#Roll for Initiative

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[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Comfort Zone--A 'Roll for Initiative' Blurb

I was texting @hoodharlow about Joe and Reader. And then I saw a reel of a couple doing a lego date night. And well, the rest sort of became this blurb.

Series Masterlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Joe did it to himself. 

With you having to do a retake--though you’d gotten a good grade on the re-do for your finance assignment with Joe’s help, the midterm exam still tanked your grade--Joe knew you’d be home working. Your concerns about the finance professor did make their way up the chain, to the Dean, which you had to make an appointment to go speak with. Joe insisted on being there, a show of “moral and bicep support”. Joe’s distaste for the professor’s actions were clear. And you wondered, by the tic in his Joe the entire time he was present on campus, if Joe hoped to run into the professor. If moral support was akin to something more than just sitting outside the Dean’s office. 

But Joe did it to himself. 

When he agreed to the party, knowing you would still be at home. The retake pushed back your original plans, leaving you to be in courses during the height of the off season. But you couldn’t push off this assignment--the second half to the big paper in your master’s capstone course. The class really for all the marbles in a way--building upon everything you’d been doing in all your classes previously. The last course for you to graduate. 

There’s no way you’d risk it. Not even for Joe.

Your phone shakes against the coffee table and you finish the sentence you’re on, fingers tapping and tapping away until you get to the end of the thought before you stretch out for the device. 

I need you to call me in 30. I am on a -100/10 on the social battery. Besides, this party is lame without you threatening to dance on tables. 

This is not the first time you’ve gotten a text like this from Joe and you doubt it will be the last time you get it. But it’s rather reassuring to know that he trusts you enough to bail him out of social situations. That he knows if he ever needed rescuing, you’d be the first one to his aid. You set a timer but don’t bother replying besides giving the message a thumbs up. 

By the time you dig out the source you need and get the citation added to your bibliography, the timer’s going off. An incessant chime that lets you know it’s nearly time for Joe to turn into the pumpkin again. The phone rings and rings in your ear, device pressed up into your ear by your shoulder. 

“Baby?” He greets. The background is loud, voices and music all swimming its way into the receiver. “No, no, I have to take this.”

“I need rescuing,” you pout. And there’s no reason to have an explanation. It merely only needs to be convincing enough. 

“Yeah, I can rescue you. Where are you?” The background grows quiet bit by bit. Someone calls out his name, that much you catch but you don’t hear the rest until Joe speaks,  “No, no, I gotta go. Good seeing you. Sure, man. Sure.” 

There’s a bit of a clack, something like the phone shaking and then Joe speaks again, loud but he has to be in order to be heard over the music. “You still there?” 

“Still here,” you hum, half your mind focused again on the paper in front of you. 

More voices float in from the background, Joe’s name among the words you can make out clearly yet again. “Nah, you can’t leave, man! You just got here!”

“It’s my fiancée. I gotta go.”

“Damn, next time.” There’s a clapped echo that rings through the phone. 

“Now, where did you say you were again?”

You know the drill. Know that Joe will keep you on the line until he’s tucked safely into either his car or the Uber. And he’ll commit. Make it look real all the while--questions you don’t need to answer, reassurance about him being on his way. The thumps quiet, making the crackle and static lessen with each step Joe takes. You don’t really need to respond. 

“Well, I might be lost on a road somewhere or I might be…” you pause, catching now as the music cuts out, replaced with just a faint whisper, “rescuing my future husband from sure fated social death.” 

“I’m never going to a party without you ever again.” 

“Soon, you won’t need to.”

“How’s the paper going?”

“It’s going.”

“I’m almost to my car. Driving here was a good idea, baby.”

Joe looked tired the second he descended the steps, fiddling with his phone as he did so. You gently suggested that he could take his car, if he wanted. The Uber there would probably get costly. Yet, it’s not about the money. Never was and never would be. He saw it, the preemptive care, and took his keys with ease. 

“I have them from time to time,” you hum, fingers working still over your keyboard. Storm’s stretched out next to you, one paw ever so slightly tapping at your arm. “Bubbas, you want attention too, hmm?” you laugh. Your pause is just long enough to stroke at the top of his head. 

“I’ll be home in like twenty minutes. I might make one pit stop.” 

It’s not so much that Joe sounds low. You can just hear now how exhausted he is. In the coming weeks, he’ll be back onto his regiment, back to preparing for the season, a sometimes grueling task to witness and an even more grueling task to undertake. There’s not been a lot of time for the two of you together--between school and Joe’s work in California, time has been stretched too thin for all the things it needs to accommodate. Getting Joe out of the house seemed like a good idea at the time but now, now it just seems a bit too cruel. 

“I might’ve hidden your favorite dairy free ice cream in the freezer earlier today,” you offer. “But you’ll only know when you come home to me.”

“Goddamn, I love you,” Joe laughs. “Just what I needed to hear. Because I love coming home to you.”

You can’t deny the flutter of your chest, how soft his voice is over the phone. You can see it now, how his head’s probably reclined back against the headrest, eyes closed and the skin around them wrinkling because of his soft, warm grin. The lights outside casting a cool glow over him, the light few brushstrokes of the bleach softening his brown hair into a thick golden glow--a curl or two resting against his forehead. An angle of Joe you’ve witnessed a thousand times at this point, but that never really gets old to look at or even imagine. 

He is a home to you and god, do you love hearing him say that he finds a home in you too. 

“When you get home, change and hidden in the sock drawer on my side of the closet is a present for you. I was going to save it for our date night next weekend, but I think you need it now.”

“That--that I can do.”

“Do you want me to stay on with you while you drive?”

“Hm, no, you should focus on that paper. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Okay, hon. I’ll be here.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” 

Words that punctuate the end of the conversation; they echo even after the call’s ended. Storm brings his other paws into the mixture, now that you’ve returned to your work. His teeth working ever so gently at the skin of your elbow. “Storm,” you warn and he ceases, but keeps nuzzling at you. 

When the whir of the garage door starts, you’re a little shocked that the time’s gone by that fast. And according to the clock, it’s been closer to half a hour, maybe a hair over than his original twenty minute estimate. You listen from the living room to the side door opening and then close. The door that leads into kitchen eeks open and there’s a rustling, the distinct shake of plastic bags. 

Joe rounds the corner into the living room, dropping the gas station bags onto the coffee table. “Hey, baby,” he greets, voice low like he’s trying not to interrupt. 

You stretch up, jutting your chin for the kiss that comes to your cheek. “Welcome back.”

“There’s some snacks for you too. If you need a brain break.”

“Thanks.”

Then he’s off, drops his keys onto the dish resting on the DIY’d bookshelf, now decor holder and then eases his way up the steps. The house remains quiet, even with Joe, there’s few echoed stomps, the sink runs for a minute maybe even less than that, and when Joe resurfaces, he’s in sweatpants--the staple blue Seinfeld ones and a well worn t-shirt, the graphic on it faded to the point the shirt is nearly the sole ashen gray on its base. 

He’s smiling though, hand full of the mini Millennium Falcon Lego ship you ordered. It arrived late into the evening and you tucked it away the second Joe left the house. “You really do love me,” he laughs. “Thank you.”

“Of course I do.”

Joe presses another kiss to your cheek, after putting the box down next to the snacks. Joe scoops Storm up who protests for only a second before he accepts his fate in Joe’s arm. “I’ll return you in a second, bud. Just one cuddle, please?”

Storm closes his eyes at the press of Joe’s lips to his head but when he looks back at you, you can’t help but laugh at the hot gaze, the intention clear: I’m doing this because I love you not him. “Oh, bubs. You like Joe, don’t do him like that,” you reprimand to the small creature around your laughter. 

And if he could talk, you think his slow blink up at Joe and then back down to you would be accompanied by: I like him on my own terms. But he relents, with a silent grumpy stare as Joe slips him in closer and off to the kitchen. 

They return a few moments later, a bowl in Joe’s other hand. The spoon clinks softly as the bowl is set down and Joe dumps Storm back to the couch cushions. “I’m wearing him down.”

“Only been two and a half years,” you giggle in return. 

“But I’m not going to give up.” His hands are a little cold at the touch. It makes you jolt but his lips are warm when they settle onto yours, a slow kiss. Not worried about a rush, or whatever’s to come next. A kiss that’s languid as your lips move, Joe’s exhale becoming your inhale. A kiss full of everything that’s not said: I’m glad to come home to you. I’m glad to be away from the party. I’m glad for the bowl of ice cream. I’m glad it’s you. I’m glad it’s Storm. I’m glad it’s us. 

“Thank you,” Joe starts as he eases out of the kiss, “for thinking of me earlier and for the ice cream.”

“Some may say thinking of you is the easiest thing I’ve had to do.”

“But I’ll always say I’m grateful.”

Joe settles at your feet, between your legs and tears into the box. The pieces never seem to end, you hear pack after pack of the tiny plastic hitting the table. The sound seems to intrigue Storm and you push you back. “No. Don’t disturb him now.”

Storm presses forward, but doesn’t make any moves to leave the couch, just perches now, folding his paws underneath his body. You return back to your laptop, finding your place again--adding the coma that was missed, inserting the rest of the quote you need. And the noise, the clinking of the spoon, the snapping, the turning of pages, the soft hum of the TV that you didn’t realize was even turned on all fade into a harmonious hum. 

“Can you take these and put them together for me?” You look up from your laptop, noticing now that about an hour or so has passed. And there’s Joe, still sitting in front of you, but now holding two gray pieces directly up over his head. “I’m struggling with this other section right now.”

“Sure. Small one on top, right?”

“Yeah.”

You snap the pieces together and ease it back onto the table next to Joe’s work as he wiggles something into place. “Thanks,” Joe returns, grabbing the pieces you assembled before returning his focus to the diagrams on the floor next to him. 

The evening passes, slowly now, after you’ve finalized your paper--you’ll do one more pass tomorrow morning before you submit--with Joe’s quiet work on the ship. He occasionally passes you pieces--easy ones to snap together and then collects them again after you’ve assembled them. 

“You know this kit is for you,” you laugh, taking another set of pieces from Joe. It’s nearly eleven, much later than either one of you usually stays up, but tomorrow’s Sunday--the kind of day that doesn’t demand urgency from the start. You two can take more time now, enjoy the company of each other even in the quiet. 

“I like building them with you,” Joe answers, dropping his head back to look at you. “And you don’t have the patience for a full kit yourself. So, that leaves us here.”

And you don’t. There’s too many pieces, so many of them tiny and so many steps. The sight of a Lego kit grates your nerves, makes your stomach swirl just thinking about having to build one yourself. “As long as you’re sure. If those Legos ever start to give you a fuss, you tag me in though. I’ll give them a piece of my mind.”

“They are inanimate objects. But I appreciate you being so willing to subject yourself to the throws of plastic.”

“Anytime for you.”

[punkrockvalkyrie]

During an RP heavy session...

Y/N, as the DM: Your party has been walking on this path for a good couple of hours. Adam, could you please roll a perception check for me?

Adam, playing as a ranger: Alright. *Rolls dice* I rolled a 14, and with my +2 that makes it a 16.

Y/N: With a 16 you are able to see that the path splits into two different directions with a guard standing in front of each path.

Adam: I relay that to the group.

Y/N: Okay. As you all approach the fork in the road, the two guards stop you. The one on the left speaks, "One path will take you to the citadel, while the other will lead you to the UnderDark. And between the two of us (they gesture to themselves and the guard on the right), one speaks only the truth; the other nothing but lies. You may ask only two questions." So players, what do you do?

Beetlejuice (instantly): I WANT TO SEDUCE THE GUARDS!!

*cue various groans from the Maitlands and giggles from Lydia*

Barbara (out of character): Beetlejuice, please don't.

Y/N: Uh, not so fast Beej. You already seduced the shopkeeper in the last town you were in. Remember our deal?

BJ: Yeah, yeah, yeah. (Mimicking Y/N's voice) ' You can seduce a NPC or villain one time each session, no more, no less. Deal?' You're no fun babes

Y/N: Okay, first of all, rude. I don't sound like that. Second of all, having fun doesn't mean trying to seduce everything with a pulse ALL THE TIME. *clears throat* Anyways, Lydia, Barbara, Adam! Any ideas?

Barbara, playing as a cleric: I'd like to cast Detect Good and Evil to get a sense of which one tells the truth.

Y/N: Interesting. Roll for it please.

Barbara: *rolls dice* Aw, I got an 8; and with my modifier of +1, that means I got a 9.

Y/N: So, with a 9, you get the faintest inkling that the guard on the right is the liar, but you're not entirely certain.

Lydia, as her rogue: I got this. I go up to the guard on the right and slap him across the face.

Barbara & Adam: LYDIA!

Y/N: *blinks* uh, okay. Roll to hit.

Lydia: *rolls dice* HA! Natural 20!

Y/N: That...that definitely hits. The guard's eyes begin to water as he gingerly holds his cheek after your palm cracks against his face.

Lydia: I then ask them, "Did I just slap you?"

Y/N: Still wincing from the slap, the guard mumbles a "...No"

Lydia: *smirks* Alright, I turn to the guard on the left and ask, "Which path leads to the citadel?"

Y/N: The guard looks at their companion, and then turns to you. "The path on the right will take you to the citadel. The road behind me leads to the UnderDark".

Lydia: Okay, let's take the path on the right.

BJ: *grinning* Wow Scarecrow. I didn't know you had it in ya. Well done.

Y/N: ... That wasn't what I had in mind, but good job nonetheless Lyds.

[porceauxchop]

wip of raphael LET A BROTHA SPEAK HIS RIDDLES 🗣🗣🗣

[nekrosmos]

Your art and writing makes me go feral fr. Love the care you put into it all. Feel straight up blessed when it passes my dash and I proceed to go into a giggling fit because d e l i c i o u s-

I love the dynamic between your Nikprice so much. I wanna eat them. Sandwich them between slices of bread and just om-nom. And it got me thinking, who do you think kills the spiders between them? Like if there was a huge spider in ghe bathroom, who's screaming and who's grabbing the closest flip-flop and going on a murderous rampage?

Sorry if there's typos, I'm not very good at spellchecking. And again, love the effort and care that goes intobyour work-

Everyone is being way too kind to me and I don't know what to do with myself anymore JV?S%PIJV?SIV. Like seriously, this kind of messages, it just means so much to me ;-; I never thought I would reach a point where people would say this about the things I create and it's so wild and yet so awesome, so thank you for this, truly !!

Your art is incredible as well, by the way !!

As for the spider, you know, I'm a slut for the gentle giant trope, so to imagine Nikolai gently pick up a spider to free it outside, yeah, it's doing something to me ..........

I think John is okay with spiders, but only because he has to (that comes with his leftover toxic masculinity, he HAS to not be afraid of spiders, right?) but deep down they creep the fuck out of him. Maybe he had a bad encounter or two with spiders getting into his carrier vest while he was on an op in a tropical place and it's been haunting him ever since.

Nik knows that, and always tries to remove spiders before John can see them, unless John is being an ass that day.

[measuredandslow]

Test run of the new dice tower design from Pretzel Prints! It’s so fun and SO neat looking!!

[grian-in-a-plethora-of-places]

Grian is on a D20!

[bugbearsandbookends]

Celtic Warriors Didn’t Just Fight—They Performed. Here’s How to Steal That for Your RPG

Combat in RPGs usually starts the same way—roll initiative, then fight. But what if battles had more build-up, more tension, more drama? Historical and literary sources suggest that Celtic warfare followed a structured sequence of psychological and physical combat, beginning with taunts, then duels, and finally all-out battle. This wasn’t just fighting—it was psychological warfare, honor, and morale at play. And it’s a perfect model for a different kind of initiative system in RPGs.

The ancient Celts weren’t a single people and never saw themselves that way. They didn’t even call themselves Celts—the Greeks and Romans did. We think of them as a group today because their languages share common roots, and they had overlapping cultural traditions—among those, their way of war.

Celts were a tribal people whose lives revolved around the seasons. For most of the year, they raised livestock, mostly pigs, but cattle too. Cattle was as much a status symbol as a food source—maybe even more so. They were a prized commodity, and when the warmer months arrived, Celtic warriors targeted rival tribes and clans for cattle raids, which, in some cases, escalated into prolonged feuds. The most famous of these is the great Irish epic, Táin Bó Cúailnge, or The Cattle Raid of Cooley, which tells the story of Queen Medb of Connacht’s war to steal Ulster’s prized bull. With Ulster’s warriors cursed by a magical weakness, only Cú Chulainn—the greatest warrior of Irish myth—stands in her way. Gifted with superhuman combat skills and a terrifying battle frenzy, he holds off Medb’s army through a series of brutal duels, culminating in a tragic fight against his closest friend and rival, Ferdiad.

While obviously a work of fiction, The Táin paints a portrait of Celtic warfare very similar to that described by the Romans and Greeks. The popular imagination might depict the Celts as hordes of wild-eyed, painted warriors rushing their enemies with little thought to timing or tactics, but these fanciful portrayals have little to do with reality.

Battles were preceded by raucous blasts from the brass trumpets known as carnyces, rhythmic banging of weapons on shields, and curses hurled by druids, all aimed at rattling an enemy’s morale. Warriors sometimes fought in the nude, too, which served to intimidate opponents who depended on tough leather and chain mail to ward off blows.

Once the lines were drawn, the two forces exchanged taunts, insults, and, perhaps most importantly, boasts. The Celts were a very proud people and were quick to boast of their prowess in battle and the accomplishments of themselves and their forebears. Likewise, an accusation of cowardice or a slight aimed at one’s honor could not be left unaddressed.

Knowing this, the champions of a fighting force would call out their rivals and challenge them to single combat. These one-on-one duels would take place in front of both armies, with the winning fighter claiming the other’s head and lifting it up high for his allies to see. Sometimes, this would end the battle before it began, but not often. The Celts loved to fight, after all.

This structured approach to battle—taunts, duels, then full melee—offers a compelling alternative to the standard initiative roll. It works best in fights against intelligent foes who share a common language and a cultural sense of honor. There are plenty of ways to implement such a thing, but here’s one way:

A Structured Initiative System Inspired by Celtic Warfare

Taunt Phase:

Combat begins with an exchange of insults and boasts. Players can roleplay this or roll skill checks (Persuasion, Intimidation, or Performance). A successful taunt gives a +1 bonus to initiative in the next phase and may even demoralize weaker foes.

Challenge Phase:

A warrior may call out an enemy champion for single combat before the full battle begins. The winner boosts their side’s morale, granting a +1 bonus to attack rolls or another minor tactical advantage when the melee begins.

Combat Phase:

All players roll initiative, applying any bonuses gained in previous phases. Combat proceeds as normal, but those who dominated the pre-battle rituals enter the fight with momentum.

This is how I might do this. What about you?

[desiquest]

Raise your hand if you have ever been personally victimized by Persephone Valentine 🫣

STREAM EPS 1-7 @ DesiQuest.com/Watch

ft. Persephone Valentine, Jasmine Bhullar, Omar Najam, Sandeep Parikh, Rekha Shankar

[2crit2quit]

✨🌸✨

Maybe not for everyone but definitely for someone

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

reader and joe celebrating championship post game

Merriment--A 'Roll For Initiative' Blurb

I wrote like a mad person possessed. Here's it early, because I'm feeling jolly!

As mentioned previously, this was changed to a SuperBowl win instead of the AFC Championships. Hehe.

CW: 18+ Content (Smut).

Series Masterlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

____________________

Joe’s a creature of habit and an amalgamation of superstitions. He still, to this day, wears one sock inside out. He still has you polish and kiss the chain before he leaves for every game. He daps up Storm before leaving now after doing it jokingly once and they won two games straight. 

But Joe switches cleats at halftime. It’s blasphemous-- spits in the face of all his hard work and habits. Right before he ducks into the tunnel, he turns back to face the field. The score board blares back at him: 24-21. With the Bengals behind. Too close. A hard fought narrow margin. And Joe’s tired of narrow margins and he’s not going to fucking lose. 

You’re in the stands. He can hear you, a booming voice in the chaos. And Joe’s not going to lose the SuperBowl fucking twice. 

He turns back, heads towards the locker room. Though Coach Taylor is gathering, rallying, Joe’s focused on his bag. Joe brought the custom cleats for good luck, unsure if he’d actually wear them because he didn’t want to prove them to be a fluke by losing. And he didn’t want to ruin the charm of them by getting them torn up. 

But this is do or die. And Joe’s not going to fucking die. Not on that field. He falls into his seat and starts untying the black and white Jordan 11 cleats. The words that were filling the room quiet, all their syllables lost. 

“You changing cleats, Burrow?” 

Joe doesn’t respond to the question. He just finishes undoing the laces and slips the cleats off. The blue, pink, and teal cleats settle to the floor next, a clack followed by the soft click. Joe slips into the right shoe first, fingers brushing over the die on the side. Once the right shoe is laced, Joe slips into the left. His fingers deftly work at the laces. There’s nothing to say for the moment. Just Joe and the die, glancing at each other as he rests his elbows onto his padded thighs. 

“Everyone’s got a reason to fight on that field,” Joe starts, picking his head up. The locker room’s silent, every set of eyes boring into him. “I just needed a reminder on mine.”

It’s not that Joe is playing awful. It’s that he’s playing like coming from behind is the safest option, or like that’s a guaranteed strategy to secure their win. A win is never guaranteed, not even after the clock runs out. 

And every play, every second is a fight. Every yard is a battlefield, but Joe’s not going to give up. He’s not going to let his guys give up either. He marches, when not on the field, along the sidelines, talks to every single teammate. “Keep it alive, you hear me? Stay focused. Do not get fucking comfortable.”

A mantra, or a sermon--but Joe’s not sure which. He just keeps repeating it. Even as they get the lead at the tail end of the third quarter. Even as they continue to create a larger and larger margin. Every pass, every throw, every run is just one step, one measly step towards their goal. But they cannot get comfortable. They can’t. Not in a game this big, this important. 

The two minute warning comes and goes in a bit of a blur, the sun’s just starting to set, a haze that Joe’s used to playing in. He takes the snap, drops back into the pocket for just a moment, scanning his options. The aim is always to get to Joe, to get the sack on him, force them further back from the line. But there’s a break, a fissure that Joe sees opening up to the left just as long as he can keep the focus on him. 

One fake pump is all it seemingly takes before Chase comes from his right, takes the hand up. Chase breaks one tackle, and like rainbows come after the storm, the fissure opens up wider on the left and Chase takes it. All the way fucking down. 37-24. The possession does turn over and even as Joe’s celebrating Chase’s touchdown run, he’s praying, hoping the defense shows up like they have been in the second half--fierce and deadly. The seconds could turn the tide and Joe’s praying, hoping to every god that exists, even the ones he wasn’t raised on that they win. 

The snap comes. The defense pushing and pushing. “Just keep holding. Stay strong,” Joe whispers. The first drive results in a gain of four yards. Not ideal, but Joe knows his boys are putting up every inch of themselves to hold the line. 

The second drive results in a sack, a loss of the four yards they gained plus an additional ten. And then it’s a scramble, the rhythm of the opposing offensive line wavering. Much too far to realistically need to try for the field goal, but they go for it anyway. 

The ball wobbles from the onset, arches up, but can’t make it through the upright. Arches too far to the right and nicks the side before falling to the ground. 37-24 echoes back from the scoreboard, the seconds ticking down.

5. 

4.

3.

2.

1.

The ground catches Joe first, as he lets himself sag in the relief, the turf digging at the skin tucked away in the compression sleeve. Joe looks up as the black, orange, and white confetti falls and it’s damn near like Christmas. There’s slaps, pats, cheers around him as his team celebrates the win, the taste of victory that leaves Joe’s thirst quenched rather than with a dry tongue. 

But there’s only the ground, even with his teammates tugging at his pads, trying to get him to his feet. Joe can only kneels, still staring up into the confetti. His chest shakes, laughter and relief bubbling over him. It’s fucking real--maybe. 

“Hon! Hon!”

Joe looks over his shoulder the crowding on the field and on the sidelines no match for you as you come barreling forward. But you are real, even with the giant, and Joe does mean a giant bouquet of black, white roses. There’s a small center orange roses that outline the true center of the arrangement--a pair of red roses. It clears your path as you hold it out in front of you, but your grin is bright as your head peers over the top of it. 

Joe pushes up, slipping in around the bodies. Until he’s in front of you. And you’re real. Covered in confetti. Slipping the one free arm of yours around him, your laughter bubbling from you. “Fuck, I’m so proud of you. You did it, hon. You fucking did it.”

The squeeze of you is real. The hum of you against Joe is real. 

It’s all fucking real. 

He carries you, damn near, around the field with him. His left hand in yours. His right one toting around the bouquet. The only time he lets you go is to hug another player, give a hand shake, or some other form of celebration, even as he approaches the opposing team Joe keeps you close. Worries if he lets you go then all this--the confetti, the win--will go with it. Even during the interviews, Joe keeps you right by his side. Your grin is bright and warms his skin. Even if he’s not always watching it, watching you, Joe can still feel the pride radiating off you. 

“Joe, I have to ask, two weeks ago you seemed unsure about wearing the custom cleats again after the win in the AFC Championships. The first half the game you were wearing the cleats we’ve all come to know and love but then at half time what changed? You come back, the cleats are different and the entire game feels different. Walk us through that process?”

Joe glances at you, peeking out from behind the bouquet, grin still plastered to your face like his is. “I needed to remind myself what I was fighting for, who I was playing for today.” He turns back to the reporter. “No game’s ever guaranteed. Things can happen in an instant, and I knew it was important to me that I didn’t lose sight of that today. That no one on the team lost sight of what we came today, which was win.”

Inside the tunnel is not much quieter than the field. The boisterous noise echoes and echoes around them. Joe pauses, not at the locker room but in the small corner before they get down that stretch of hallway. A small piece of quiet that he can grab. He sets the bouquet down just for a moment to take your face into his hands. “Shit, I can’t believe it,” he laughs. 

“Believe it, hon. You guys did that. You guys won the fucking Super Bowl.”

The taste of your lips is like being drowned. The second he’s pressed his lips to yours, Joe’s senses are flooded--the smell of you, the taste of you, the buzz that still fucking lingers from the adrenaline not yet worn off. Joe feels like he’s underwater, and the only thing that can save him is you. The thing pulling him under is the same thing that can pull him out. 

You pull away first, a heave pushing at your chest and into his pads. “I’m not having Zac call you out of again because of me.”

Joe grins, sealing another kiss to your lips. “This time he can fucking wait,” Joe whispers. The sound of both your laughter mixing and echoing slightly. But Joe’s mindful of it too, doesn’t want to miss the celebrations but does want to soak in the moment--the quiet, the curl of your smile against his cheek, against his lips. The soft whisper of your voice soaked in pride. 

This is the best fucking part. 

“You promise to wait up for me?” It’s going to be a hell of a ride back to the hotel, rowdy, and probably late. 

“Of course. Caffeine as my witness.”

The locker room is buzzing. Joe eases in, still carting the easy two and a half dozen roses in hand. “Look who finally showed up!” Ja’Marr teases, voice booming over the rest of the noise. 

“And he still got them damn flowers too. Feels good, don’t it?” Tee smiles. 

“Fucking sure does.” He’d even hazard to see it’s better than holding the Lombardi trophy. A sentiment that will get him ribbed on if he actually utters it, so Joe holds it close to his chest. The speeches begin near immediately, a rowdy group of applause ad chants until the room is filled with a haze of cigar smoke, cans of beers are passed around. 

There’s a totting of the Lombardi, the trophy handed around and around as music blares from the speakers in the locker room. Joe’s managed to get most of his pads off--the shoulder and chest ones, draped just in the celebratory Super Bowl winning t-shirt. The locker room is boisterous, alive around him as he’s settled on the floor, bouquet between his legs. Cigar hanging from his lips. A dance battle has ensued above him, one Joe would never even attempt to get into the midsts of.

“Take a second with it, Joe.”

The directive is soft from Zac . Joe takes the metal into his hands. It’s got more weight to it than he’s ever remembered it having. Joe exhales, a tuft of smoke pushing out past his lips. It’s so utterly real. Part of it feels like a cursed lifted, like all the grueling losses and the grind has paid off. And the other part of Joe is a little bit worried, brain too focused on what comes next, when he knows he should be focused on what’s right in front of him. 

But even with the swirl of emotions, Joe’s still proud, still so relieved and still so in shock from the win. That they actually did it, he can’t help but laugh again, trophy cradled into the crook of his arm, almost like one would a child. Joe drops his head back, finding the wall of the lockers behind him. 

“We really fucking did it,” he whispers to himself, smoke billowing up into the air. They really fucking did it. Champions, and it’s still not sinking in. Still somewhere between real and not real, still somewhere between happened and happening--the past and the present mixing together like the smell of smoke and beer. 

“Burrow, get in this. All that white boy swagger gotta be good for something.” The tease slices through the shock. Joe doesn’t catch who exactly, his thoughts catching the voice but not being able to place it immediately. 

Joe shakes his head. “They’re going to get pictures of me like I can dance and I know I can’t.”

“Bro, who gives a fuck. We won the fucking SuperBowl. Getcha ass up.” 

And he obliges, all his mistimed rhythm aside, cigar still dangling from his lips. The trophy and the bouquet safely tucked away. Because how many times does one get to dance after winning the SuperBowl? Joe wants to find out. 

The hotel room is relatively quiet, minus the few guys who have made the trip back with Joe. Their bags and voices are the only noise, managing to garner the attention of the late night security guard who congratulates them on their way back to the elevators. The floors tick up and up, and up until the machine settles and the doors crack open. The closer he gets the room, the more Joe assumes that maybe you should’ve fallen asleep and not waited for him. By the time he left the stadium the night was thick and deeply settled. Even with the hum of adrenaline waning Joe’s not even sure how much longer he’ll last. 

But just from underneath the door, there’s a sliver of light. 

Joe’s keycard trips the lock and it flashes green before clicking to let him in. Joe’s careful with his bags, gets the flowers onto the table and the sheets rustle--a sign of life. You grin as you walk over to him. “How you feeling, champ?”

The nickname makes his chest flutter, or maybe it’s the way you run your hands across his chest. “Like I’m dreaming still,” Joe laughs. His hands find your waist, pulling you even closer into his body, likes the feeling of you close because if you’re there, if you’re touching him he’s never off earth. 

The kiss is slow, unhurried and Joe’s glad he took the extra ten minutes to shower before leaving the facility when your fingers tangle into his hair. There’s probably a bit of smoke still lingering in his clothes, but that doesn’t seem to deter you. Not as you sink your teeth into his bottom lip. Joe groans at the feeling, taking a handful of your ass into his hands. 

He loves it when you do that, because you always soothe the gentle nip with the swipe of your tongue and it makes his head spin. You make his head spin in the best way possible. In a way that Joe never wants it to stop spinning. Joe walks you backwards to the bed--the entire five or six steps a mix of kisses over jaws and tufts of laughter. 

When you fall backwards, Joe braces himself over you, kissing at the lines of your neck, grazes his teeth over the tendons there. “Still feeling you’re dreaming?” you asks dragging his head back up. Your lips brush over his. 

When he inhales, there’s just you. The scent of your body wash and lotion. There’s the teasing touch of your fingertips over his skin, underneath the t-shirt. There’s just you, in every sense of the words. And Joe knows he’s not dreaming, because you’re so much better than a dream, better than just the neurons in his brain firing, than whatever his subconscious could ever come up with. 

“No, but I don’t want this to end,” Joe whines, desperate now. Even if his muscles are just starting to ache from the exertion of today, he knows he wants you, wants you to scream his name. Joe wants to scream your name too. 

“Doesn’t have to. Never has to,” you offer softly, voice a coo at the words. 

“Good.” His fingers trail up your ribs, pushing the t-shirt up to expose your stomach to him. Joe trails kisses down your chest, over your sternum, over your ribs. His senses flooded with you again, and again, over and over again. Your fingers in his hair, your voice humming at him. 

Shirts are discarded, tossed without care about where they land. Joe’s swift to slip out of the shoes and crawls up the bed, teasing his lips over your legs, kissing, licking, nipping his way up your body until he finds your lips again. Your fingers tease at his lower abdomen, right along the line of his sweatpants. 

“Don’t, don’t fucking tease please,” Joe begs against your lips. 

It’s all it takes before your fingers slip down and grip him, a firm but gentle grasp as you work over the head of his cock. “Fuck,” he huffs, broken even to his own ears. 

“Tell me what you want, champ. It’s about you tonight,” you whisper, grazing your teeth over his jaw. 

“Just you.” It’s what he’s always wanted. You are a craving that Joe can never get enough of. A hit from you just makes him want more and more. 

Joe moves at the decisive press. You push up and into his shoulder and he settles into the bed, back against the pillows. But his fingers are so empty without you, even though you’re working his pants down, all Joe wants is you. The flutter of your lips over his chest, the warm and soft press of your palms into his chest. 

The sight of you above him, the work of your hips over him, the grin that paints your face is enough to send Joe into an early grave--he’d bet money on it. His hands are full of your hips, guiding you just the way he wants. You’re pliable in his grasp, malleable to just what he needs, but Joe wouldn’t change a damn thing about you. 

The slapping of your thighs as they meet his echoes just a little around the room, interjected by the groans, the praises. “So proud,” you whisper against his chest, pressed in now. 

The tuft of the moan escapes Joe without prompting or resisting. “Tha-shit, thank you, baby.”

Joe’s gut is light with the familiar fire and tightness of his orgasm. He wants to wait for you, wants to make sure you’re satisfied too, but you hold his face so gingerly as your hips continue over his cock--the only thing that can ease the ache between his legs. “Let go, sweetheart. Please, I need that. Just let go for me.”

He’s useless to the demand, can’t fight it anymore even if he wanted to. His eyes drift close, mouth dropping at his jaw at the pure ecstasy of you. His fingers dig into your waist, pulls you deep onto him. God--there’s nothing better. Joe is positive there is nothing better than this feeling, body releasing at his orgasm, stomach contracting at the pleasure you’re brought him. Your name tumbles from his lips like a prayer. Sacrilegious as it may be, he’d pray to you any day of the fucking week. 

It takes him a minute to blink back to reality, his eyes hazy. Until the shuddering of you and the broken, but oh so complete sound of his name falling over your lips. “God, Joe,” you whine into his throat, a heavy exhale pushing out of your lungs.  

Joe winds his arms around you, keeps you close to him, bare chest to bare chest as he kisses over your temple, his nose pressed deep into the roots of your hair. He’s glad it’s you, here, with him, gifting him a bouquet so big he’s not even sure how to get it home. Glad it’s the two of you, and three if Storm is counted though he’s not here. 

“I love you,” Joe whispers into your skin. 

“Love you too, hon.”

[pillowfort-social]

Welcome to our 5th edition of Staff Community Picks!  ICYMI: We have heard your requests to bring more spotlight to our beloved User Communities and thought this series would be a fun way to share an assortment of Communities we have checked out and think are pretty neat.  Each week we will highlight 6-8 communities based on a specific theme. 

This week’s theme feels a little different to you but you can't quite figure out why yet. Something is wrong. You notice the sheets leading to the Pillowfort are tattered now. In fact, the once perfectly cozy space feels all wrong to you. The pillows seem more dense. The fairy lights flicker dangerously. The blue fabric upon further inspection no longer has its luster. It's scuffed. There is a darkness here greater than anything you have encountered yet on this adventure. 

This was supposed to just be a silly little Pillowfort with your friends. Harmless fun. What was supposed to be a weekly theme has turned out to be more sinister.

If you stay longer you will face the consequences. But you can't help but wonder what happened to the Pillowfort Staff. They should have been here to greet you by now but there's no sign of them.

Before you can turn around to go to somewhere safer like BetaUsers or PillowfortDiscussions, something catches your eye. You notice at your feet there are muddy footprints, no, not footprints. Those are small wheel tracks leading to inside the Pillowfort.

As your eyes meet tattered sheets and scuffed fabric once again, you can hear the sound of electronic humming. It's too late. You are now realizing you are in danger. Concealed Mode can't save you. The humming is becoming a growl. And it's approaching you.

You witness in horror as a small, round robotic vacuum rolls out of the Pillowfort with a butcher knife attached. It's eyes have been on you this entire time. It wanted you to be here. You walked right into its trap. I need you to Roll for Initiative. 

✨Original Character Hub✨ DnDArtists TTRPG Fanmix Queer TTRPG Fans Unite

theRPnetwork

Heck Yeah, Original Characters

Dimension 20 Do you have any recommendations of other Communities to check out based on this week's theme or do you want to continue this encounter? Add a reblog.

[punkrockvalkyrie]

While trying to explain the 'Alignment Chart'...

Y/N: So, yeah, your alignment basically represents how you address interactions and conflict.

Barbara: Oh! It's like a moral compass then?

Y/N: I never thought about it like that, but you're absolutely right Barbara!

Adam: You're brilliant Honey! *pecks Barbara on the cheek*

Barbara: Thanks guys

Lydia: Right, so what does being Chaotic Good mean exactly?

Y/N: Good question Lyds. The characters I play tend to fall under Chaotic Good. What it means is that you, or your character, believe in doing what they think is right, no matter what the rules say.

Lydia: Gotcha. That sounds fun. And by that logic, Chaotic Evil would be something along the lines of... *subtly points to Beetlejuice messing with Y/N's miniatures*

Y/N: *snorts* Actually Lyds, that is an example of the newest alignment: Chaotic Dumbass

Lydia: *laughing* Well, you're not wrong!

BJ: *Looks up with a NPC mini up his nose* What's up?

Y/N, Barbara, Lydia, Adam: *various noises of disgust*

Y/N: *grossed out* Aw, c'mon man! First my dice, now my minis? Why?!

BJ: I was bored! It's not my fault your toys can fit up my nose

Barbara, Y/N, Adam, Lydia: *facepalm*

Adam: I'll get the Kleenex and tweezers.

Y/N & Barbara: Don't forget the Clorox!

[the-random-hamlet]

Not Mine. Thought to Share.

[knight-in-sour-armor]

[contaminateddonut]

Hear me out:

A DND campaign but the characters get annoyed whenever the players have to pause to roll