cheekbone. The soldier's dagger had cut her. Had she been a fraction of a heartbeat slower, it would've taken out her nose or even her eye.

"You fool!" she shouted. Her grandmother would have something to say about the wisdom of arguing with a delirious man wielding a dagger, but Daphne had no time for wisdom at the moment. "You utter fool! I'm trying to save your life!" Blood was dripping down the side of her face, warm and sticky on her jaw.

The soldier wasn't listening. He was still ranting and raving about murderers and traitors, and something else in Latin, which Daphne couldn't understand. Then he tried to push himself to his feet, only to collapse in a heap by the fire. The dagger clattered out of his hand.

Daphne approached him cautiously, holding her injured cheek. He was motionless, though his chest was still moving up and down in weak, rapid breaths. Not wanting to take any risk, she picked up the dagger and tucked it into her pack, and, as extra precaution, bound the soldier's hands with some rope. Then, after wrapping some bandages around her cheek to stop the bleeding, she put more wood into the fire to stoke it higher, so its light filled the cave and reached even the furthest corner. Under that light, she sutured the soldier's wounds, using small, careful stitches just the way her grandmother had taught her. Once this was done, she went out again, torch in hand, passed the snoozing Midas by the mouth of the cave, and started searching the ground along the stream. She had seen some early-blooming goldenrods there—she never bothered to gather them, since they were abundant all around the hills of her village and in her own garden, but now she filled her mantle with the small yellow flowers.

The soldier was still unconscious by the time she came back. Good. She didn't want him awake and squirming and tearing the stitches. She crushed the goldenrod blooms and mixed them with vinegar into a bitter-smelling poultice, put it on his wounds and his bruise, and wrapped them in clean bandages. Some of the poultice she saved to put on her own wound as well, though the suturing would have to wait until the morning, when she could see her face more clearly.

With a sigh, Daphne sat back by the fire, trying not to wince as the vinegary poultice pressed into her cut. Her patient was lying peacefully enough, covered in her blanket, though he still writhed and grimaced from time to time.

She looked at him more closely, with curiosity. He was not a young man, though he was not yet old either, perhaps close to thirty. The same age as her husband, Galen, had he lived. But this man was no common foot soldier like her Galen had been. For all the ordinariness of his clothing, she could tell he was a patrician. It was there in the fine wool of his tunic, much finer than the coarse undyed linen of a soldier's, in the soft leather of his boots, in the gleaming buckles of his belt, in the carved ring on the little finger of his left hand. It was there in his face as well, in the high forehead framed by short dark curls, in the eyebrows that seemed locked in a permanent scowl above his fine-shaped nose, in the strong mouth and firm jaw covered by a neatly trimmed beard. Those noble features only heightened the riddle of the man, a riddle Daphne had no hope of solving any time soon.

Well, a good night's rest would bring clarity and wisdom in the morning, as her grandmother had always said. Leaving the mysterious soldier on the other side of the fire, Daphne wrapped herself in her mantle, lay down on the hard floor of the cave, and fell into a tired sleep, her cheek still smarting.

***

The fire had burned down to embers and the pale gray light of dawn was shining in from the mouth of the cave when Daphne was wakened by a shuffling sound. It was the soldier, who was pulling weakly at his bound wrists. His eyes were open, and though they were still dazed, some of the delirium in them had faded.

"What's the meaning of this?" he croaked. "Who are you? What have you done to me?!"

"Please, calm yourself," said Daphne, scrambling to her feet and holding up a hand. "I have to tie you up because you were tossing about. Calm yourself before you tear your wounds open. You're safe."

"Safe?" he repeated, almost to himself. "No... not safe... not safe..." The delirium was settling in again. She had to get a few things out of him before he lost consciousness or worse.

"What's your name?" she asked. "Which legion do you belong to? Is your camp close by?" He showed no sign of hearing her and only looked about the cave with wide, panic-stricken eyes. Daphne stepped closer and pulled her mantle down so he could see her face more clearly. "Is there anyone I can go to for help?"

His hand shot out and gripped her wrist so tightly it hurt. He fixed those enormous eyes on her. "No!" he shouted, though it came out little more than a rasping whisper. "Tell no one! Danger... must hide..." Then his eyes glazed over, and he dropped to the floor, fingers slowly loosening from her wrist.

Daphne made her way back to the other side of the dying fire and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, rubbing her sore wrist. The soldier's fear was contagious. What had happened to him was no mere battle wounds, she could see that now. He had rambled about murderers and traitors... but was he the victim of murderers and traitors, or was he himself a murderer and traitor? Was he in danger, or was he the danger?

It was a two days' journey to the nearest town, Carrhae, and four days back to her village. The sensible thing to do was to bring him to Carrhae and leave him there for the authority to deal with. But with his injuries, he may not survive the trip. And even if they made it to Carrhae, a lone soldier, very possibly a deserter or even a turncoat, would not merit much attention. The magistrate there may leave him to die. Daphne wasn't sure she could live with that on her conscience. As she watched the unconscious soldier, she couldn't help thinking of her Galen, dead these eight years and buried somewhere in the cold, barbaric hills of Caledonia. What if something like this had happened to Galen as well? What if he'd been separated from his fellow soldiers and stumbled through a foreign land, lost and injured? And what if some woman had also happened upon him, but had decided to let him die because she thought he was too much trouble? What if this soldier had someone waiting for him?

With such thoughts circling around her head like a swarm of angry bees, there was no going back to sleep for her. As soon as the light turned from gray to white, Daphne went to the stream to fetch a pan of water, stopping briefly to check on Midas, who was contentedly cropping the grass around the mouth of the cave.

Her reflection in the stream made Daphne realize why the soldier had been so frightened upon seeing her. With dried blood down one side of her cheek, her eyes sunken from lack of sleep, and her hair all wild, she must have looked, to him, like one of the Furies. Returning to the cave, she tried to stitch the cut on her cheek as best she could, using the pan of water as a mirror. It was going to leave a scar for sure. Oh well. She had never been a great beauty anyway.

She then boiled the water to make some porridge for breakfast. As she ate, she dug around in her store of foraged plants and herbs and found some valerian, which she steeped into a tea to help the soldier sleep. He swallowed the tea easily enough, though Daphne knew what he really needed was some tincture of poppy, which was stored in a precious glass vial on the highest shelf back in her hut, four days away. But could she bring him back there? The villagers would not take kindly to a stranger.

Leaving the soldier in the cave, Daphne returned to the stream with Midas by her side. Mysteriously wounded men or not, she was determined to finish her trip. Throughout the morning, she worked hard on the bank, cutting down armfuls of young willow, as these large trees were of better quality than the scraggy bushes near her village. She took care not to stray too far from the cave and returned from time to time to check on the soldier, who remained unconscious. In the light of day, he was looking very pale. Whatever she was going to do with him, she had to decide quickly. Although his wounds were not fatal, he had lost a lot of blood, and if the wounds became poisoned, there was little she could do for him out here.

Daphne was busy stripping the leaves from the willow branches to get at the medicinal bark when Midas gave a warning bray. She turned around and saw two soldiers striding toward her from upstream. She quickly pulled the mantle over her head to conceal her face, while still keeping an eye on them. They were dressed much more elaborately than her patient, in chainmail and helmets, and carrying swords and shields emblazoned with a scorpion. Dressed for battle. What kind of battle could they expect here, in this lonely valley amongst these rocky hills of Osroene?

The soldiers had spotted her and were quickening their steps. She remained where she was, with her back to them, feigning oblivion.

"You there! Old woman!" shouted one of the soldiers in Greek. Old woman? They must have been fooled by her dark mantle and her hunched form. Part of Daphne was offended, but another part of her was glad. She didn't like to think what such beastly men would do to a lone woman in the wilderness. "On your feet! We have some questions for you!"

Daphne gripped her knife more tightly in her palm, concealing it between the folds of her chiton. With her other hand, she pulled herself up by holding on to a willow tree, making sure to keep her back stooped, trying to appear like an old, decrepit hag.

"Have you seen a wounded man around here?" one of the soldiers asked. He was young, with a face like a rat. He took off his helmet to wipe at his forehead, revealing thin tuffs of pale blonde hair.

Daphne hesitated. These men could be her patient's fellow legionaries, and she could simply hand him over to them and not have to worry about him any longer. However, she was now seeing them more clearly, and the brutal, fierce look on their faces made her knees tremble. She could be handing her patient to his executioners.

"Wounded?" she said in a low rasp. "Why would there be any wounded men around here? Was there a battle? Have the Parthians invaded us?"

"Calm down, you silly old hag," the other soldier said. He was older and darker. A scar ran from his left eye down his cheek, making him look even more vicious. "There was no battle," he continued. "Our fellow soldier simply—had an accident while marching, and we lost track of him. We're trying to find him before he gets seriously hurt. If you've seen him, tell us, and the army will reward you handsomely."

A likely story. Those wounds were no accident. Daphne shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I haven't seen a soul."

The two soldiers glanced at each other in exasperation and something else, too. Fear? Worry?

"He can't have gone this far," the blonde soldier said. "If Martialis had managed to wound him before he was killed—"

"Quiet, you idiot!" the dark one hissed. He pulled his partner away from Daphne's earshot, but some of his angry words floated back to her. "This is your fault! If you'd gone with Martialis to make sure the deed was done, none of this would've happened! Now we're trampling all over this Gods-forsaken land, searching for a needle in a haystack..."

So Martialis—whoever he was, or had been, by the sound of it—must have been the one who attacked her patient. And then her patient had killed Martialis and escaped? Daphne wasn't quite sure what the soldiers' conversation meant, but she was sure that there was some conspiracy here, and those men were in on it.

Her heart stopped. The two soldiers had noticed the cave and were making their way toward it. If they found her patient, they would know she'd lied...

"I wouldn't go poking around in there if I were you, young masters," she called out. The soldiers paused near the mouth of the cave and turned back to frown at her. She bent down a little, so that her cowl fell over her face. "These hills are teeming with scorpions and venomous snakes, and they like nothing more than a cool, dark place like that to hide from the sun," she continued. "They would not take kindly to being wakened from their nap."

The soldiers drew back, peering into the dark of the cave warily as if they could see these snakes and scorpions lurking there.

"I told you, he can't have gone far," the blonde, rat-faced soldier repeated to his partner. "We would've seen him by now. Unless he'd fallen into the stream. And if he had, he's done for anyway."

The dark-haired soldier lifted his heavy mail away from his neck and looked at the sun, which was getting higher in the sky and burning hotter. "Yes, I don't think anyone can survive such wounds out here," he said. "Let's go."

They went back the way they came and eventually disappeared behind the rocky hills. Daphne let out a breath of relief. Carrying her bundles of willow bark, she returned to the cave, where her patient was still lying by the remnants of the fire, breathing his shallow breaths and wincing in his sleep. Daphne sighed. It looked like she was going to have to cut her trip short this year.

"Don't make me regret this," she said, though he couldn't hear her.

Chapter 2

A note on the setting: I know that based on the location of the story (Osroene, now southeastern Turkey), the people were more likely to be Mesopotamian than Greek, but I don't know much about Mesopotamian culture and the research overwhelmed me a bit, so I went with Greek for simplicity's sake. A later chapter does include an explanation as to why there is a Greek community in the middle of Mesopotamia (I doubt anyone would care, but I'm a stickler for historical accuracy, even in an alternate history fic.)

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92 (as usual, if you want to be tagged, let me know!)

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #gladiator 2 #emperor geta #emperor geta fic #geta #emperor geta x ofc #geta x ofc

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