#connor always be looking pretty

[luthqrs]

"Ey, what did you think of my murdering scumbag brother then? Are we alike?" CARLA CONNOR and LISA SWAIN in CORONATION STREET ↝ 10.02.2025

bonus lisa heart eyes reaction:

[three-headed-monster]

team canada vs team finland: gallery | 05.18.24

[nomaishuttle]

u guys will never understand the weird attachment i have with the letter k shes like a part of me

[paleepeaches]

Happy Valentines Day

(Connor Rk800 x Fem Reader)

Warnings: Idk NSFW so 18+

Word count: 2422

Summary: It's Valentine's Day and instead of making Connor dinner you let him fuck your brains out.

A/N: This took way longer than it should have. It's pretty mid.

Tags: If you're still interested @joelsfavoritegirl

You were a festive person. Always have and always will be. Valentine's was your favorite holiday not only because of the pink and red strewn across supermarkets and stores but because it was a day of love: a reason to celebrate you and Connor’s union. You were sentimental. Sensitive and a bit of a sappy girl when it came to things like that. Connor was fully aware of it. He made note of it when you first got together. How you pouted up at him. Your bottom lip jutting out slightly covered in your lipgloss. When things didn’t go your way your pretty doe eyes would water with tears and coat your spiky lashes. Seeing you so whiney and needy all the time was an adorable sight. Especially when it came to him. You’d pout every time he had to leave for the DPD every morning. Today was no different.

“Do you have to go?” You fluttered your lashes up at him. 

Connor turned his head to look at you while he did his tie. His hands skilfully mastered it. He felt his resolve waver seeing you so like that. You’d just gotten up. Hair was a bit messy, eyes a bit tired but what you wore got him. It was the babydoll nightdress. Baby pink in color and the cups on it hugged your tits so nicely. It was sheer and cut off at the top of your plush thighs. He had to resist throwing you on the bed and just fucking your brains out. Poor baby girl didn’t know what you were doing to him.

“I have to. Hank needs me for another case. Plus who’s gonna make enough money to take care of you?” He cooed down at you with his signature smirk. 

You huffed out a sigh nodding in understanding. “Okay but are you gonna be home on time to celebrate? To eat dinner and do….other activities?” You blushed at the hint you threw out. Connor had been balls deep inside of you, lapped viciously at your pussy, and had you whining and calling him daddy yet you were still so timid. He nodded his head trying to hide his amusement at your shyness. 

“Of course,” He smoothed out his jacket and reached a hand out to you. He cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek and relishing in its softness. “I’ll never keep you waiting. You know that.” He leaned down and placed a peck on your lips. He could taste that lingering lip balm on you. Cherry. You always had to have it cherry-flavored. He licked his lips tasting it and hummed. He reluctantly let you go as soon as he felt his cock begin to throb to life. Just kissing you was enough to send him into a feral mood.

“I’ll see you tonight.” He promised you and grabbed his car keys leaving you wanting and yearning for him.  

You filled your day with meaningful tasks despite the growing ache of Connor leaving you high and dry. You were dedicated to making this Valentine’s Day one he would remember. 

You had decorated your shared home in heart-shaped garlands and had a few scented candles going. If it was any other Valentine’s Day involving a human with functioning organs then you would have made a delicious meal and set wine out. However, this was Connor an RK800 model who didn’t need food or water to keep functioning. So you had to get creative which was why when he came home he was happy to see the festive decor, the soft glow of the candles around the living room, and the trail of petals leading to the bedroom.

You knew it was a bit cheesy of a tactic and overused but what other things could you have possibly used as a romantic trial? Connor had come home with flowers and of course, a gift for you held in the other hand. “Y/N…” He called out softly as he pushed open the bedroom door. If he had lungs they would have surely strained and stopped his breathing. He’d seen you in proactive wear before but this was the cherry on top. 

You sat knelt on the plush soft bed with each leg under you. You wore a babydoll lingerie top that cupped your breasts, making them sit so pretty on your chest. The top was thin, sheer, and baby pink bringing out the color of your skin. A pretty bow sat in the middle between the valley of your breast effectively accentuating your body. A thong was keeping your pretty puffy lips in place from falling out. Connor could see you went all out this year. He set the gifts for you on the dresser and walked meaningfully towards you.

“You like it?” You giggled softly a playful smirk on your pouty lips. Connor sat down next to you, the bed dipping in the process. “Of course I do sweetie.” He moved your hair aside with his hand and leaned in kissing you on the exposed skin of your neck. You inhaled sharply your eyes softening and body feeling like putty. 

Connor was programmed to analyze and interrogate deviants. So, naturally, he was able to figure out what aroused you and what didn’t. He knew of all the special spots on your lovely skin. His lips skilfully kissed your neck leaving hot wet kisses. You mewled delightfully for him making his cock harden.

He leaned into your ear whispering, “You sound so fucking pretty.” 

It caused a pink shade to cover your supple cheeks. He never ceased to make you blush even when he wasn’t trying to fuck you.

“Lay down, I wanna taste you.” He lightly pushed you down to lay on the bed. Your hair was sprawled across the sheets and your arms were at your side. Connor spread your legs and dragged you towards the edge of the bed. He kneeled before you, slipping your thong off. His fingers skillfully spread your puffy folds revealing your wet slick cunt. 

“I haven’t even touched you and you're already soaking.” He smiled cruelly at you. 

“Connor…” You whined out, hips bucking up to get him to taste you, finger you, anything. 

He laughed at your desperation, “Always so needy.” Connor didn’t want to give in to you just yet. He wanted to draw it out, have you begging for him to touch you. His plans quickly changed when he saw your pleading eyes and fluttering lashes. You looked so docile and cute that he couldn’t help but give in. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” He spread your pussy folds further getting a good look at how drenched you were before giving you a long lick. He was hungry for you, tongue swirling around your clit and lapping at your puffy folds. 

“Fuck C-Connor-” Your moans were broken and rough as he continued his assault. Your eyes rolled back and your hands immediately tugged on his hair.

“You taste so good.” He muttered the vibrations of his voice over your clit caused you to throw your head back. 

He took your whines as fuel and dipped his tongue deep inside your hole. He groaned feeling it grip and clench, greedy for anything to fill it. He retracted his tongue humming and relishing in the sweet taste of your juices. 

“Shh baby you’re doing so good for me.” He cooed to you and before you could reply he plunged two long and slender fingers into you. You gasped for air, body squirming under him. He had to hold you in place to keep you from moving.

“Connor I-I think I’m gonna cum-” You choked out, voice cut off by his fingers slipping out with a loud squelch. He smirked down at you and you knew he’d refuse to give you an orgasm. At least not with his fingers.

“Connor, please.” You whined out for him desperately clawing at his trousers and tugging his belt. You wanted to see him, stop this torture, and have him fuck you raw.

He smiled down at you, tilting his head slightly to the side. “You’re so needy Y/N.” Connor slapped his hand down on your cunt making you yelp. It came out breathy and far from painful. His hand smacked you again, hitting deliciously against your throbbing clit.

Connor engrained your reaction into his hardware, studying, and learning. He yanked off your babydoll lingerie, pulling it over your head and leaving you in nothing but your bare skin. 

Connor was quick, fingers deftly opening each button of his shirt. His belt was next, his hands deftly moving to unbuckle it. He threw it on the floor, making it clang against the hardwood. He pushed down his trousers and underwear down and his face fell in relief. His cock sprang free, the head was swollen and leaking pre cum. 

At the sight of it, you felt your hole flutter and clench around nothing. You squirmed on the bed, withering in need. “Connor please, please, I’ve been a good. girl” You mewled out, batting your sweet lashes up at him.

There was something so thrilling and almost primal about you laying before him so vulnerable. The way you begged for his cock had him hardening even more. You never ceased to make his heart clench and cock jump from how sweet you were.“Shh, baby it's okay. I’ll give this pussy what it needs.” He cooed to you so softly.

Connor pumped his cock a few times, his pre cum seeping from the tip and spreading over his shaft. He pushed your legs up to your chest and lined his cock up to your hole. He could see your pretty pussy tighten up in anticipation. An amused exhale left his nose as he looked up into your eyes. They were foggy, glassy with lust and pure need. 

Connor pushed the head of his cock in and he groaned, hand coming down to the side of your head to brace himself. He gripped the bedsheets below you two and his face scrunched up in restraint. He knew first penetration was always hard for you. Your poor pussy couldn’t take so much cock so he had to take his time. He struggled to keep his composure and just thrust his full length into you. He knew if he did you'd cry out, sob, and claw at him. It was thrilling.

He sighed out and smoothed the skin on your hip with his palm. "Relax baby." With each second that passed he slipped in further and further in taking his time to stretch you out.

You were a mess below him, clawing at his shoulders and back. If he were human you would be sure he'd have red claw marks on his porcelain skin.

You panted like a bitch in heat, cunt clamping hard on him. “M-more, more Connor, I can take it.” You pouted up to him.

Connor chuckled at your bold statement. “You can take it huh?” 

“Y-yeah I can take it-”

Connor slammed his cock into you causing a yelp to escape your throat. The big stretch was painful as his tip bumped your cervix. Your body jolted upwards away from him but he just pulled his cock out and shoved it in again.

“Thought you could take it, princess. This is what you’ve been whining about?” Connor smiled down at you cruelly. He folded you in half, pushing your legs farther up to your chest. His cock slipped further in, making a lewd squelching sound.

“Y-yes!” You cried out in response.

“Then stop fucking complaining and take my cock like a good girl.” Connor leaned down and kissed you roughly, tongue slipping into your mouth. His hand gripped your chin as he pumped his cock into you.

His heavy balls slapped against the plump flesh of your ass. The noise echoed around the room, bouncing off the walls and into your ear. Your juices leaked out of your cunt, coating his cock and dripping down his balls. He could feel it warm them and groaned into your mouth. He pulled back from the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours. “That’s my good princess, fuck clench down just like that.” 

You blushed, your pussy clamping down on him just from the compliment. “Ahh! Mphm! Fuck…Connor!” You were loud letting high-pitched moans fall from your pouty lips. Your eyes rolled back and you bit down on your lip relishing in the sweet bliss of his cock.

“Don’t do that. I wanna hear you.” Connor smacked your face lightly and you released your bottom lip from your teeth. 

“C-Connor I’m not gonna- I can’t-” Your words were chopped up, as you struggled to speak. They came out in whiney babbles and Connor couldn’t help but become amused. He thought you looked so cute like that. Your face controted into pleasure, words not even forming sentences just sounds. He loved seeing you completely drunk on his cock. 

“Good girl, just like that.” He praised you. He pressed the pad of his thumb to your swollen clit, rubbing slow and tight circles around it. You cried out, clawing at his back. Your bambi eyes brimmed with tears. You blinked, lashes fluttering and coated in the wetness. Fat tears rolled down your pink cheeks as you came.

Connor noticed but didn't fret. You would cry often due to the pure delight of cumming. He leaned down, cooing to you and licking them up with his tongue. He could taste the bitter and salty flavor of your tears.

That simple act made your walls clench down on his throbbing cock. Your legs locked him in place, wrapped around his waist and not letting him retract further than he should. He pounded into your soaking wet heat. “Fuck!” He cursed as you milked his cock. One final thrust into your spongy sweet spot had Connor spilling ropes of cum deep into your pussy. He gave a few sloppy thrusts helping you both ride out your orgasms. Your cream and his cum oozed out as he pushed his cock deep in, making it overflow and spill. You poor pussy was a mess. All fucked out and painted white.

Connor panted for a few seconds but recovered quickly due to his android body. He placed sweet soft kisses on your red cheeks and your forehead. “You did so good for me baby.” His voice was soft and sweet as he spoke.

You smiled up at him, panting softly, “Happy Valentine's Day.” 

[vanillateeth]

⋆˚꩜｡ 𝓙 ealous 𝓟ercy 𝓙ackson ...! ˎˊ˗

in a situationship with percy? uh oh! you’re not his—except when you’re in his lap, his hands under your shirt, and he’s calling you “sweet girl” that gets you all hot and bothered like...!!!!

warning/s: percy's a tease, making out, reader's cabin is not implied <3

she stumbles into the cabin still giggling. smells like strawberries and someone else’s cologne. percy’s already on the bed, arms behind his head, watching her like she’s a storm about to hit.

" what's so funny.ᐣ " percy asked, his voice flat.

she doesn’t even get it. doesn’t see how the hem of her little camp tee is riding up, or how she’s still flushed from laughing with someone that wasn’t him.

"connor said something dumb," she shrugs, still giggling. "why .ᐣ"

his eyes flicker. slow.

" no reason. "

but when she tries to step past him, he grabs her wrist, gently like he's done it a million times (which he did but oops!)

“c’mere, pretty girl.”

and she does. so easy. so stupidly sweet for him. straddles his lap without thinking, without blinking.

she’s still talking about the joke when his hands slide under her shirt and she gasps like it's her first time getting touched by him.

“you don’t even know what you do to me,” he mutters, mouth brushing her jaw. “so damn pretty and you don’t even get it.”

her breath catches. she always gets quiet when he talks like this — voice low and close, like it’s just for her.

“s’that okay?” he whispers, lips dragging along her throat. “me touching you like this?”

she nods too fast. whines a little when he shifts his hips.

“good girl,” he breathes, like a sin.

his hands are everywhere — her thighs, her waist, her lower back all hot skin and teasing fingers.

“just wanted to remind you who you’re giggling for.”

her lashes flutter. “i wasn’t—”

“shh.” he pulls her closer, his lips ghosting over hers but not kissing yet. “you don’t have to lie, angel.”

and then he does kiss her open-mouthed, slow and filthy. her fingers knot in his curls like it’s muscle memory.

“so good f’me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down her neck. “sweetest thing i’ve ever tasted.”

her hips move deliciously slow without thinking. he groans into her skin.

“look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “just sitting there, letting me ruin you.”

she’s not even trying. she’s just… like this. soft. open. all for him.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers, lips brushing her collarbone. “but gods, what a way to go."

© 𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗵. 𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱. 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗿 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗼𝘄𝗻. 𝗗𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗯𝘂𝘁𝗲, 𝗼𝗿 𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗺 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱.

[lcvecove]

Connor loves makes out in the car ngl

Maybe after a good win or something, he pulls you over the console into his lap and you just make out for a bit

ᡴꪫ ࣪ ݂ post game make outs with connor?? say less nonnie . . .

connor is always angsty to see you after a game. especially after a good win. there’s just so much energy in him that he doesn’t even know what to do with it …

“thanks for coming tonight baby,” he says as both of you get in the car, ready to go home.

“always. I love watching you play,” you reply sending him a soft smile and he can’t but reach over, gently cupping your cheek as he leans over the console to connect your lips. his lips chase yours as you pull away, not ready to let you go just yet.

his hands move to your waist pulling you closer and closer to him until eventually you maneuver yourself over the console, over to his seat and onto his lap, straddling him

connor tries to help, moving his seat back as far as it could go, his hands reclaiming their position on your hips

“you look so pretty in my jersey. my name on your back,” connor says, trailing kisses down your neck and his hands sneak underneath the jersey you’re wearing, caressing your bare skin

“you played so good baby. my little superstar. I wish you could realize how good you really are. how many people was at this game tonight just for you. you’re-“ you go to praise your boyfriend some more but get caught off by his lips against yours once again

connor’s hands drop to your ass, squeezing the jean-clad flesh in his hands. god connor loves you in jeans !!

“m’so proud of you con,” you say and he lets out a little whimper as you tug on his hair and press a kiss just beneath his ear, trailing your lips down to his neck. he had the perfect neck to smother in kisses and you often took the opportunity to do so.

“fuck. we should head home baby,” connor says half heartedly as you start to unbutton his white shirt.

“you wanna stop and go home?” you mumble against his collarbone and he drops his head back against the seat.

“don’t want to, but if we don’t we’re gonna end up fucking here in the rink parking lot. might wanna finish my rookie season before doing something like that,” connor jokes and you let out a soft laugh

“next time then,” you say, buttoning his shirt again and he sends you a promising grin

[demie90s]

MASTERLIST PT.2

NAVIGATION (Much Easier)

MASTERLIST PT.1

{ WBB & WNBA IMAGINES }

(Pink & Black Edition🖤🩷)

{ l hate a weak!reader with y/n cringe moments. My readers never soft. They crash outs. We pissed. Nah I'm playing but enjoy}

~~~~~~~~~~~~~LSU~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flaujae x You

• This ain't just a chain

→ She let you wear it once. Now it's yours. On your neck during warmups. In the studio. At press. The chain with her initial on it.

• Dirty South, Deeper Love

You’re a rising southern rapper from Baton Rouge, all iced grills and slow-burning confidence. She’s never touched a basketball, but she’s made a name spitting heat—and people keep comparing her to Flau’jae.

• Mics Up & Outta Pocket

• Mic'd Up & Outta Pocket Pt.2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~PHOENIX MERCURY~~~~~~~~~~~~

Diana Taurasi x You

• Tweets with Tequila and Don

→ You’re a little tipsy, a little too bold, and a little too obsessed with WNBA legend Diana Taurasi. One night, the tequila talks—and your Twitter fingers get reckless.

• Say Less, Pt.2

→ You weren’t born a prodigy. You were overlooked, counted out, told to try another sport before you even had a chance to believe in yourself. But when you came back, you came back different.

• Just Read the Line, Dee

→ You force a very grumpy, very confused Diana to do a TikTok trend.“we listen and we don’t judge”. Diana’s not feeling it—at first.

• Candy

Diana doesn't do TikToks. She doesn't dance. Doesn't act. Doesn't play around... until you came into the picture. Somehow, you convince her to do the "Candy Remix" challenge.

Britney Griner x You

Kahleah Copper x You

• Youngin

Natasha Cloud x You

• 2 Kills, 1 Vlog

→ You’re not a pro baller, but you’re hella known—YouTube, IG, TikTok, the works. And today? You’re linking up with your longtime “friend” Natasha Cloud.

• Soft Launch

→ Natasha Cloud is bold on court, loud on social, but private where it matters. You? You’re the reason.

• Whoop, There It Is

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SEATTLE STORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sue Bird x You

• Not So Lowkey

→ You and Sue have been keeping things quiet. You’re a rookie, she’s Sue Bird, and no one needs the media or the team blowing things up. But one casual date night—hoodie, hat, sushi—and the WNBA internet loses its mind after someone posts a blurry pic.

• Control Issues

→ You’re a cocky, arrogant, mouthy star on the court—a guaranteed draft pick with an ego that stretches baseline to baseline. No one can check you, emotionally or physically. But then Sue Bird walks into your practice.

• Two Years Too Patient

→ You’ve been mentored by Sue for two years. Respectfully. Quietly. Obsessively. But tonight, after one too many looks and just enough skin, you stop pretending you can wait any longer.

• Dog Off the Leash

→ You’re the rising star in Indiana—raw talent, zero filter, always one comment away from a fine. Legends like Sue and Diana were only brought in to help “tame” you. First mistake. You don’t do tame.

• Mad For What

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~USC ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Juju Watkins x You

• Caught Slippin’ (But Make It Cute)

→ You’re that influencer—pretty, unserious, and always online. Thirsting over Juju Watkins for months on your socials, convinced she’d never actually see any of it.

• Whipped Doesn’t Even Cover It

~~~~~~~~~~~~U of I ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caitlin Clark x You

• She’s Only Sweet to Me

→ You’re that girl—model-pretty, sharp-tongued, New York raised with a mouth that could make a ref cry. Caitlin’s the only one who gets a different version of her.

• Shameless Rivalry Part 2

→ It started with a viral interview. Asked for your top 5 celebrity crushes, you answered without hesitation—Paige Bueckers and Caitlin Clark, tied for #1.

• What You Need

You and Caitlin Clark share a dorm. She has a boyfriend—Connor. But you’ve been in her space too long, too close, too bold.

• Halftime Show

Kate Martin x You

• Quiet Meets Chaos

→ Kate Martin is the WNBA's soft-spoken sweetheart-talented, calm, and loyal to her routines. You're the city's most unfiltered "It Girl".

• She’s Not Me

→ Kate Martin’s doing her best to be loyal—to smile through the dinners, take the photos, and pretend she doesn’t hear your voice every time she closes her eyes.

• Sticky Finger Soft Eyes

~~~~~~~~~~~UCONN~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige Bueckers x You

• That Doesn’t Stop the Show

→ You and Paige were a secret, quiet thing. But when things ended, they ended. You didn’t speak on it—not until the heartbreak turned into lyrics.

• She Got That Dog In Her

→ You’re known in the underground dance scene for tearing through freestyle battles like it’s personal. Paige is known for being one of the most composed players in college hoops. But when she shows up to your Red Bull-style comp and loses all chill…

• Call Her Guard(ian)

→ You’re used to attention. You’re famous, pretty, and constantly photographed—but not every kind of attention is wanted. One night out turns uncomfortable fast when some guy won’t take a hint.

• She Don’t Even Talk to Us Like That

→ The team’s doing a lighthearted post-practice video segment—favorite moments caught on camera. Until Paige pulls out a private video of reader singing to her while she’s half-asleep in bed.

• Shameless Rivalry

→ It started with a viral interview. Asked for your top 5 celebrity crushes, you answered without hesitation—Paige Bueckers and Caitlin Clark, tied for #1.

• Onto You

→ She’s Paige Bueckers—UConn’s golden girl. Lights follow her everywhere she goes. And me? I’m just a face in the crowd.

• Too Late to Love Me Right

• Legends and Lesbian’s

Azzi Fudd x You

• 10 Things I Hate About You

→ Everyone loves Azzi. She’s sunshine, discipline, pure gold with a jumper. And you? You’re the complete opposite.

Nika Muhl x You

• How Much Was It?

It starts as a joke TikTok trend. Nika mouths “So how much was it?” and you, the rich, soft-launching menace you are, casually reply “$15,000.” You try to keep a straight face. Really.

• Still Mad. Still Yours. , Part 2

→ Nika messed up. Nothing unforgivable-but enough to leave you quiet, closed-off, and ice-cold in your own penthouse. What she doesn't know is you forgave her the minute she apologized.

Kk Arnold’s x You

• Caught

→ You and KK have been dating on the low for months. Nobody knows. Paige— on live, bored and nosy—grabs the phone to go find you.

Whole Team x You

• Coach, I Swear It Was an Accident (It Wasn't)

→ You've been testing Geno's patience since the moment you stepped on UConn's campus. You're talented, unbothered, and just enough of a smartass to keep your scholarship hanging by a thread. But deep down, you're his favorite headache.

• I Don’t Know How to Wish Anymore

→ You’ve always been the glue—the light, the calm, the one who makes the team laugh and makes Geno’s life easier. But what they don’t see is how lonely it feels to be strong all the time.

• Where the Hell Is She?

→ Reader’s always around. Always clinging to someone, stretched out across a teammate’s lap, braiding hair during film. But today? She’s gone.

• Don’t Get Comfortable

→ During a joint scrimmage with another top program, reader shows out. Cool, confident, hitting shots like it’s nothing—and naturally, the other team starts noticing. Compliments turn to flirting. A few players get a little too bold.

• Dance Break, Baby

→ They did not know she could dance like that. When halftime rolls around and reader hits the court in full glam with a majorette squad or professional dancers at her back, the team loses their minds.

• Not One Damn Was Given

→ Reader throws hands on the court after a player body-slams her teammate. Fists fly. The team’s in shock. Hours later, reader hits IG Live and drags the other team with career-ending energy.

• She’s Always Been That Girl

• Halftime Unleashed

→ At halftime of a heated UConn game, the big screen surprises everyone by cutting to locker room footage of the women bonding.

• Bleed Blue…Literally

→ Everyone knew #17 was fine. What they didn't know— at first-was that she's covered in ink under that uniform.

• She Plays For Us

→ You are fine, flirty, and a little too good at everything-on and off the court. When UConn plays USC, things get heated fast.

• Micd Up & Outta Pocket

→ UConn vs LSU. The lights are bright, the tension is real-but #17 is focused on two things: Flaujae and Angel Reese.

• Pretty Hurts Until She Plays

→ Everyone thinks she's just the team's cheerleader with a jersey. Glossy lips, soft voice, and an untouched warmup suit. That is... until Nationals.

• More Then A Teammate

→ You’re the heart of the team. The one who always plays it cool-never too emotional, never too soft-but always there.

• Zumba Queen

→ During a chill team trip to the mall, reader mysteriously disappears—until Geno and the squad hear loud music find her leading a full-on Zumba class.

• Nationals Chaos

• You Can’t Take Her Nowhere

• Main Character

• Soft Spot

• Practice Wife

~~~~~~~~~~~~~LVA ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sydney Colson + TP

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ DW ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige Bueckers x You

• Clear As Day

→ Paige hits her head, says she has a headache, and Coach doesn't blink. You've always been calm-quiet, focused, dependable. But Now?

• Front Row

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ TCU ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Olivia Miles x You

• Loyal

You got a man. But you also got a weakness. Olivia Miles

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

YOU ONE OF THEM QUEERS???

Yandere Conner Kent x Weird black!reader

So what if you invited your brother's best friend to watch One Piece with you? He said he never had! What kind of psycho has never watched One Piece? You thought, but then again, the psycho was a test tube baby; he wouldn't know about the amazing run of Disney Channel back in the day, how it used to be, or how hyped everyone was for the Kaido fight with Luffy, or understand the cultural significance of a DBZ movie in theaters. You had to show this little lab rat the greatness of TV. Sure, he knows, but he doesn't know more. I mean, he never rushed home to watch Toonami after school. You had to teach him, and well, your little guinea pig was eager to know. Connor wanted to get closer to you in every way possible—be your best friend, be your favorite superhero, maybe even boyfriend if you catch the hints he's dropping. No, he doesn't just want to play Smash Bros; he wants you guys to be more than tag team buddies, but you'll only see him as something friendly. He calls you "babe," and you hit him with a "bro," you're breaking the poor boy's heart. He holds your waist; you think it's just a friendly gesture. He leans his head on your shoulder, smelling the cocoa butter you spread in your dreads and how it sticks to anything he wears. But to you, "Awe, the little guinea pig is sleepy," you teased, and this was the night you invited him over to the mansion. I mean, there's literally an entertainment room; it would be a shame not to watch the best story created by my man on a freaking projector!

"Wow, you're early; the popcorn ain't even poppin'!" you joked, a coy little smile on your face.

"I like being on time, babe," he smirked back, entering the mansion. "Hey, no boots, mister! This floor is hardwood, and I know you walk around in mud!" you warned, but there was still a playful edge to it.

“Ugh, babe, buy me a drink first before you see my feet!” Conner said with a big grin, and you made a fake gagging sound, causing the two of you to laugh. You took him by the hand and pulled him to the entertainment room.

"So how far are you in One Piece?" you asked. You forced him to watch it, but you couldn't call it force, because he watches it with you, telling him to listen and obey whatever you say. "Don't watch the movie; it's a waste of money." He was looking forward to it, but if you hate it, he hates it too. "Yuck, I hate the comic writer; he retcons almost everything if he can't fit it into a plot." If it's that bad, he won't read their comics.

"This fandom is pretty toxic, but come on, the merch is amazing! I mean, look at these MHA pins; they're too cute!" If you like those pins on your bag so much, then he'll wear a Todoroki pin on his leather jacket to make you smile.

You sat with Conner in the theater; it was the whole Cake Island arc. You were already on Wano, but Conner was new to the game, so you didn't mind going a couple of arcs back for him. His head was laid gently on your shoulder; you felt him sniff you and nuzzle his nose into your neck, which made you giggle.

"Dude, quit staring in. Try to pay attention; this is important for later arcs," you always say, but you're way more important to him.

"You say that every time," Conner huffed.

"Cause it is!" you gave a half-hearted laugh.

You looked down at him, and for some reason, the glowing light of the projector made you look stunning. The blue light cascading on your dark skin made you look so surreal, as if you weren't from this planet.

"Come on, Conner, just pay attention for a minute. I promise it'll be worth your while," you said softly. It felt so intimate, like you guys were in an actual movie theater, and you were like.

"Shhh, baby! We can't make out right now; the fight scene is happening." You're such a dense dork, but oh, it just makes it even better.

"Yeah, I'll pay attention." News flash: he won't. He'll be too busy staring at you and how your face lights up during the fights. His super hearing means he'll still listen, but he'd rather watch you, and maybe later he'll watch a YouTube video explaining the arc.

"God, I wish I were as cool as Sanji. He looks so wicked in that red cape! You know, you should really get a cape like that. I know your whole thing is leather jackets, but come on, you have to try out red. Plus, I heard it makes a person's eyes..." You trailed off as you turned to look at Conner, who had his full attention on you, and, God, it made you blush a slight purple.

"Shit, I'm rambling again. I know you don't want to hear me yap. Good, I feel like such a skeeze-"

"No, you're not," he said softly but firmly. It made you giggle like a schoolgirl.

"What?~" you said, nervously

"I like your voice a lot, baby." Now, when he says it like that, it doesn't feel like a cute little nickname he came up with.

"And I like it especially when you talk about shit you like. You're so passionate about it; you don't see that with regular people. You're so genuine," he continues, getting closer. You turn away, covering your face. God, you're such a dork. He just wants to take you right here and now, but that would be unlawful.

"So what, you think I'm cool or something?" You laughed with a half-hearted smirk.

"I think you're amazing, babe," he answered, grabbing your face to look at him, and you laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. This made Conner laugh too.

"I'm trying to be smooth, and you're laughing at me!" Conner chuckled.

"Smooth? Yeah, right! You're as smooth as the acne on my forehead!" Then you both burst out laughing, your foreheads connecting. "Goofy-ass motherfucker!" you said in between giggles.

"Come on, baby, you know I've moved some; they say I've got rizz~" You pushed Test Baby to the side, snorting.

"Who the hell lied to your bum ass?" you snickered.

"No one!" He protested.

"Uh-huh," you pulled yourself closer to him, wrapping your long arms around his neck. "You have no game."

"You just don't want to admit I'm cooler than you," he quipped.

"In your clone dreams," you snapped playfully.

"You're in my cloned dreams," he said, your face getting uncomfortably close; it made you laugh.

"That shit was corny as hell," and you and Conner giggled some more; he felt your touch ever so gently.

"Can I?"

"Can you?"

He then pressed his lips to yours, and Conner could have sweated as he ascended to another state of being. Your lips tasted like buttered popcorn and cheap soda—something he loved more than anything, especially if that flavor was you. He pulled you closer, his hands wrapping around your slim waist. Your hand was now placed on his cheek as you felt him slowly start to get on top of you, and you let him. And shit, who cares if you're kissing your brother's best friend? He should have called dibs by now.

You gasp for air, but Conner doesn't let you recover. He presses his lips against you hard this time, passionately. He has kissed a whole ton of people before, which gives him the experience you lack. You feel him suck on your tongue, and you whimper just a little, shivering. Is this how it feels to kiss? ‘Cause if it is, God fucking bless! You feel his gloved hand reach underneath your Wonder Man hoodie. You grab his arm and pull away. He hears the great Superboy whine like a puppy, and it makes you snicker just a little. Your hand that was on his cheek moves to his now swollen lips.

"Kon, pay attention; this part is important. This is when Luffy fights Katakuri, and we get to see his Devil Fruit," you whispered against his lips. Da fuck? You stopped good kissing and touching for an anime fight??

Your lucky he thinks your hot.

(Made this one while listening to chapple roan God I love that little lesbian)

[belli5]

⌗ . ᵎᵎ ⸝⸝ Boyfriend headcanons .ᐟ ೀCB⁹⁸

Connor Bedard boyfriend headcanons

˚₊· ᥫ᭡ Connor Bedard x fem!reader ➜ Fluff. Note:I actually need him as my boyfriend masterlist

❀ He’s so shy at first. Like, you have to initiate the first few moves until he feels safe and starts opening up more.

❀ constantly blushes when you compliment him. Tell him he looks good in his Blackhawks gear and he’ll literally duck his head and smile to himself for 10 minutes straight.

❀ Big on forehead kisses. Always gives you one when you’re tired or sad. Quiet, comforting type of affection.

❀ Loves when you wear his hoodies—he’ll just smile softly and tug the hood over your head like “You look better in it anyway.”

❀ Not huge on PDA in public, but at home? He’s glued to you. Lays on your lap, buries his face in your neck, and just holds you quietly while scrolling through his phone.

❀ He won’t admit it, but he hates when other guys make you laugh. He gets all quiet and sulky afterward.

❀ if you’re texting someone too long and smiling, he definitely peeks over your shoulder like “who’s that?”

❀ When he’s jealous, he doesn’t argue—he gets weirdly competitive. Random hockey flex. Random “you like me better though, right?” Vibes.

❀ Will 100% pout if you hang out with your friends more than him. He’s not proud of it, but he wants your attention, always.

❀ Obsessed with movie nights. He lets you pick the movie even if it’s super cheesy, and will pull you onto his chest halfway through.

❀ Buys your favourite snacks without asking—like he just remembers every single detail you tell him and stores it forever.

❀ Learns how to make your coffee order and starts doing it every morning when he’s home.

❀ You’ll find his gear randomly in the living room because he gets home, drops everything, and immediately finds you to cuddle.

❀ He has an album of you on his phone. He thinks you look so peaceful and pretty, and it calms him down on a stressful days.

❀ He lowkey doesn’t know what he did to deserve you. Like he’ll just stare at you getting ready and say “How are you mine?”

❀ Always asking for reassurance in quiet ways. “You’re not sick of me, right?” / “Do I annoy you?” / “You still like me, yeah?”

❀ Sometimes he overthinks how much you have to deal with, like the media or fans knowing about your relationship, and it makes him want to protect you even more.

❀ But if you ever reassure him? Like tell him how proud you are, or how much you love him? He’ll go silent and then tackle you into a long hug and not let go for a while.

❀ If you’re sitting in his lap, he’s always tilting his chin up like “…you’re not gonna kiss me?” and he won’t stop until you do. Every time. Spoiled boy behavior.

❀ When he’s clingy, he kisses you over and over, like little pecks—your temple, your shoulder, your cheek, your lips, your jaw. Just a whole soft, whiny trail of affection.

[honeyncherry]

we never tell - joe burrow

summary turns out moving on takes exactly eleven months. the twelfth is for remembering why you tried to leave in the first place

content 18+, smut, angst, language, alcohol

part four

JANUARY

Regret doesn’t announce itself.

It seeps in, slow and stupid. Not the knife to the chest you now brace for, but something sneakier. The kind of pain that sits in your bones like cold air and doesn’t leave when the heat kicks on. It’s there when you wake up in a bed that doesn’t smell like pine and aftershave and him. It’s there when your thumb hovers over his contact, then backs away. It’s there when you realize you haven’t told anyone, not really, what happened. 

Maybe because you still don’t know.

The cabin felt too quiet that night, like the walls knew something they weren’t saying. Every creak in the floorboards, every shift of snow off the roof, felt like accusation. You thought maybe they’d all found out—that someone had heard something, maybe Connor said something, passed it along. That the shame inside you had somehow stained the air.

But the next morning, Dom and Caleb wandered in, half-asleep and hungry, asking for pancakes like nothing had cracked. Like the world hadn’t changed while you were busy pretending it hadn’t.

So no, maybe you weren’t dealing with the fallout of them knowing.

You were just dealing with the weight of you knowing.

The final day passed gently, almost too gently, like the house was trying to apologize. The Burrows had left early—flight times and long drives. Connor and Nate didn’t stop by; maybe they’d already said their goodbyes to Dom the night before. Bridget was a ghost, vanishing with the same quiet pride she always carried, as if she’d never been there at all.

But it wasn’t that day that wrecked you.

It was the day after. And the one after that. And the next one, too.

Because the silence doesn’t hit all at once. It builds. It builds in the pauses between texts you don’t send, in the ache of rerunning the last thing he said to you. It builds when you walk past someone wearing his cologne and your body stiffens like a warning. When your Spotify shuffle dares to play a song that played in his truck that second night together.

Can it be heartbreak if it was never real? If there was no claim, no label, no promise?

You don’t know.

But it feels real enough. And so does the way his face won’t leave you alone—flickering behind your eyelids every time you close them, wearing that same expression he had when he walked out.

Not guilty. Not sorry. Just gone.

And that’s when it hits you, really hits you—what regret actually is.

It isn’t the moment you messed up. It’s every minute after. Every morning you wake up and wish you’d said something different, stayed a little longer, walked away a little sooner. It’s the echo of a choice you can’t undo, stretching itself across your days like shadow.

It doesn’t announce itself.

But it never leaves, either.

FEBRUARY

Loneliness wears red this month.

Not the pretty kind. Not the red of candy hearts and roses and lingerie and wine lips and declarations. A different red. The kind that pulses behind your eyes after too many nights of pretending everything meant nothing. The kind of red that coats the back of your throat when you say “I’m fine,” and it tastes like copper. You scroll past his name like it’s nothing. You put on mascara like it’s armor. You laugh when you need to. You bleed in private.

Valentine’s Day falls on a Thursday this year. You wake up late. The sky is gray and spitting snow. The girl across the hall is wearing heart-print pajama pants when you pass her in the bathroom, and someone’s taped a glittery construction paper heart to the inside of the elevator.

You go to class. You wear red. Not because you’re in the spirit of it—just because you like how it looks with your jacket. Someone hands out Hershey’s Kisses in your afternoon lecture. 

You say yes when Maggie invites you out that night. It’s a casual thing for all the lonely singles; beer pitchers, half-priced mozzarella sticks, a handful of people from your program talking about anything but love. Someone passes around a bag of candy hearts, you get one that says “CALL ME” and pretend to laugh.

It’s not a bad night.

When you’re walking home with Maggie, able to do so without feeling sorry for yourself. You unlock the apartment door and kick your shoes off, saying goodnight to Maggie as she rushes off to her room. You brush your teeth. You wash off the mascara. You almost feel normal.

Laying in bed, basking in the comfort of your plush pillows and blankets, you open your phone to do one last scroll for the day. Clicking through stories on Instagram, your mind goes blank as the face in front of you finally registers.

Bridget sits in front of her vanity mirror, dressed in red with a vase of red roses hidden off in the corner. The Steve Lacy song that plays over her picture is almost mocking: 

I haven’t seen you in a while, you know I miss you, babe

When you hear this song, feel flattered, it’s about your face

And how I miss it, and I wish that I could see it more

But you’re in college now, and—

You swipe out fast, mind spiraling before you can stop it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it’s just a song, it doesn’t mean anything.

But she looks like she’s loved. Like she’s celebrating. Like the red she’s wearing means something different entirely. And for one second, you wonder if the song was meant for someone. If it was meant for him.

You set your phone down, rolling to your side. You stare at the wall until your eyes adjust to the dark.

Loneliness wears red this month—for you.

But maybe for Bridget, it wears roses. Maybe it wears a pretty dress. Maybe it wears a smile.

You wonder what color red wears for Joe.

MARCH

Memory is not kind.

You don’t get to choose which parts come back. It’s never the softness. Never the way he held you in bed, palm warm against your back, or the way his laugh dipped low when you said something stupid just to make him smile. That’s not what lingers.

What lingers is the door swinging open. Her face—smudged, startled, trying not to cry. Lipstick blurred at the corners, mascara pooling like guilt. His expression, pale and unmoved. Like he didn’t expect to get caught. Like he didn’t care that he had.

That’s the part that loops. Over and over. Not the sound. Not the context. Just the image. That stillness. That nothingness. The moment before you turned around and left, and he didn’t call after you.

And the worst part is, sometimes you wonder what you would’ve done if he had.

Would you have stopped? Would you have listened? Would you have forgiven him?

You hate that you don’t know the answer. You hate that it even matters. You hate how long it’s taken to pull yourself out of the wreckage of someone who never actually said the words you built your world around.

Maybe Connor was right. Did Joe dictate your life?

No.

You won’t let him have all your memories.

So you start reaching for different ones. You think about the morning sunlight in your kitchen, the way it hits the counter just right when you’re making coffee. You think about Maggie, about how she once showed up with flowers and Red Vines after a shitty week, no questions asked. You think about how it felt to walk home from class with your headphones in, coat zipped to your chin, breathing in cold air and not feeling like you were suffocating.

You let yourself remember things that have nothing to do with him. You let yourself feel good in them.

You cook more. Dance around your apartment with a wooden spoon in one hand, music too loud. You call your brother and laugh until your face hurts. You read a book in one sitting, curled into the corner of your couch with coffee gone cold on the table beside you. You forget to check your phone sometimes. You remember to moisturize daily. You take a picture of the sky on your walk to class—not for anyone else. Just because it was pretty. Just because you wanted to remember.

You make space. Not always successfully. Not always gracefully. But you try.

And slowly, slower than you’d like, but steadier than you expect, something shifts.

The memory of the door still comes back. Her face, his silence. But now it’s just one memory.

Not the only one.

And maybe that’s what healing actually is. Not erasing him, just letting more exist.

APRIL

Healing is boring.

It’s not cinematic. It’s not loud. It’s slow and silent and filled with more questions than answers. You drink tea instead of texting him. You go to class. You wear headphones. You almost kiss someone at a party and spend the whole Uber home wondering if not doing so makes you a coward or just human. And when his name lights up your phone for the first time in months, your hands shake like he never left.

joe b: Do you ever miss me

You stare at it until the screen goes dim and you don’t respond. Not because you don’t know the answer, but because you do.

Later that week, Maggie and some other friends drag you out. Somewhere crowded and too warm, where the music pulses like a second heartbeat and everyone smells like sugar and sweat and spilled vodka cran.

You don’t want to be there. You’re wearing a dress you used to love but now feel strangely detached from, like it belongs to someone else. You sip something pink through a straw and nod when you’re supposed to, half-listening to Brynn explain how she’s finally cut things off with that guy from her 8AM.

You feel like you’re not standing in your own body.

And that’s when Jalen shows up.

You don’t notice him at first. He slides into the space beside you like it’s always been his, leaning against the bar, glancing sideways like he’s trying to decide whether you’re worth interrupting.

“You look like someone who hates it here,” he says finally, and it makes you laugh, just a little, more out of shock than amusement.

“I’m just...tired.”

“You and me both,” he says, taking a sip of something brown and overpriced. “This place feels like if Grown Ups was a club instead of a movie. Everyone’s thirty and sad and pretending it’s still funny.”

That makes you laugh for real. The first time all night.

You turn to look at him. Really look.

He’s tall, warm-eyed, loose-limbed. His mouth is a little too pretty, like it’s used to getting what it wants. He doesn’t look like someone trying to impress you. He looks like someone waiting for you to notice him.

And now you have.

You talk longer than you mean to. About nothing. About everything. His childhood dog. Your favorite cereal. The weirdness of getting older and not feeling like it. You don’t flirt. Not intentionally. But something starts sparking underneath the words. A closeness that wasn’t there before. The way his knee brushes yours and doesn’t move. The way he watches your mouth when you speak.

Eventually, Maggie reappears and tugs at your arm, mouthing we’re leaving over the bassline.

You nod and reach for your phone to check the time, but Jalen’s hand is already out.

“Here,” he says, taking it gently. His fingers graze your palm like they’ve been there before. He types something, saves it, and hands it back.

“Let me know if you ever need anything.” He says the words like he means more than a favor. Like he knows something about you you haven’t said out loud yet.

Jalen gives you a once over, really making sure you understand his message before finding his group of friends again. 

Maybe healing doesn’t need to be boring.

MAY

Some silences feel like punishment.

Not from him—though maybe partly. From the universe, maybe. From yourself. Because you were supposed to be over it by now, supposed to be fine, supposed to be laughing at brunch and flirting at bars and deleting the playlists you made in your mourning time without hesitation. But all it takes is someone saying the wrong thing in passing—Joe, Joey, Jalen, whatever, the quarterback—and you forget how to breathe for half a second. You twist up and can’t decide whether to curl into a ball or text him back.

You settle on going through your old messages instead. It starts as a reflex. Just something to check. Something to prove to yourself that you’re over it. That you can scroll through without feeling anything.

You pass by the one you never answered, the words that still haunt you some nights more than others: Do you miss me.

You scroll further, thumb moving slower the deeper you go.

Old messages. Fragments of flirtation. A photo of him on a hotel bed, shirtless and half-asleep, room service untouched in the background. One of you in your kitchen, grinning with a spoon in your mouth. Another—you’re in bed, cropped tight to your lips and collarbone. He’d sent a text that made your heart race after seeing it that first time. You’d pretended not to care.

But you remember exactly how it felt.

Your body does, too.

That slow, molten feeling creeps back in—uninvited but familiar. You shift onto your side. One hand under the pillow, the other slipping low. The screen glows beside you. You’re breathing heavier. You know where this is going and you don’t stop.

Not at first.

But then your eyes catch on a different text—something stupid. Something casual. A joke he made about one of his classes. And just like that, the heat flickers out.

You freeze, pulling your hand away like it betrayed you.

You stare up at the ceiling, chest tight, jaw clenched. You’re not turned on. You’re angry.

Because you wanted to forget and instead you let yourself want.

Again.

You lock your phone and roll to your back. You try to stop imagining what his hands would feel like now, whether he’s thinking of you too. Whether he knew you wouldn’t answer, and sent his message anyway.

You don’t cry. But you don’t sleep either.

JUNE

Desire makes fools of everyone.

It doesn’t matter that you know better. That you’ve played this game before, and lost. That the heat of June makes skin easier to forgive, and voices harder to trust. He walks in and the whole room tilts. 

Like when you were a kid, sitting in the backyard with Dom, each of you placing an ice cube at the top of the picnic table. Watching them melt in the sun, water pooling beneath them until they began to slide. Your parents would yell that you were ruining the wood, that the moisture would warp it, rot it—but you never listened. You watched, and you waited, held your breath as gravity took over.

That’s what this feels like now.

You sit still. You don’t move. You let the heat creep into your skin, let the weight shift in your chest, let the air change around you.

Because for one second, just one, you want to see if gravity still works the way you remember.

And when his eyes land on you, something inside you starts to slide.

It shouldn’t. Not after Tahoe. Not after everything. But your skin remembers. Your body remembers. And even though you break the gaze before it lasts too long, something in you still wants to see how far it’ll fall.

The kitchen’s quieter than the backyard—where someone’s yelling about the grill and Dom’s playlist keeps skipping. You offered to grab drinks mostly because it meant coming inside, away from all that sun. You open the fridge and start stacking bottles against your chest, balancing two sodas in your fingers, one water bottle pinched between your forearm and ribs. Not your best system.

The bathroom door opens just as you’re trying to nudge the fridge closed with your hip. You don’t turn, but you hear him step into the doorway.

“…Figures.”

“You say that like I planned it,” you murmur.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

That makes you pause. The weight of his words is heavier than the drinks you’re trying not to drop.

“Charming,” you say, shifting your grip. One of the sodas starts to slip.

One of the bottles wobbles, threatens to slip. You move to catch it, but his hand gets there first. He catches it without effort. 

Joe glances at the bottles, then at you. “You’re gonna drop all of these,” he says flatly.

“You think I don’t know that?”

He huffs, taking them from you one by one like he’s punishing you with helpfulness. You let him. Mostly because you don’t trust your voice if you keep holding eye contact.

When your arms are empty, you finally look at him. “You didn’t have to help.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to watch you make a mess.”

Your mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

He always did say things that made you want to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both.

“You’re still such an asshole.”

That gets him. Just a flicker of something across his face. Annoyance. Memory. Something else entirely.

He nods toward the counter. “You gotta get the last one though.” You reach for the stray bottle, already lukewarm from the heat. When you look up, Joe is already walking away.

Feeling embarrassed, you follow behind him and listen as everyone praises him for carrying all the drinks. You sit through the rest of the evening in a fog, tuning in and out of conversations. He never looks at you again, not that you catch. 

The worst part is that you keep hoping he will. Not for any reason that makes sense. Just to feel chosen in the smallest way. A glance, a flicker of attention. Something that tells you that moment in the kitchen meant more than what it looked like.

It’s not that you want him back. It’s just that wanting hasn’t stopped. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe that’s what keeps catching you off guard—how easily your body confuses recognition with permission. How familiar he still feels, even when he’s indifferent. Especially when he’s indifferent.

The next morning, when Maggie texts about a last-minute trip, you say yes before she even finishes asking. You don’t ask who else is going. You don’t care. Somewhere near the ocean. Somewhere that feels different. Somewhere he won’t be.

You pack like you’re in trouble—shoving things into your bag with no order, no plan. The kind of trip you say yes to just to escape the aftermath of something that doesn’t look like a mistake but still feels like one. You don’t want to be near him if all you’re going to do is hope he looks at you. If all you’re going to do is wait to feel that sick, slow heat under your skin again.

Because desire makes fools of everyone, and you’re not ready to be looked at like one. Not again.

JULY

Some people are best seen from a distance.

Like fireworks. Like wild animals. Like him. Too close and you get burned, or bitten, or worse—disappointed.

You don’t plan to talk to him. You don’t even plan to look at him. But the Fourth of July always blurs lines. It’s the sweat of bare shoulders and bug spray, the sound of glass bottles clinking and flip flops scraping across concrete. Too many people crammed into one backyard, the sun already sinking, turning every surface gold.

You’re leaning against the side of the house, halfway behind a hedge, pretending to scroll through something important. The popsicle in your hand is already dripping, syrupy red pooling along the curve of your thumb. You lick it before it can reach your wrist, tongue dragging slow along the stick. 

Your swimsuit is still damp beneath your jean shorts, clinging in places you’d rather not think about, and your hair is half-dry, curling wild in the humidity. You threw your Birks back on without adjusting the straps, and the soles are gritty from walking across the driveway barefoot.

You don’t know why you’re hiding. You’re not twelve. You’re not the kind of girl who corners herself at parties.

“Hey!” Dom calls out for you, voice carrying from the back porch. “Tell me you didn’t take the last cherry one.”

You glance up slowly, popsicle still resting against your mouth, and spot him through the hedge. He’s standing near the cooler, squinting against the light, shirt wrinkled, backwards cap tugged low. Joe is beside him, one shoulder propped against the rail, beer bottle in hand, half-listening until Dom points at you.

“There she is,” Dom says, mock betrayal thick in his voice. “Took the last one and disappeared.”

You raise your eyes in silent acknowledgment, about to offer something sarcastic back, but your mouth stalls when your eyes catch on Joe. 

He’s watching you.

Not glancing. Not bored or aimless or letting his eyes wander the way people do when they’re just passing time. He’s watching.

Chin slightly lowered, mouth slack, one hand wrapped around the neck of his bottle like he’s forgotten it’s there. The sun catches in the pale strands of his hair near his temple, and the shadow from his cap cuts clean across the top half of his face—but you still feel the weight of his stare. Your skin starts to burn from it. He’s looking at you like you’re interrupting something. Like you are something.

Your legs shift instinctively, adjusting your weight. Not because he’s staring. Because of how he is.

Slow. Unbothered. Bordering on emotionless except for the way his eyes drag down the column of your throat, over the scoop of your chest, to where you still have beading water drying down. 

You feel the sweat start to build behind your knees again. The popsicle in your hand drips noiselessly onto the dirt.

Dominic stops across the yard, jerking your attention away. “You really did take the last one?” he asks as he comes up beside you, mock scolding in his voice.

“Yup.”

He leans against the siding, forehead shiny from the July humidity. “You’re the worst.”

You shrug. “Should’ve gotten here earlier.”

Dom keeps talking—something about sparklers and the battery pack he left in your car. You nod along, but it’s like your hearing’s gone soft. Muffled like your brain’s still catching up.

You can feel Joe’s gaze like it left indents on you.

“Whatever,” Dom says finally, pushing away. “Just be ready to go by eight.” You hum in reply, eyes flicking once toward the porch. Joe hasn’t moved. Not until Dom disappears again, only then does he step down, one slow, measured step at a time.

The popsicle drips again. Sticky, cherry red tracing a slow line down the inside of your wrist. You feel it curl along the groove of bone, catch on the crease of your knuckle. Your fingers twitch slightly in response, and then you lift the stick to your mouth and lick it once, just to keep it from slipping further down.

His gaze moves like it’s walking a tightrope—starting at your mouth, tracing the popsicle, your fingers, the trail of juice that’s already dried sticky in a half-moon across your hand. It drops lower. Over the slope of your collarbone, the red bikini top that hugs our tits just right. Your damp shorts, open at the button. The space between your thighs.

You hold still, but not from confidence. It’s something more precarious than that—curiosity, maybe. Your mouth is too sweet. You can still taste the syrup, the artificial dye clinging to the roof of your mouth. It makes you suddenly aware of your tongue, the shape of your lips, the heat of the sun still trapped behind your knees. You think about your posture, your breath, how long your hand’s been hanging at your side. Too long.

You shift, just slightly, more weight to one leg, a quiet reset. His eyes come back to yours.

“You’re dripping.”

Your breath catches before you can stop it, a stutter in your chest, but you feel it everywhere. In your throat, in your spine, between your legs. Your eyes flick away and then back again, sharp with instinct, like you’ve just been accused of something.

He sees it. He sees everything.

And you know it because of the way he tilts his head, how the expression on his face changes. A half-beat of silence follows, stretched thin and unbearable. Not because of what he said. But because you both know what you thought he meant. 

He cocks his head again, almost amused.

Like: That’s where your mind went?

Like: You still want me that bad?

You feel heat bloom under your skin in an instant, slow and shameful, curling into your cheeks and collarbones. You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s nothing safe to say when your body has already spoken for you.

Joe wordlessly turns and walks away from you, leaving you hanging, yet again. Embarrassed, you turn and throw your half finished popsicle away, using a little more force than necessary when slamming the trash can shut. 

You swipe your wrist against your shorts, smearing the cherry into denim. It leaves a pink shadow above the seam. You stare at it for a beat longer than necessary, just to avoid looking up. Avoiding the realization that he’s gone. Just like that.

You don’t go near him again.

While everyone else filters toward the front yard, claiming coolers and towels and extra sweatshirts for later, you stick inside. And when you’re ushered out of the house by your parents, you stick close to the adults.

At eight, when Dominic yells your name from the driveway, you ask if there’s room anywhere other than the backseat of Joe’s truck.

“No?” he says, like it’s obvious. “Just get in.”

You hesitate, and maybe it's long enough for him to notice this time. Then you nod once, like it’s fine. Like it doesn’t matter. Like your legs haven’t gone hot and restless at the thought of climbing into that seat again.

Dom’s already sliding into the passenger side, fumbling with something in the glove compartment. You open the back door and duck in, keeping your knees close together, hand bracing against the doorframe. You sit carefully, knees angled toward the window, shoulder pressing into the cool glass. The seat is sun-warmed, sticky at the back of your thighs, and you remember too much. 

So you keep your distance.

For the rest of the night, you say only what you have to. You keep more space than necessary between your body and his, and between your thoughts and the temptation to fall back into whatever you used to be. 

You don’t look at him during the fireworks. You don’t sit near him at the bonfire. You don’t stay in the same room longer than necessary. It’s the safest route, probably the only route, before you get pulled even further into a person who’s made it clear he has little care for what happens after he gets his fix.

You stick to that choice through the rest of July.

Even when he shows up unannounced at your house two days later, standing in the kitchen with you while waiting for Dom. Even when you pass him in the hallway and pretend not to notice the way he smells, or how close his hand comes to brushing yours. Even when he stays late on nights you weren’t expecting him, lounging on the couch like he belongs.

There are moments, small ones, where you almost forget. Where you let your guard slip, just for a breath. But each time, you catch yourself and you remember why you won’t let him get close again.

Because Joe is the kind of person who looks better from across the room—where you can still pretend he’s everything you wanted him to be. Where the edges stay clean and the coldness doesn’t sting. Where you can admire the shape of him without feeling the sharpness.

Some people are safest when they’re just out of reach.

And he’s always been most beautiful just before he ruins you.

AUGUST

Discipline frays faster when the body remembers what the heart is trying to forget.

You held the line in July. You were careful, measured, distant. It worked… until now.

It’s not the heat that gets to you. It’s him in it.

Tan like he lives in the sun, hair longer than you’ve seen it, curls damp from the lake or the shower or the sweat at the nape of his neck. Shoulders loose, posture lazy, that half-lidded gaze he tosses around like he doesn’t know what it does to people. To you.

He looks like summer the way movies pretend summer looks—golden and a little wild, like rules don’t apply to him, nothing bad ever sticks. His shirt is off, like always. Swim trunks sit low on his nose, his wrist lay limp over the back of a lawn chair, laughing at something someone said.

You tell yourself not to look. You do anyway. You always do.

It doesn’t matter how careful you were in July. That kind of effort doesn’t hold when he’s tan and sweat-slicked and sprawled out, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose like gravity wants to give you a better view.

And maybe you were strong once. But strength doesn’t last where lust settles.

And lust, this month, is everywhere he is. Which is always too close, and never close enough.

You can only muster enough courage to watch his chest ripple with a boisterous laugh once more, feeling it bloom in your throat before it settles lower, and by the time your thighs draw tight you’re already standing.

Around you, no one notices. They’re sunk into that golden-hour haze, drunk on cheap beer and warm seltzer. It’s the last night before everyone scatters again—to separate towns, separate campuses, separate versions of themselves.

Your dress catches the breeze as you cross the yard, rising just enough to make you glance down, hands smoothing the fabric back into place.

The coolers are half-sunken in melting ice at the edge of the deck of someone’s house, you’re not even sure whose. You crouch and sift through the cans, fingertips brushing condensation, vaguely searching for a flavor that’s probably long gone. Strawberry. Lime. Tangerine. Your hand lingers near the bottom, searching.

Then the fabric tightens against your thighs, the hem of your dress is jerked back into place.

You shoot upright, ice clinking behind you, heart spiking. Turning, you can feel the warmth of him before your eyes really focus. His cheeks are flushed, whether from sun or alcohol or something else you don’t want to name. He looks down at you, head tilted, lips twitching.

“Do you need something?” you ask, more bite in it than you intended.

“Just being helpful,” he says. “You bend over like that, someone’s bound to see what color you got on under there.”

“No one—” you start, but he cuts in, smooth.

“Pink. Not bright. Kind of pale. Little lace at the top, maybe?” His eyes flick downward, hinting. “Real cute.”

Your face burns. The kind of heat that crawls up your neck and settles beneath your skin like a warning. You scoff, because you don’t know what else to do. Because it feels safer than admitting he’s right.

You push him, hand firm against his chest—not hard, but enough. Enough to clear a path and get away. The kitchen is a mess of red cups and empty bottles, someone's abandoned pizza boxes stacked on the counter. You open through the sliding door harder than necessary, the glass rattling in its frame.

The Kirkland vodka bottle sits half-empty next to a tower of solo cups, and you grab both with shaking hands. The pour is too generous, clear liquid sloshing near the half-way point, but you don't care. You tip it back and drink like it's water, like it might wash him away.

It burns. Good. You need something that burns worse than the humiliation crawling up your spine.

"Classy."

You freeze, cup still pressed to your lips. Of course he followed you. Of course he couldn't just let it go, couldn't let you have even this small moment of peace.

"Go away."

"Cute tantrum." His footsteps echo behind you. "Very mature."

You slam the cup down. "I'm not having a tantrum."

"No? What do you call storming off like that?"

"Smart." You turn around and immediately regret it. He's closer than you expected, and the sight of him makes your pulse spike. "Staying away from you."

"Funny. You never were good at that."

Heat flashes through you—anger and something worse. "Fuck you."

"Been there." His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second. "Done that."

Your face burns. "You're disgusting."

"And you're being a brat."

"A brat?" The word comes out strangled. "For what, not wanting you to announce my underwear to everyone?"

"I was helping." He takes another step closer. "But I guess you prefer the attention."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Bending over like that. Real innocent."

"I was getting a drink."

"Sure you were." That infuriating smirk tugs at his mouth. "Just happened to give everyone a perfect view."

"You're unbelievable."

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You turn away from him, hands fumbling with the empty cups on the counter, stacking them with shaking fingers just to have something to do. Anything to avoid looking at him, to pretend your pulse isn't racing.

Maybe if you ignore him, he'll leave. Maybe if you just focus on cleaning up this mess, he'll get bored and walk away. But then you feel him move closer. The heat of him at your back, the way the air shifts when he steps into your space.

His hand touches your calf first, barely there, fingertips trailing up the back of your leg with agonizing slowness. Your breath catches in your throat as his palm slides higher, pushing the fabric of your dress up with it, and every rational thought in your head evaporates.

"Tell me to stop." His voice is low, rough, spoken against the shell of your ear. 

But you can't. Your whole body is trembling, caught between the urge to run and the terrible, traitorous pull that's been eating at you all summer. It all brings you back to that night before Thanksgiving all those months ago, in the parking lot of some dingy bar but stuck completely in his orbit.

Your body remembers. It remembers the weight of his hands, the way he used to touch you like you were something precious and dangerous all at once. It remembers how he tasted, how he sounded when you made him lose control, how perfectly you fit against him in the dark.

"Don't," you whisper, but even you can hear how broken it sounds.

His hand slides higher, fingers splaying against your thigh, and you can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his breath on your neck, the familiar scent of him making your knees weak.

"Don't what?" His thumb traces a slow circle on your skin. "Don't touch you? Don't remind you?"

You can't answer, can barely breathe, because eight months of pretending you don't want him is finally catching up to you, and you're drowning in it.

His hand moves to grip your thigh fully, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and then he's turning you around. You let him, helpless to resist, until you're facing him with your back pressed against the counter and nowhere left to run.

He's so close you can see the flecks in his eyes, you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Close enough that when he breathes, you feel it. "I hate you," you whisper, but your voice cracks on the words.

"I know." His forehead drops to rest against yours. "But that doesn't change anything, does it?"

You should push him away. Should remind him about Bridget, about Tahoe, about all the reasons this can never work. Instead, you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt, holding on like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

One second you’re clinging to him like the floor might give out, and the next you’re backing into the hallway, his mouth finding your sweet skin with the kind of reckless urgency that makes everything else fall away.

He follows you blindly, hands on your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your back hits the wall outside the bathroom as he opens the door and nudges you inside.

The bathroom is small, dim, sterile in the way guest bathrooms always are, like no one’s supposed to see too much of themselves in the mirror. But you do. You catch a flash of your reflection as the door clicks shut, and it's dizzying. Kiss-bitten lips, wide eyes, dress askew. Him behind you, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror like this could be the last time and he’s trying to burn it into himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur, even as he crowds you from behind, fingers brushing the inside of your wrist before sliding up your arm.

“I know.” His breath is hot against the side of your neck. “Neither should you.”

You close your eyes when his hands settle on your hips. There’s a second of hesitation. One more second where either of you could stop this. Could walk away. Could pretend it was just a lapse, a mistake, another almost.

But then you feel his lips at your shoulder, the drag of his teeth, the low sound in his throat when you tilt your head to give him more, and that second is gone. Forgotten.

Your hands are at the hem of your dress before you can think, dragging the fabric up with shaking fingers. He helps, wordlessly, his hands replacing yours, pushing it higher until it bunches at your waist and your thighs are bare against the cold counter edge.

With maddening care, knuckles brushing the insides of your thighs. You watch his eyes light up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he drags your baby pink, lacy panties down like he wants to feel every inch of you on the way. The fabric peels away from your skin, damp and delicate, and he lets it fall to the tile without looking.

He lifts you onto the counter in one fluid motion, fingers digging into your thighs as he spreads them apart like your body still belongs to him. The marble is cold against your skin, but his mouth is hot, the contrast making you shudder as he sinks to his knees and pulls you to the edge.

His breath ghosts over you once before he presses in, as if he’s been starving for this. His tongue drags through your slick with unbearable slowness, savoring every inch like he wants to memorize the way you taste before the world takes this away again.

You gasp, head falling back against the mirror with a dull thud, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers knot in his hair. He groans when you tug, the sound vibrating through you, hips instinctively canting forward, chasing more.

He licks into you again, deeper this time, and when he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is hoarse. “I missed this.” His fingers flex on your thighs, pulling you open wider. “Fuck, I missed—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, sharp and breathless, the word slipping out before you can catch it.

His eyes flick up to yours, unreadable in a way that makes you second guess your words. Your chest heaves.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, softer now. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Something flickers across his face—hurt, anger, understanding. You don’t know. Maybe it’s all three, but he doesn’t argue back. Instead, he shoves your legs over his shoulders and buries his face between them like he’s punishing you for the lie.

It’s not slow anymore. Not gentle. His tongue moves with a rough insistence that makes your thighs shake, your breath come in ragged little gasps. His hands are locked tight around your thighs, holding you open and in place, the pads of his thumbs pressing bruisingly into your skin, dragging you against his mouth each time your hips try to lift.

Your fingers claw at the edge of the counter for something—anything—to hold onto that isn’t him.

All you can do is feel. The pressure building, winding tighter and tighter, his mouth relentless. He must be able to tell you’re close between the way your thighs are trembling around his head, your breath breaking apart in tiny whimpers, body so tight you feel like you might snap. One more flick of his tongue, one more second, and you’d fall.

But he pulls back.

Just like that—gone.

Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his mouth, but he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes unreadable and burning. It’s not satisfaction you see there. Not pride. It’s something sharper. Something that carves straight through you.

"Why—" you start, voice hoarse, but you stop yourself. Because you already know why.

Because you told him not to talk. Because you said it didn’t mean anything. Because even if your body begged otherwise, your words cut deeper than you meant them to.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, your chest still rising and falling like you’ve just been yanked from underwater. For a second, you think he’s going to leave. That this was about control, about proving something.

But then his hand drops to his waistband, pulling down in one firm motion. His cock is already pink and swollen, glistening at the tip from the precum that leaks down his length. He steps between your legs, and for a second, he just looks at you.

And it’s unbearable.

Your dress is still bunched high around your hips, panties discarded somewhere on the tile, your thighs wet from what he started and refused to finish.

His eyes drop to where you’re aching for more, and when he reaches between you and drags the tip of his cock through your folds, your whole body jolts. You feel the slick of it catch against his skin, hear the sharp inhale he can’t quite swallow.

"Still doesn’t mean anything?" he asks, voice rough, almost mean. But his hand trembles slightly where he grips himself, and that’s how you know, he’s not as composed as he pretends to be. Not even close.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when he pushes in, splitting you open with a stretch that knocks the breath from your lungs. You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, teeth biting down on the inside of your cheek just to keep from making the sound that wants to rip out of you. He fills you too perfectly, too easily because your body remembers him even when you tried to forget.

He hasn’t kissed you.

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours, and stays there—buried deep inside you, unmoving. The air is thick with the sound of your breathing, the way it catches and staggers and syncs. It feels like a countdown. Like the silence before the storm.

Then he pulls back, pushing in again with a choked breath.

And it’s not soft. Not sweet.

It’s all the things you never said. It’s the ache of wanting him every day since Tahoe and hating yourself for it. It’s the sting of seeing him with Bridget. It’s the guilt, the jealousy, the desperation, the need. His hips slam into yours, dragging you forward on each thrust like he’s trying to drive the memory of everyone else out of your skin. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, his mouth skimming your cheek, your jaw, but never your lips.

He still won’t kiss you.

You whisper his name once and his rhythm stutters, but he doesn’t stop.

He just fucks you harder.

And you let him. Because even if it’s not love—especially because it’s not love—it’s still the closest either of you have felt to something real in months.

SEPTEMBER

Shame has a rhythm.

It follows you through crosswalks and crowded hallways. It settles in the bottoms of coffee cups and the breath between text vibrations. It shows up when your roommate says, “You seem lighter lately,” and you smile like it's true.

You should not have let him touch you.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. That your body doesn’t miss him. That your heart is healed enough to not pick at that scab.

But then you find yourself lying in bed at night, replaying it in your head. Just once. But then maybe it’s twice. But is it really only twice if it's all that clouds your mind day by day?

“You sure you’re not feeling it?” Maggie’s voice filters in through the mirror, distorted by the haze of your own reflection. You nod anyway. 

Truth is, you were feeling it. For a second. It felt good to be somewhere loud and alive, to forget for a little while. But like clockwork, he crept in—soft-footed and cruel—until his name was curled around your ribs again, pressing from the inside. You hate how easily he gets in.

“Yeah,” you murmur, rifling through your purse until your fingers close around your phone. “I’m just gonna call an Uber. Head back.” She sighs, one of those deep, knowing ones, and nods without pushing. She always knows there’s more. You just never say it.

You push through the crowd together, the bar thick with sweat and too-sweet perfume and limbs that don’t know their boundaries. Maggie squeezes your arm in goodbye, yelling something about texting her when you get home. You nod again, already pulling away.

Outside, the air hits your skin like a slap. You lean against the brick wall of the building, opening the app. The screen loads slowly, painfully so, and then:

No drivers available.

You tilt your head back, eyes stinging. Of course. Of course.

Could you not catch a single goddamn break?

Other options flash through your mind. Bus, walk, call your parents—but they all shut themselves down. You're a broke college girl with parents who agreed to fund your safety, not your night life. We don’t care if you go out, just get home in one piece.

Sweet, in theory. Tonight it makes you want to scream.

You start walking.

Your boots slap the sidewalk with more anger than rhythm, muttering under your breath about Ubers, the price of gas, the way every man’s eyes seem to follow you just a beat too long. You throw in a curse for good measure—for the cold, for the ache in your feet, for the stupid, stupid boy eight-hundred miles away who still manages to ruin your night.

Tears sting again. You don’t wipe them away. You try to think of a movie. Something warm, something distracting.

What a Girl Wants? No, too wistful.

10 Things I Hate About You? Close. Too on the nose.

Grown Ups?

The title sits in your brain, stubborn. Familiar.

Oh.

Jalen.

The memory hits: lustful honey eyes, crooked smile, the echo of his voice—“Let me know if you ever need anything.”

You shouldn’t, but maybe you will. Blame the tears. Blame the night. Blame everything.

Your thumb finds his name before your brain catches up. You press call. It rings. Once. Twice. The voice that answers isn’t Jalen’s. It says your name—soft, surprised, a little hoarse.

You freeze.

This is not Jalen.

This is not Jalen.

This is not—

“Hey,” he says again, quieter. “You okay?”

Your throat closes. “Yeah. Wrong person.” You go to hang up. You almost do. 

“Wait.” Urgent, a little breathless like he knows. Like he felt you about to disappear. “Where are you?”

You roll your eyes, the burn of tears sharpening again. You bring the phone back to your ear, voice flat. “About eight hundred miles away from you.”

Joe lets out a short laugh and you can feel his eye roll through the phone. “No shit,” he mutters. There’s a shift in the background, the faint rustle of sheets. Was he in bed? On a Friday night? 

“You downtown?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You alone?”

The word sticks, but you let it out. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough for it to mean something. You hear the pull of breath through his teeth, like your answer displeases him. 

“You can hang up,” you offer quietly.

“I know I can.” Another shuffle. That sound again—cotton on cotton, something heavy creaking beneath him. Yeah. He was in bed. Probably still warm under the covers, one arm slung over his face, already regretting picking up.

Your eyes close for a second, the weight of everything creeping up your throat. That old shame curls tight around your chest. The kind that sinks into your skin and clings to your bones. Is this what the rest of your life is going to feel like? That sinking pit of regret you carry just for sleeping with Joe Burrow?

You don’t even remember how the conversation turned. He’s asking something again, why you’re alone, maybe, and it drags you back from the tide of your own thoughts.

“I wanted to leave, so I left,” you say, and your voice is steadier than it should be.

He hums, a noncommittal sound that makes your stomach twist. “You almost home?”

It hits you wrong. You don’t know why, but it does. Something in the way he asks it, like he’s just checking a box. Like he’s waiting for the right moment to hang up.

You swallow hard. “Goodnight, Joe. Sorry for bothering you.”

You move to end the call but his voice cuts through, harsher than before. “Can you fucking stop?”

It startles you, makes your hand jerk back from the screen. You stare at the phone like it’s betrayed you.

“What?”

He exhales—aggravated and heavy. “How far are you from your place?”

You glance down the road. Your building is in sight, a little washed-out box beneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp. “Not far.”

Silence drags again. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know what you’re thinking. 

“Who were you trying to call?” he asks eventually.

You hesitate. The answer’s right there, ready to spit out like venom. But instead, you say it plainly. “Someone I met last year. Said to call if I ever needed anything.”

You step through the front door, the musty lobby swallowing the noise of the street behind you. The elevator groans when you press the button, that familiar mechanical cough echoing like it’s about to give out.

He doesn’t say anything at first. You glance at your screen just to make sure the call’s still connected.

It is.

Then his voice rumbles back through the speaker, lower now, like he’s sitting up straighter. Like the question costs him something.

“What’d you need?”

The words catch you off guard. Your breath hitches before you can stop it, and your body betrays you completely—knees softening, warmth pooling low. You hate that he still does this to you, with nothing but his voice.

You lick your lips, lean back against the elevator wall, and let the bitterness curl around your next sentence.

“Nothing that concerns you,” you snap, fingers tightening around your phone as you step into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you.

There’s a pause, and then his voice comes through, quieter now, but edged with something sharper, cool amusement that wraps around your spine.

“That right?” he murmurs. “Didn’t sound like nothing a second ago.”

You can hear it in his tone, the way it slants downward—dangerous, suggestive, just shy of mocking. Like he’s picturing you. Like he’s already figured out the angle of your hips and the heat in your voice.

You toss your keys on the counter, letting the silence stretch, then ask like you’re bored, like this is nothing: “What did it sound like, then?”

“Sounded like a girl who was two seconds from begging.”

Your jaw tightens. You sink down onto the edge of your bed, the phone still pressed to your ear. “You think everything’s about you.”

“Only when you make it that way.”

He sounds tired. And a little smug. And a lot like someone who’s spent the last few weeks trying to forget how your skin feels under his hands and failing. You shift, thighs tightening together. There’s no point lying anymore. Not when your body’s already moved ahead of your mind.

He exhales, the sound grating, like he’s rubbing a hand over his jaw. You can picture him pacing, shirtless in whatever shitty Baton Rouge apartment he calls home now, hair mussed, boxer waistband rolled down from where he dragged a hand under it but didn’t follow through.

“You touching yourself?”

The question hits hard. Not crude—just honest. Familiar in a way that’s worse than filthy.

You don’t answer right away. You slide your hand down your stomach, the cotton of your panties is already damp, sticking to you.

“I could be,” you murmur. You can hear him suck in a breath. Then nothing. You imagine him gripping the phone harder, refusing to speak. Refusing to give you that. “I didn’t mean to call you,” you add, softer now. “But then I heard your voice and…”

You trail off. Let him fill in the rest. “You drunk?” he asks finally.

“A little.”

“Figures.”

“Does it matter?” You drag your fingers lower, past the waistband. “If I’m the one doing it?”

The silence that follows is long enough to sting—and maybe that’s the point. When his voice returns, it’s quieter, but sharp.

"It does if I have to hear it."

You press your thighs together like that will help. "No one asked you to stay on the phone."

"You called me. Remember?"

"And you picked up."

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Stupid decision.”

But he doesn’t hang up.

You shift against the sheets, one hand still resting low, just barely applying pressure. The room feels warmer now. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the voice in your ear. You don’t know why he hasn’t hung up. Maybe he wants to hear you fall apart. Maybe he wants to punish himself for still wanting to.

You let your fingers slide lower, tracing over yourself lightly, just enough to tease. Just enough to make your stomach pull tight.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” you ask.

Another pause. Then—

“You gonna tell me what you’re doing?”

His voice is lower now, not softer, but heavier. Like it’s dragging something with it.

You don’t answer, not right away. You breathe, slow and deliberate, pressing down harder with your fingers until your hips lift slightly into the touch. The friction isn’t enough. Not yet. But it’s starting to pull something out of you. Something slow and burning.

“I’m thinking about your hand,” you say eventually, almost to yourself. “How it felt the last time. How deep you got. How easy it was.”

He groans, sharp and quiet, and you can picture him now—flat on his back, knuckles white around the phone, trying not to touch himself but failing.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in it.

“No,” you whisper. “You just make it really hard to forget.”

You hear him shift—fabric scraping, a breath sucked through his teeth.

You press the phone between your cheek and shoulder, lifting your hips quick, one hand slipping beneath the waistband. The fabric drags over your thighs, past your knees, and hits the floor softly.

The air against your skin is just sharp enough to make you flinch. “Joe,” you say, just loud enough. “That sound you just heard? That was me being helpful.”

He breathes hard, like that alone costs him.

“You can touch yourself,” he says, “but you don’t finish until I say.”

His words echo through your head. You obey, fingers slipping back down, sliding between wetness and pressure and the memory of what he used to do better than anyone else ever tried to.

You keep your eyes closed. Pretend it’s his hand. Let it feel like that.

“I bet you’re soaked,” he murmurs.

You hum, a sound low in your throat, your back arching into the motion. “Wish you could see.”

“I do too.”

He sounds almost disappointed, like this wasn’t the plan, like none of this was, and he’s just riding it out the same way you are.

“Joe?”

“Mm.”

“Do you still look at those pictures I sent you?”

The question slips out quieter than you meant it to. Almost an afterthought. But not really.

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence that follows is taut, intimate in the way only silence like this can be. You know him. Know that delay means he’s considering whether to lie.

You circle your clit slower, lighter, letting the stillness thicken in your bedroom while you wait.

“Sometimes.”

It hits harder than yes.

“Late at night,” he adds, voice rougher now, like the words drag up something in him he didn’t want to offer. “When it’s too quiet. When I’ve had a shit day. Or a good one, doesn’t matter. I see your name in my head and I—I look.”

Your breath hitches. The rhythm of your fingers falters for a second before picking up again.

“I think about how you looked that last night,” he murmurs. “In the bathroom. When you had your legs all spread for me, you were dripping for me. But then you told me not to talk. Said it didn’t mean anything.”

Your whole body flinches like he touched you.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whisper, but it sounds more like breath than admission.

“I know,” he says. “But you said it anyway.”

You press your palm harder, try to drown it out with sensation, with pressure, with the way your thighs are already trembling. But the memory won’t let go. Him on his back, your hands on his chest. His mouth silent beneath you. His eyes not.

You’re wetter now. Messier. The slick sounds echo faintly in your bedroom and you wonder if he can hear them, if he’s picturing it—your fingers sliding over skin in the same way his once did.

“Are you touching yourself?” you ask, trying to redirect, to shift the weight of whatever just cracked open between you.

He breathes out, short and low. “Yeah.”

The sound you make in response isn’t quite a moan. It’s something needier than that. “Tell me how,” you whisper. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

You can hear the faint shift of fabric, the subtle friction of skin. He’s quiet for a moment, maybe working through how much he wants to give you, maybe too far gone to hold anything back.

“Got my hand on my cock,” he mutters finally. You can tell he’s holding back, maybe he’s scolding himself for already reaching this point. “Been hard since you started talking.”

Your stomach pulls tight. Heat creeps up the back of your neck. You picture him clearly—sprawled somewhere dark, one hand wrapped around himself, jaw clenched. Hair mussed. Eyes closed like he’s trying not to see your face but can’t help it.

You bite your lip and press your fingers down again, sliding through the slick at your center. It’s almost too much now, every nerve raw and waiting.

“You trying to come?” you ask, not quite steady.

“I’m trying not to,” he says. “But you make it impossible.”

You breathe in through your nose, shaky. “You did this too,” you say. “You didn’t hang up.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You arch your hips, just a little, and your fingers catch that perfect spot—pleasure meeting need in a way that makes your breath stutter out. You shift your weight on the bed, angling deeper. The sound you make is half-moan, half-exhale.

It feels good, yes, but it also doesn’t. Not really. Not in the way it should. Because it's not his hand. It’s not the way he touches you—slow at first, then greedy, like he’s owed every inch of you and plans to take his time collecting. Your fingers are just fingers. His were something else. You burn with it. That sharp, aching, hollow feeling of want that only ever follows the wrong version of closeness.

“Joe—”

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, voice strained.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because it hurts to say it. Your fingers don’t stop. They can’t. You’re too far gone now, teetering at the edge—but this slips out anyway, softer than you meant it to.

“It doesn’t feel the same,” you whisper.

He exhales hard. You can hear him falter, hear the grip he has on himself weaken. You sink your fingers deeper, try to chase what’s building, even as the words tumble out, cracked and breathless.

“It should feel good, it—does, I guess. But it still hurts.”

Your voice shakes. You hate that it does.

“Because it’s not you.”

There’s silence on the other end, thick and loaded. You can picture him frozen, his hand maybe still, his jaw locked. You imagine his chest rising too fast, his eyes closing like they always did when things got too real.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I know.”

And that ruins you more than anything else.

The confirmation. The knowing. That he feels it too. That he’s still buried in all the same places you are, and neither of you can do a thing about it except this—except moan into a phone line and pretend it matters.

Your fingers don’t stop. They move faster now, chasing something you don’t want to name. It builds low in your stomach, deeper than before, more painful somehow. Like it’s not just your body tightening—it’s everything else. Every breath you ever took with him in it.

“I hate you for this,” you whisper, not expecting him to answer.

But he does.

“I hate me too.” He swallows. “You can come now, baby.” 

Your orgasm comes sharp, deep, curling in on itself. It doesn’t explode; it implodes, drawing every sound and breath and thought into that one unbearable second where nothing is real except the pain of needing him and the fact that he’s not there. Your back arches. A broken moan claws out of your throat. You choke on his name. It tastes like blood and memory.

You go still. Just for a second, and then you realize he’s still breathing, heavy. Shaky. You hear the slick sound of his hand moving faster now, more frantic, like the sound of you finishing distorted him the way he knew it would.

And you hate yourself for waiting to hear it, you should hang up.

You lie there, eyes shut, hand still caught between your legs, sticky with proof of something that shouldn’t have happened. Your mouth is dry. Your heart is hammering.

Then, through the speaker—so faint you barely catch it:

“Fuck. Fuck—fuck.”

You’ve heard it before. Felt it in your skin, your jaw, your hips. You know that sound like the back of your hand. It crashes through the line like thunder and you feel it everywhere.

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The air hums with breath and static and tension.

“I think about the pictures,” he says then, slower now. “But not the ones you sent.”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“I think about the ones I never took,” he says. “You under me. That shirt of mine you always slept in at Tahoe. No makeup, hair a mess. You used to look at me like I was it. That’s what I see.”

Something about that unravels you, makes your chest cave in and your throat burn.

And then, like you always do when the high fades and the shame creeps in, you run.

Only then do you hang up.

OCTOBER

Jealousy wears a crown in October.

It drips down Joe's back, lazy and regal, settles to him like it belongs there. He watches your Halloweekend stories through a cracked screen, thumb hovering, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You're dressed as something slutty and ironic—he doesn't even know what, exactly. All he knows is that your skirt barely covers the curve of your ass, your smile is sharp and wine-drunk, your eyes glassy under purple club lights. And some guy's hand is resting on your waist in the mirror picture you reposted, fingers splayed like he owns that piece of you.

His face is half out of frame, but that smug tilt of his jaw is enough to make Joe want to hurl his phone across his shitty apartment.

You look happy. You look free. You look like you've forgotten all about him.

And maybe you have. Maybe you should.

But he still taps through every frame like a man starved, rewatching the same five-second clip of you dancing until his screen burns the image behind his eyelids.

You always were good at pretending.

There's glitter dusted across your collarbones and fake blood streaked down your thigh, and Joe doesn't know if he wants to text you or block you. Doesn't know if he wants to book a flight to Cincinnati just to prove you still go breathless when you see him.

But there it is, out there for anyone. For whoever that guy is, grinning at you like he doesn't know he's standing in Joe's grave.

He shouldn't care. But he does. He cares so much it makes him physically sick, bile rising in his throat as he watches some stranger's hand rest where his could.

Because it's not just jealousy—it's grief. Grief dressed up like ego. Wrapped in what-ifs and laced with things he won't admit, even to himself.

He's tried to convince himself you didn't mean anything. That Tahoe was just lust and bad timing. That Thanksgiving was a fluke born from loneliness and too much alcohol. That none of it ever had a real chance. But every lie tastes worse than the last, because he remembers exactly what it felt like the first time you kissed him in that dark parking lot.

How it felt less like a surprise and more like finally.

The wanting had been there for years, buried under friendship and circumstance. Best friend's sister. Too awkward at first, then too off-limits after. So he forgot it and told himself it was just proximity, just familiarity. When things finally turned physical, he convinced himself that was enough. That having you in any way was better than not having you at all.

But then Tahoe happened. You laughed at his terrible jokes. Fell asleep curled against his chest. Looked at him in those quiet moments like maybe he was worth keeping, worth more than just stolen kisses and a quick fix. And he let himself hope for something he'd never dared to want: not just your body, but you.

You were in his lap in the back of his truck, breathless and desperate. You were sprawled beneath him in bed, saying his name like a prayer. You were whispering dirty things over the phone that made his blood run hot and his chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to love.

But then Connor appeared in that hallway at Tahoe, looking at you with those knowing eyes, and Joe saw the panic flash across your face. Saw how quickly you pulled away, how desperately you wanted to hide what was happening between you. How easily you made him feel like a dirty secret you couldn't afford to keep.

And Joe, jealous and spiteful and suddenly seventeen again in the worst way, did the one thing guaranteed to make it all worse.

Walking into that guest room with Bridget was like a dare he was making with himself. Let her kiss him though it felt like betrayal from the first brush of her lips. Let her hands roam over him though every touch felt wrong, foreign, like his skin belonged to someone else.

It wasn't about wanting her. It was about punishment—for him, for you, for the hope he'd been stupid enough to feel.

Sleeping with her was supposed to prove he didn't care. That he could move on. That whatever the hell had happened between you two didn't matter as much as it felt like it did.

All it did was light the match to everything he actually wanted.

Walking out of that room, seeing your face—the way it crumpled before you turned away—he knew he'd put the final nail in his own coffin. There was no fixing it by explaining how empty it felt, how he'd barely been present for any of it. Couldn't tell you he'd been picturing your face the whole time, your hands, your voice saying his name. That every sound Bridget made felt like a lie his body was telling. That he'd wanted to crawl out of his skin the second it was over.

You were gone in seconds, and part of him stayed frozen in that moment forever.

He could have followed you. Could have called, texted, shown up at your door with the explanation burning in his throat. But that would mean admitting he'd been trying to forget you and failed spectacularly. Would mean confessing that every touch with Bridget was just him trying to prove he didn't need you, only to discover he needed you more than breathing.

So he swallowed his pride and told himself time would fix it. That eventually this ache would fade into something manageable, that wanting someone who didn't want him back was just another phase he'd outgrow.

The semester was hell.

He told himself the distance was good. Better not to see your face, better not to be reminded of how badly he'd fucked it all up. But silence has a way of growing teeth when you're already bleeding, and the absence of you wasn't quiet—it was deafening. It filled every corner of his apartment in Baton Rouge. Followed him to practice, to class, to bed. Made him dream about apologies he didn't know how to make.

By April, drunk and stupid and tired of carrying the weight of it alone, he finally cracked. Typed the words he'd written and deleted a hundred times:

Do you ever miss me?

You didn't answer, but it felt good to finally let the words go.

Summer brought him back to Ohio, and with it, hope he didn't want to feel. He started looking for your car in driveways. Felt lighter when your laugh carried across a crowded backyard. Died a little every time you looked through him like he wasn't there.

But then he started noticing other things. How your eyes would linger on him just a beat too long to be casual. How your breath would stutter when he walked into a room. How you'd disappear the moment it was just the two of you, like you didn't trust yourself alone with him.

You were still in it. Just like him.

August proved it.

All that tension finally snapped. Mouths on skin, desperate and angry and everything he'd been dreaming about. Hands fumbling with the urgency of people who don't know how to say I miss you any other way. The way you felt around him was like coming home and falling apart all at once.

For those stolen moments, he thought maybe this was it. Maybe you'd finally opened the door to let him back in.

But then you looked at him like he was a mistake you didn't want to make again. Snapped at him with words that cut deep, made it clear you were still trapped in Tahoe. He wanted to scream, to tell you it didn't mean anything, that you were the only thing that ever did.

But he didn't. He just watched you walk away. Again.

In September, when you called him—accidentally, you said, trying to reach someone else—he let himself believe it anyway. Maybe you'd changed your mind.

It was stupid. But he stayed on the line, letting the sound of your breathing lull him into old rhythms. He let the silence between your words feel like forgiveness because it felt right again.

Now it's October, and you're posting pictures with fake blood on your thighs and someone else's hand on your waist, and Joe realizes he still hasn't learned how to let you go.

He tells himself you were always meant to be temporary. A moment. A mistake. A lesson in wanting things he couldn't have.

He tells himself you were just lonely, and maybe he was too. That it wasn't about him specifically. That it was never real.

But then he sees you, even through a phone screen, even with glitter in your hair and someone else's fingers on your skin, and his heart beats so loud he forgets how to lie to himself.

You are real.

And he's still completely fucked.

NOVEMBER

Longing is quieter when the leaves start to fall.

It doesn’t thrash. It doesn’t scream. It curls into you instead—slow and soft like the corner of a blanket tucked too tight, pressing into your skin just enough to leave a mark. It moves through the day like breath, like static. You don’t notice it until your fingers still halfway through folding laundry, or your eyes blur at the end of a text you’ve read four times over.

And the worst part is how welcome it feels.

How easy it is to fall back into the thoughts you swore you were done having. The versions of things that never happened. The moments you could’ve changed, if you had just paid better attention. If you’d known what to listen for.

You pull away from them like you would from a hot stove—fast, instinctive, ashamed of the reflex.

But they always find a way back.

Because there’s a particular cruelty to this time of year, when everything is winding down and you’re still wound too tight. When the air smells like memory and the sky keeps offering the illusion of softness. When even your body betrays you by remembering what it once wanted. What it once had.

Thanksgiving without him feels like trying to breathe through gauze.

Dominic mentioned it over dinner—casual, like it wasn’t supposed to sting. Joe’s staying at LSU this year, something about keeping focus, getting ahead on training. Dom said it like it made sense. Like Joe had always been the type to choose football over family.

But you know better.

You know it’s because of you.

The realization hits you low in the stomach, leaving behind guilt, but also something dangerously close to relief. Because if he’s avoiding you, it means he’s still thinking about you. 

It doesn't help that Dan and Jamie couldn’t make it either. Dan’s in Chicago with Carrie’s family. Jamie’s stuck at the office, buried under some end-of-year deadline. The Burrow side of the table feels decimated, just Jimmy and Robin, smiling too much, trying to fill the space where their boys should be.

You catch Robin’s eyes going soft when she glances at the empty chairs. See how Jimmy’s laugh comes out too fast, too thin, when your dad tells the same joke he’s been telling since 2002. Everyone’s pretending not to notice that something’s missing.

And you’re pretending not to notice that it’s your fault.

If you hadn’t played your part in wrecking everything, Joe would be here. Robin would be laughing, dabbing her eyes at some stupid story. Jimmy would be yelling about the Lions. Dom wouldn’t be so eerily quiet beside you, stabbing his green beans like they wronged him personally.

Later, when the dishes are done and your family is passed out in front of a game no one’s actually watching, you slip outside. Wine in hand. Coat forgotten. Just the cold and your silence for company.

The wind is chilling, November at its meanest, but you don’t go back inside.

Your phone buzzes—some guy from class asking about drinks tomorrow—and you delete the message without opening it. No one else’s voice makes your pulse skip. No one else knows how to touch you in the ways you pretend you don’t miss. No one else ever looked at you like you were worth the risk of ruining everything.

The wine makes you bold. Or stupid. Or honest.

You scroll to the thread that hasn’t lit up since April. His last message is still there, waiting like it knew you’d come back eventually.

Do you ever miss me?

You hadn’t answered. Not because you didn’t want to, but because the wanting hurt too much. Because the question felt like a trap, like a door creaking open you weren’t sure you were allowed to walk through.

Your thumb hovers. There are a thousand things you could say. You’ve drafted them all in your head; lines about timing, about mistakes, about how badly you wanted to say yes but couldn’t.

But in the end, the truth is smaller than all of that. 

you: sometimes.

You hit send and you hate how immediately your chest tightens with hope. How quickly your eyes flick back to the screen.

Because deep down, you know: No matter how far you try to push it down, you’re still that girl who would’ve chosen him. Every time.

DECEMBER

Ambiguity sits easier than it should.

You don't feel good, exactly. But you don't feel ruined either. There's something strange in your chest now—not quite the crushing weight of before, but not emptiness either. You imagine it's like soot after a fire that didn't take the whole house. It's in your breath, your bloodstream, the backs of your knees. A hum that doesn't hurt the way it used to, just reminds you of everything that was, like smoke clinging to fabric long after the cigarette is stubbed out.

For two weeks, for the first time in close to a year, you aren't stuck in emotional turmoil.

Well. That's a lie, and your body knows it even when your mind tries to pretend otherwise.

You are. The restless anxiety still pulses beneath your skin some nights, different now but familiar in its relentlessness. Your fingers still search for something to hold when conversation lulls—a pen, the edge of your sleeve, anything to fill the space where certainty used to live.

Just, maybe not the same sort of turmoil. The kind that used to send you spiraling into frantic, desperate acts of self-destruction has mellowed into something you can almost manage, like learning to walk with a limp instead of crawling.

The first text came the morning after Thanksgiving.

Good morning.

You'd stared at it for twenty minutes, your heart doing that complicated dance between hope and self-preservation, fingers hovering over the keyboard like you were defusing a bomb. The simple act of typing back felt monumental, each letter a small act of faith.

morning

From there, it's been careful. Tentative. Like two people learning to walk on ice that might crack at any moment, every step deliberate and measured. He sends you funny videos sometimes. Memes that make you laugh despite yourself, the sound startling in your quiet apartment. You send him pictures of your coffee when it's particularly terrible, complaints about your professor who assigns last minute papers. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of conversation that feels like putting on clothes that used to fit perfectly but now hang slightly wrong.

joe b: This smoothie place spelled my name jow

you: honestly an improvement

joe b: 😕

you: could’ve been worse

you: joey

joe b: Stop while you’re ahead

It's become some unspoken rule between you and Joe; no one mentions Tahoe, no one mentions where it all fell sour. The silence around it has weight, sits heavy in your throat like words you've swallowed too many times.

joe b: You ever finish that paper?

you: barely. used the same paragraph twice

joe b: That’s called resourcefulness 

joe b: Proud of you

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

joe b: Someone walked past me wearing that perfume you used to wear

you: which one?

joe b: The vanilla one

you: lol that doesn’t narrow it down

you: i’ve got like five versions of vanilla

joe b: Nahhhhh it was yours tho

joe b: Knew it straight away

You don't know how to name what's left. There's no label for this, whatever it may be. The rhythm of almost-healing feels fragile as moth wings. The dull throb of things not being broken enough to hurt in that sharp, immediate way, but not whole enough to forget the ache. You sleep better. But not well—still wake sometimes in that liminal space between dreams and memory, your chest tight with the ghost of things unsaid. You feel more like yourself. But not quite. More like who you're trying to become, which is terrifying in its own way.

There are still landmines everywhere, buried just beneath the surface of every exchange. He mentions practice, and suddenly your skin remembers his hands on your waist, the phantom touch sending heat crawling up your neck. You tell him about work, and he asks if you're still at that apartment downtown, and you both know he's remembering that call in September, the weight of everything that went wrong hanging in the digital space between you. The subtext lives in every conversation, humming underneath it all like tinnitus—constant, inescapable, a reminder of damage done.

But it's manageable. This thing you're doing. This careful friendship built on the bones of everything you're not talking about. Some days the effort of it exhausts you in the same way quitting smoking did—that constant vigilance against your own instincts, the deliberate choice to be different than you want to be.

Some days you almost forget why you were so afraid to text him back in the first place. Those are the dangerous days, when the scar tissue feels strong enough to bear weight.

In the library, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like trapped insects, you're scrolling through Instagram, trying to catch more stories people post for Joe's birthday. The screen's blue glow makes your eyes water, or maybe that's something else entirely. You'd already texted him this morning, a simple happy birthday with a cake emoji that felt safe enough. He'd sent back a smiley face and a thank you, and that was that. Clean. Uncomplicated. The kind of interaction that doesn't leave you bleeding.

The notification slides down from the top of your screen, interrupting your scrolling.

joe b: so I know this is random but we play Oklahoma in a couple weeks. The 28th. Big game and all that. Was wondering if you'd maybe want to come? Could be like a birthday present or something lol

Your heart does something complicated—not quite the violent thrashing it used to do, but a stuttering rhythm that reminds you why you learned to be careful in the first place. This would be crossing a line. Moving from safe texts into something that looks suspiciously like real life, with all its messy, uncontrollable variables.

But maybe you're ready for that. Maybe two weeks of easy conversation has healed something you didn't know was broken, the way a bone mends stronger in the place it breaks.

You're about to swipe up to respond when the story timer runs out and automatically flips to the next one.

Two kids bundled up in snow gear, arms thrown around each other like they own the world. Joe's gap-toothed grin. Bridget's pigtails poking out from under a knit hat. Years old, but posted today. The image hits you like a physical blow, air rushing out of your lungs in a way that's becoming familiar again.

The caption makes your stomach drop, that sickening lurch of free fall: happy birthday burrrrow 🎂 can't wait to c u

You stare at the screen until your eyes water, the letters blurring together like looking through tears or smoke.

Can't wait to see you.

Present tense. Future plans. 

The careful balance you've built these past two weeks suddenly feels impossibly fragile. You've been trying so hard to convince yourself you didn't need an explanation. That you could heal around the wound instead of cleaning it out.

Maybe some things are meant to stay broken. Maybe pretending otherwise is just another kind of lie you tell yourself.

Your phone buzzes again, the vibration sharp against the table.

joe b: Is that a yes??

The eagerness in his message makes you want to do something impulsive. Destructive. Watch something shatter against the library wall just to hear it break like everything suddenly did.

Because this is the thing about almost-healing: it only works if you don't look too closely at what's still broken underneath.

You delete the text thread without responding, hands shaking as you hold down his name. All of it disappears—the late night texts, the careful small talk, the invitation that made your chest flutter with a stupid pipe dream.

It vanishes in seconds, all of it, like it was never there to begin with.

[393416]

Connor Bedard and Fraser Minten; through the years - a primer

before we get into it i wanna say that @tor16 and i have been working on this primer and compiling as much as we could over the course of a couple months so we could have everything in one place. we tried our best to link our sources to everything also to double as an archive for them. ok thats it thank you go nuts!

Connor Bedard and Fraser Minten met in the spring of 2017. Fraser was 13 Connor was 12. 

“First time meeting Connor (around spring 2017) I was 13 and I remember he came out to a skate with my spring hockey team,” Minten told the Tribune in a text conversation. “Everyone was young at that age and didn’t really pay attention to who’s who or what’s really happening. Just go out on the ice and have a blast with your friends. So Connor was just another body. But I distinctly remember, right away we were doing this 1-on-1 battle drill out of the corner, and Connor went up against our best player, first rep, and the way he was able to stick-handle around him and then finish it off was insane. He made our best player look silly.”

Fraser studied his shot and stick-handling the entire time they practiced.

“The creative plays he was making just didn’t happen at that age. I would try and shoot as quick as him in my rep and the puck would barely get off the ice.”

He mentioned seeing Connor out on the ice with NHL players like Ryan Nugent-Hopkins and Matthew Barzal and thinking he was “just as good if not better than them.” 

"He was shooting the puck just as good if not better than those guys. And that was probably when I realized it was pretty world-class, that release."

Fraser has talked a lot about noticing how skilled Connor was even when they were still so young, how he always expected to see him succeed. 

“I ended up on the ice with him a lot over the next spring/summer as I started going to the North Shore winter club … and every day (my friends and I) would go there, Connor would be on the ice. It seemed that he was always there before we arrived and was still on the ice as we were leaving. Whether it be specifically practicing one-timers, doing shootouts for hours or just gliding around flicking pucks around, talking about different scenarios, he just simply loved being on the ice and playing around and the joy he got from it seemed inexhaustible. By the time I got to play with him for the first time the following year at West Van, I was not surprised at all at the level he was playing at. I’d seen him make goalies years older than him look like sieves, scoring crazy releases that kids that age didn’t even think about. He knew how to get defenders to put their stick exactly where he needed them and then slip it under, go around them and the puck was through the goalie’s five-hole before they had even set for the shot.”

The next year they were teammates for West Van Warriors and became good friends. 

“He never treated you like he was way better than you, even though he was, and wouldn’t get frustrated with you when you would make mistakes. This made it really easy to learn from him and made playing with him so much fun.” 

According to their coach, Minten learned a lot from playing with him. 

“He identified he had one of the best shooters on the planet in Connor Bedard on his team. He said, ‘I’m going to have the courage to stay as close to Connor in shooting practice as I can’.”

Some pictures of them from their West Van era (both from Minten’s instagram)

This would pay off, because the two of them led the team in shooting percentage that year.

Their stats during their time playing together.

You can see them playing together here, Connor is wearing #98 and Fraser is #16. 

Connor was given exceptional status to play in the WHL despite being a year younger, he was drafted to the Regina Pats and Minten was drafted to the Kamloops Blazers. Despite no longer being teammates, they still kept in touch and remained friends. 

Minten was asked about Connor Bedard before he was set out to play against him in the Regina vs Blazers game in Kamloops.

“Yeah he’s one of my good friends back home, great guy, excited to play against him.” Q: Have you talked to him about what it’s like to go through this media frenzy? “No, I haven’t really talked to him about it. I’m sure he’d rather just not hear about it for once. I think it’s pretty crazy for him, it probably feels a little surreal at times–he’s just trying to play hockey and have some fun and he gets a lot of attention for sure.” Q: What do you think it would be like to be in his shoes? “Yeah it’d be tough I bet. It’s pretty hard to deal with the outside noise when you’ve got that much of it all the time but if there’s a guy who can deal with it well, it would be him.”

Even during the off seasons, they spend a lot of time together training, skating, and even doing inline hockey. In a media availability in 2024, Minten talks about how often they see each other in the summers and that they’re still pretty close. 

Q: How much are you still in touch with Connor Bedard?  “Yeah I still talk to him quite a bit, I mean in the summer we get to see each other almost every day training, so hopefully get to go say hi to him after this.”

Some pictures of them together during the offseason. training pics from their trainer's website.

This is a post from the inline hockey league they competed in, and this is a video from one of the summer tournaments they played in together. 

They also like to interact with each other on instagram so here are some of their replies on each other's posts:

During the NHL draft in 2022, Connor Bedard, who was slated to be the first-overall pick for the 2023 draft, flew out to Montreal to watch the draft. 

Coincidentally, this year was also the year that Fraser Minten got drafted to the Leafs. The draft happened on July 7, 2022, just two days after Minten’s birthday. According to this tweet, he had arrived at Montreal on his birthday, and would be rooming with Connor Bedard. 

“I remember before our bantam season, he wasn’t even really projected to get drafted into the WHL,” says the 17-year-old Bedard, who helped Canada advance to Saturday’s final at the world junior hockey championship at Rogers Place. “He put up, like, 70 points or something like that, so I knew he was going to be the steal of the draft. To see him going as high as he did to Toronto, one of the biggest franchises — he was pumped. It was really cool for me to see that.” “He was obviously a big help in my career,” Minten says of Bedard, “from playing with him and just learning so much from being by his side, and watching how hard he works every day and how much he gives to the game ... So, it was really cool for him to be there and it was really good for him, as well, getting a bit of a look at what it’s like in person prior to (his draft year).”

When asked about the pressure Connor was facing as the projected first overall pick, Fraser also said:

“I don’t think he worries about that stuff at all,” Minten says. “For him, it’s just about playing the game. He just loves the game, and everything that comes with it is a bonus for him. I don’t think he’s worried at all about what other people say … I think, by the end, he’ll be right where everyone hopes he is.”

Also worth highlighting that this is the title of the article all of these quotes come from:

Another fun fact about the 2022 draft; Chicago gave Toronto the pick that they used for Minten.

In a trade with Chicago, the Leafs traded Petr Mrazek and a first round pick (25th) in exchange for a second round pick (38th). The second round pick would turn out to be what the Leafs used to draft Fraser Minten. 

“And like Cowan, the Leafs were set on Minten. Though they were slated to pick at 25, they began to believe they could nab Minten later on. He was still on the board on day two at 38 after a trade with the Chicago Blackhawks allowed the Leafs to pick high in the second round.”

Also, just for the sake of including this somewhere, they also share an agent. 

The summer before the 2023-24 season began, the two of them lived together in Toronto for a few weeks. Why Connor was in Toronto is not actually known, but they’ve both brought this up multiple times—when they refer to living together, this is the time period they’re talking about. 

In this interview, Fraser gets asked about the phone calls he made after making the team and says he “... called my good buddies from junior teams and bantam midget teams I played with right away.”

According to this interview, Connor and Fraser exchanged messages of support for one another during training camp. Minten was also asked who was the better player when they were linemates in West Van: 

"Him, by a mile," Minten said. "By a mile. Hopefully we get to play against each other at some point."

After Minten made the Leafs roster, “his WHL pal Connor Bedard sent him a good luck message and said  “I hope I play against you”.”

The Leafs and Blackhawks played against each other on October 16th 2023, which was their first NHL game against one another. Connor was asked about playing against him for the first time:

“Of course you dream about it, once I got picked and we knew he was here of course—we actually lived together for a little bit this summer in Toronto, so we talked about it a bit there. I don’t know if you guys [in the media] expected him to make the team. In his mind, he expected to make the team, and I never expected anything less from him. The way he earned that spot, he showed everyone,” Bedard said. “Right when it was announced he made the team, we were fired up, talking about how it feels like yesterday we were playing on a line in bantam. It’s crazy how time flies. It’s really special.”

Minten was asked what he remembers from their days of playing together, if they ever talked about playing against each other at the NHL level:

“I don’t think we ever talked about that, obviously we both wanted that to happen—probably him more than me at that point, he probably thought it was more of a realistic possibility. But I remember he was just unreal, better than everybody and could score at will, and was also just a super humble and hardworking kid.”

Minten also got asked “how to stop him”, and said “he can do everything, so you just want to limit his space, time, and get the puck away from him.” 

Later in October, in response to a question about locker room arguments over CHL rivalries, Connor’s first example of another player who came up through the WHL was: “I grew up playing with Fraser Minten in Toronto, that’s pretty cool.”

In this interview, Minten gets asked: “I don't know how many people have asked you—probably a million—being Connor Bedards close friend and teammate, I'm assuming you're not surprised with what he's done since he left North Van, in the dub and in the NHL, probably not surprised at all?”

“No, no, not at all. He works harder than anybody else, like significantly. I think his teammates in Chicago would say the same thing. He's got a level of commitment and passion and dedication that is genuinely unmatched by some of the superstars in the NHL,  I think. I think we’ll continue to see him defy people’s expectations, and even if he doesn’t he’ll be doing everything he can to, so, I wouldn’t bet against him that’s for sure.”

In 2023, Fraser Minten was selected to be the captain for World Juniors and Connor sent him a congratulatory message. 

In this video with WJC Team Canada, in response to a question about the first time scouts started showing up at his games, Minten said: 

“I remember there started being a lot of guys in black jackets at games when I started playing with Connor. There would be lots of them because he was special—still is.”

In this Leafs TikTok where the prompt was to give a compliment to the person behind you, Minten points to his teammate’s jersey and says “best 98 out there.” Presumably a friendly chirp towards first overall 2023 draft pick Connor Bedard.

In this media availability from the Leafs-Blackhawks game in December 2024, Minten was asked what it was like to play against Connor again a year later. 

“Yeah it's awesome, anytime it’s the uh—you know, it's the NHL and we’re playing against each other. If you told us that when we were 13-14 we would’ve found it really cool, so it’s special for sure.”

Fraser Minten scored his second NHL goal against the Chicago Blackhawks later that day. 

(BONUS: Fraser usually has a crazy game when he plays against Connor. In the Pats vs Blazers game he was awarded second star for his 2 goals and 1 assist game, totaling 3 points in the Blazers 9-3 victory over the Pats. He scored his second NHL goal against the Blackhawks, helping Toronto win against Chicago 4-1. In 2025 after being recalled by the Bruins and playing vs the Blackhawks, despite a loss, he led the team in both SOG and shifts taken. Pasta went on to say that Minten’s line was the best line that night.)

After the trade to Boston, Minten spent a couple games playing in Providence before getting the call up to play for the Bruins, a couple days before the Bruins were set to play against the Blackhawks in Boston. There were no schedules the day before the game so they took the opportunity to get dinner together at Abe & Louie’s. 

“They had the opportunity to go out to dinner last night. And for Fraser Minten, he just got to town. Asked, where’d you decide to go, where’d you take him? He said ‘I googled steakhouse and some place– Abe something came up.’ I said, good choice! Abe & Louie’s!”

BONUS: idk where to put this bc for some reason I can’t find where this came from but here’s a picture of Minten wearing a Chicago Blackhawks hat from 2021 (also, somehow the only NHL teams that Minten follows on instagram are the Leafs (drafted to) the Bruins (traded to) the Canucks (vancouver kid) and the Blackhawks (???)

(same hat just backwards, from minten's instagram)

4/16/25 - this is all for now. this primer will be updated anytime something significant happens.

UPDATE - 06/20/25

Clips (not mine) of Connor and Fraser taken in Vancouver for their summer training program with Kaivo.

[zombiecowboy65]

We always talk about Jeremy’s avoidance in the Bryson scene (“thank u for protecting her”) , but we rarely talk about faser saying “he got between you and Connors real quick” , which is arguably even crazier. Because here you have all these hookups who order Jeremy around and grab him with ill intent, and toss him out the second they get what they want from him , and sit by while Jeremy gets harassed (because from the language Faser used it was pretty obvious he’d seen the whole thing).

And then here you have Jean. Whose heavy stare Jeremy had to walk past to get to Faser. Who is so quick to protect Jeremy after barely knowing him . Who is respectful of Jeremy’s boundaries and looks away when Jeremy gets undressed.

And Jeremy knows the difference. It’s spelt out clear as day. Before Connors, Jeremy declines faser; after, he accepts. Because his mistakes dictate what he deserves. Because no one could want Jeremy when he was attached to such an awful past.

But Jean looked Jeremy’s past in the face and stood with him anyway.

Jean stands with Jeremy not in spite of his past but because of it (“it makes u more interesting”). And just like Jean about California, that scares Jeremy as much as he wants it

[wherewritersgotodie-blog]

Knee Socks- Tate Landon x reader

warnings: smut, unprotected piv (safety first), oral (recieving), hot and sweet, the 90s

To be clear, Tate didn't have a crush on you.

When you first met, smoking outside Westfield in between classes, sure, he totally thought you were hot. Definitely the prettiest girl in Los Angeles, including the stupid actresses and models. You were a totally real girl, raw and real and beautiful. But he saw you as a friend.

He never thought about have sex with you. He respected you way too much for that shit-- he wasn't going to fuck up what you guys had. You were his only friend, and even though you were pretty popular, you had confessed many times that you only felt like you could really be authentic around him.

It was true: his bedroom was the only place you could be real.

You'd climb the stairs after school and put on vinyls and talk about Kurt Cobain and Morrissey. All of your friends listened to pop music on the radio. Sometimes you felt like Tate was the only person with any depth in the whole city.

"Why do you hang around Langdon?" your friends would say, “He's a total headcase. Freaky eyes." You wouldn't even bother to respond. He didn't care what anyone said about him. You didn't either-- you got him. That's what mattered.

After you started dating Connor, the captain of the football team, you made less time for Tate. He missed you, but he wasn't jealous. He was happy that you were happy.

When you still came to his house, he was only grateful.

You didn’t ring the doorbell anymore. You just came in through the backdoor, which was always open, and run up the stairs.

Sometimes, you got to his house before him if he had something to do after class-- an errand or a detention.

So, you flipped through his records until he came home.

"Hey, Miss Popular,” he said, "I didn't think you were coming over today."

"I'm always over on Wednesdays," you say with a smile.

"I thought you'd be with Connor," his smile leaves an impression in his cheeks. "Hot and heavy, you two."

You laugh, covering your face. "Whatever!"

His eyes scan you. A Nirvana concert t-shirt, red shorts and white knee-high socks. He bit his lip. You don't see this.

You place a record on the turntable. You sit on his bed as usual. "Today was shit," you say.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Well, Connor says I smoke too much, and I said, Whatever, 'cause it's whatever, right? but then he fucking threw away my pack," you say, rolling your eyes.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," he says. His eyes wander to your thighs again. They look really smooth today, he thinks to himself. "Do you want a cig?"

"Yes," you groan, "Please."

His eyes wander your face for a second. He smiles, then hops up and grabs two out of the pack on his dresser, along with his lighter. He holds out the lighter and you take a drag, looking into his eyes. "Fuck," you whisper.

Were your cheeks always this pink?

"What did you do today?" you ask him.

"Eh. I got detention, but I snuck out," he says.

"Yeah? What for?" You walk over to the window, leaning on the windowsill. He stares at your ass and your thighs as you're slightly bent over. What the fuck was it about you today?

"Uh- I got caught making out with Stacy in the locker room," he laughs.

You snap your head to look over your shoulder. "Stacy? Like, cheerleader Stacy?"

"Yeah," it's his turn to cover his face.

"I hate her," you mumble, returning to the window.

"Yeah, well, she's a total bitch. She told Mr. Donnahay that I kissed her, and he believed her, of course, cause he's a creep," he says.

"Huh,” you say. “Well, good on you, you kissed the prettiest girl in school.” He furrows his eyebrows. You put out your cigarette and hop onto his bed. You lean back on his pillows, knees bent, hands folded between your legs.

Your hair was falling around your face in this disheveled sort of way and your skin looked ultra-soft. And those socks, he couldn't stop imagining them wrapped around his back. Like, what the fuck was going on today?

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you say, brows furrowed, eyes wide.

"What?"

"I don't know. Weird," you say.

"Oh, I," he says. "Did you do something with your hair?"

You smile, and shake your head. "No. Are you okay?"

He stares another moment. Your eyes are so bright in the light and your cheeks are rosy and you're looking at him so intently, head tilted slightly, and your legs are open with just the length of your thigh showing and his chest is tight and he can't help it, he closes the gap between you and kisses you intensely.

He expects you to pull away, but to his surprise, you don't. Instead, you wrap your hands around his neck and whimper into his mouth.

Because, whether he felt it for you or not, there was one thing about you that he totally didn't know: you were absolutely, sickly in love with him.

See, you had followed him out to the courtyard when he went to smoke. You forgot your lighter on purpose. You chatted him up about your favorite bands cause you knew he liked them, too. You asked him to do your biology project together because you also knew you'd suggest to study at his house.

You pull his shirt over his head before he even gets a chance to get his hands on you. You pull away to look at him. He puts his hands on hips and adjusts himself to hover between your legs.

"What about my boyfriend?" you whisper. God, you were a good liar.

"Forget your fuckin' boyfriend," he says, diving back into your mouth.

And you always did whatever he said to do. So you forgot your boyfriend. And you let him take off your shirt. You weren't wearing a bra. He stares for a few moments. "Holy shit, why didn't I do this sooner?"

Good question, you smirk to yourself.

He kisses you again, then detaches from your mouth less than half an inch to whisper, "Can I take off your shorts?" It's so breathy you can barely understand him, but you nod.

He takes your shorts off and leans his head down between your legs. He kisses you over the cloth of your underwear and you throw your head back. He kisses you down your thighs, biting periodically, which earns from you a choked whimper each time. He presses his face into your heat, groaning. "Can I?" he whispers.

You only nod again.

He pulls your underwear down your thighs and over your socks.

He runs his tongue up the center of your heat and you groan. He runs circles around your sensitive spot, whispering into you, "Godohfuckbabybabybaby..."

He tilts his head up, wipes his mouth and leans up to look at you. He then traces his fingers down your stomach and presses his fingertips into you. You moan again, and now with his face level with yours, you wrap your arms around him.

He works you, pressing his fingers into you and pulling them back out to circle up, and he repeats that a few times, until you are so worked up that the flush in your face has reached your chest and you are undeniably out of breath.

"Please, Tate," you mumble. You finish on his fingers and he smiles, laughing happily as he falls onto his back.

You take a moment to ride it out, then whisper into his ear, "Can I take your pants off?"

He looks over at you, smiling wider now, and nods. You crawl down to his waist, smiling up at him. He's rock solid. You pull his boxers and denim down, both at once. You're absolutely not surprised to find that he is huge.

You straddle him, and he grabs your hips, then runs his palms up to your waist, brushing your tits, then back down to your thighs. Your body is even better than he imagined.

“For the record,” he says, “You’re way prettier than Stacy.” You beam.

Then, you lower yourself on him. He groans. He's too far away from you. With all his core strength, he pulls his body up at once to lean nearly upright against the wall behind his bed.

You didn't even expect this and it hits your core in the dirtiest way. He pulls your body into him, so your stomach, your waist, your chest are all pressed against his. He forces your head into the crook of his neck with an arm wrapped tightly around yours, the other one wrapped around your waist. You are surrounded by his heat, his sweat. You can barely keep any rhythm now, you're so entirely caught off-guard by the intense embrace.

You're completely overwhelmed and he knows it. God, he knows you. So, he begins to thrust himself off the mattress into you. At that point, you're done for. You're almost embarrassed how quickly you come undone after he starts. "Tate, holy fuck," you whisper. He doesn't even respond. He just pets the back of your hair down, comforting you.

When you pull yourself together, you attempt to roll your hips on him again. This clearly shocks him, because he groans your name out loud. You peel yourself off of him, pressing your hands into his chest as you roll yourself into him. He mumbles a string of incoherence, eyes closed. You can tell he's almost there.

He opens his eyes once more, and you can tell that he's about to come, and he whispers, "Fuck, baby,can'tpullout," he whimpers.

"It's okay," you say, and you feel yourself close again.

And he does it again. He pulls you tight to his chest, almost as if he's trying to make your bodies into one. Does he do this for everyone or only you? You'll ask about this later.

"I love you, baby," he says as he trembles underneath you. One of your arms reaches down to grab his hand and he squeezes it, hard.

When you are both finished, you peel yourself off of him.

"I love you, Tate," you smile. He smiles too, and pulls your back to press against his chest.

That's when you realize that it's definitely just for you.

[forsaken-headcanons]

Random assortment of headcanons GO!!!!

Chance has pointy teeth! Especially their canines.

Chance also knows a lot of coin and card tricks. He once tried to learn Connor's (D:BH) coin tricks with some success.

Elliot can grab things right out of the oven without oven mitts or anything grandmother style.

Dusekkar's pumpkin wasn't always blue. They painted it once for some kind of joke and it stuck because it actually looked good.

Builderman can draw very straight lines without a ruler. They look like they were drawn with a ruler, but nope, Builderman freehanded it. Same goes for circles.

Builderman used to (and still sometimes) disassemble and reassemble small electronics or the like, such as watches or microwaves.

Shedletsky and 007n7 cook potatoes in the microwave. Yes that's a thing you can do and it takes like 10-15 minutes max for several potatoes. Shedletsky undercooks them, but 7n7 makes them pretty decent! I think he used to do this when he didn't have a lot of time to make food for c00lkidd.

Azure used to paint and sculpt, Two Time used to draw and carve.

A lot of their hangouts were sitting nearby each other while making their respective little projects or art pieces, and then showing it to each other when they were done.

Azure made their own clay! He tried teaching Two Time how but they never really got it or remembered.

You can scruff c00lkidd like a kitten. No one knows this except 7n7.

007n7 twitches a lot and makes small random noises. He's also very good at mimicking voices and knows how to do quite a few accents.

He also has a "built-in" voicechanger because of the c00lgui for the funny. Imagine he left like autotune on for a round.

1x1x1x1 needs glasses but refuses to wear them. She's also quite sensitive to light.

He/They John Doe and They/She Jane Doe.

John and Jane's first date was going to see the Robloxia equivalent of Ride The Cyclone! It's Jane's favourite musical and she intruduced John to it who loved it just as much as her.

John used to know how to sing pretty well! He also played the piano and he learned how to play The Ballad of Jane Doe.

John Doe has the body temperature of an overheating computer.

John Doe is hungry in rounds most of the time. He doesn't eat the survivors but it doesn't help the whole urge to kill thing. Elliot tamed them with a pizza once tho. (Inspired by a round where I asked a JD if they wanted a pizza and they said yes and were friendly for the rest of the round)

Noob has a fitness roller. Not sure why but they do.

Two Time made a spear with their dagger once and caught fish out of the lake next to the cabin. I think they'd know how to hunt as well, but mostly with traps and such, but the Spectre doesn't really let the survivors far into the forest. They can go in for a decent while but after some time they just hit a wall.

Also, sending my hellos to Mod Trees :3

-🐾 anon

Oh, these are so lovely! They fit each character very much and are so fun to read!

Painting Dusekkar's pumpkin blue is equivalent to dyeing your hair. End of conversation.

[bbydoll18xx]

An Inch Away From More Than Just Friends

Paige Bueckers x reader

Your ex-boyfriend is quite literally the smallest man who ever lived, and Paige is there to pick up the pieces

Themes: Heavy smut, angst, happy ending <3, friends to lovers

Word count: 3k

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“And you deserve prison, BUT. YOU. WON’T. GET. TIME!” you scream-sing, each word punctuated with a hand slapping the table loudly. Tears fall down your face and you let out a ragged breath, attempting to quell your rage and anguish.

Your stupid ass, idiot of a boyfriend, Connor, had cheated on you with some tramp from Florida, of all places. And he had subsequently dumped you over text, attaching a picture of the girl sucking his cock.

You wanted to murder him. Slowly. With a knife. 

Here you sat, though, after the shock of that text message wore off, sobbing at your kitchen table to Taylor Swift. Your life felt like a terrible sitcom. 

He was your first boyfriend. You didn't really date much in high school. The boys were immature and gross, and the girls were too intimidating to approach in a flirty way. You just wanted to feel wanted, sick of constantly being the third wheel with your friends.

Despite getting broken up with out of the blue, you knew why Connor had done it. It was the reason for your countless arguments you had suffered through the last year.

Paige Bueckers.

Paige was your best friend, and Connor had absolutely loathed her from the moment you had introduced the two blondes. 

Your boyfriend had always been slightly possessive; it was one of the things that had initially attracted you to him. You had always craved an intense and all consuming love, and at first, you had thought you'd gotten that. But fate was tempted as you and Paige grew closer.

As the song you’ve had on repeat restarts for the hundredth time, you recall your last argument. It wasn’t difficult considering it happened just a few days ago. 

You and Paige were hanging out in your apartment like you did frequently. Laying side by side on your bed, a movie played on the TV, sending flickering lights through the dark room. You were both exhausted from the week, but each other’s presence produced a calm energy that washed over all of the stress you had been feeling.

Your legs are tangled up with Paige’s, and your head is nestled in the crook of her neck. The movie is long forgotten, as you relish in the presence of your best friend. She hums in content at your closeness, enjoying your company just as much as you.

You can actually feel your heart cry, realizing that you couldn’t get any closer to the blonde girl. 

You had been having several realizations the last few months: Your fondness for UConn’s favorite star was more than just friendly. Unfortunately, you were pretty sure that Connor had also picked up on this. And if this helpless little crush of yours continued, you’d be in deep shit. 

Contemplating your situation, Paige nudges into you, catching your attention. 

“I can literally hear the wheels in your head turning. Whatcha thinkin’ about, baby?” Paige teases softly.

Baby. 

Your heart flutters, as it always did when she called you little pet names.

You shrug, the movement slightly jostling Paige.

“Just dealing with some stuff,” you mumble, a feeble attempt to minimize what you were feeling. It's not like you could tell her anyway.

Before Paige can goad you into revealing more, the door to your bedroom is ripped open, hitting the wall with a slam and reverberating through the apartment. 

“I fucking knew it!” Connor shouted, pointing at you and Paige. His face was screwed up into an ugly expression of contempt.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Paige yells back, as you simultaneously shout, “Connor you can't just barge in here. That’s so fucking rude.”

“Stay away from my girlfriend, you nasty, little bitch,” Connor sneers meanly. Paige’s eyebrows furrow at this, standing in front of him to look him in the eye.

You try to stifle a laugh as Paige gets in your boyfriend’s face; she was two inches taller than him, and she never let him forget it. 

“I don’t know about ‘little,’” she retorts with a smug expression on her face.

Enraged, Connor spins around, stomping out of the room, kicking your couch on his childish rampage out.

Your breathing is irregular as you try to slow your heart rate. Sobs are already bubbling up inside your chest, threatening to seep through the cracks that Connor had left once more. 

Paige pulls you into her lap, cradling you against her chest in a desperate attempt to comfort you. Little did she know, her touch was all you really needed. 

You are pulled back into the present, feeling empty without Paige. Tears roll down your cheeks and your bottom lip wobbles. You felt like you were never really present anymore; walking through life in a daydream. Pictures of Paige constantly filled your brain, and you knew the unrequited feelings would be much more painful than the harsh termination of your and Connor’s relationship. 

Fuck. You were down bad. 

You take to your couch with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Those were two guys you knew would never fail you. You allow yourself to rot the day away. Episode after episode plays, but you are barely paying attention. You feel like screaming, the feeling of desperation wrestling with your typical sense of composure. 

Your vision slides over to the top of your fridge, where an impressive amount of alcohol sits.

‘Perfect. I can't pine when I’m black out drunk,’ you think miserably. 

You were so, so wrong. 

An hour later you were dancing around in nothing but one of Paige’s shirts and your underwear, using a large bottle of tequila as a microphone. You were usually a quiet roommate, but the empty apartment was the perfect excuse to let out all the emotions you had been holding in for months. 

You were so engrossed in your performance, you miss Paige walking in. When you finally turn to face her in a dramatic spin, hair flying everywhere, you gasp in shock. 

Paige is grinning. “Havin’ fun, babe?” she questions, clearly amused by your drunken antics.

You were too inebriated to feel embarrassed, and you nod with a bright smile. You thrust the bottle towards the blonde, encouraging her to join in your fun. 

“Oh, what the hell,” Paige concedes, taking the bottle and lifting it up to her mouth in a way that had you suddenly feeling sticky. 

She was sinful when she was drunk. It was not your fault that you wanted the clingy Paige that accompanied large amounts of alcohol. 

You spend the next hour taking turns sipping from the bottle, enjoying the feverish burning in your belly that follows each swallow. It doesn’t take much time for Paige to catch up to you, and you know she’s tipsy once she pulls you into her lap and starts drawing shapes onto your thighs. A quiet moan escapes from your lips at her touch; her fingers were fucking magic. 

You turn to face Paige, straddling her on your couch. The tequila in your system was making you bolder than the blonde was accustomed to you being, but she welcomed it. Now face to face, with nothing but your flimsy panties in between Paige’s muscular leg and your slick center, you gaze at her with heavy lidded eyes.

She was so pretty, and her eye contact made you bashful. Breaking away from the heat of those blue eyes, you wrap your arms around her neck in a huge hug, causing Paige to let out a small chuckle at your affection.

You were nothing if not candor whilst drunk, so Paige is hardly surprised when you slur, “Connor hated how I look at you. That’s why he broke up with me.”

Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, Paige murmurs, “How do you look at me?”

“Like you hung the fuckin’ moon,” you sigh dreamily, the tequila making you feel warm and fuzzy.

“Oh, really, baby?” Paige questions, her voice growing deeper as you tilt your hips against her thigh once more in an attempt to feel some relief. Her presence was overwhelming your senses, and there was fire deep in your abdomen that was raging.

 You forget to respond to her, too distracted from the way her leg felt so damn good against your clothed pussy. Attempting to lessen some of the desire building up inside you, you experimentally roll your hips, letting out a lustful whine as you realize how good it feels. 

Paige is momentarily stunned at your boldness before she grabs your chin, tilting it up to meet her eyes that were full of want. Your pupils are blown, the irises just a small ring at this point, and she questions if you really want to do this. 

Well obviously.

You nod your head, unsure if you had any words in you to describe just how badly you wanted Paige to fuck you.

“Baby, use your words,” Paige drawls. The huskiness of the term of endearment has you panting, and you struggle to moan out a “Yes, please just fuck me, P.”

That was all Paige needed. She places her hands underneath your ass, and lifts you up, carrying you towards your bedroom. You wrap your legs around her toned figure and meet her lips in a searing kiss. 

In a second, it feels like all the shittiness has evaporated away, leaving you feeling reborn and renewed. Paige was a fucking drug to you, and you needed another hit. 

Setting you down on your bed, Paige wastes no time stripping you of your oversized t-shirt, leaving you in your cotton panties that were now completely soaked. She swirls two fingers across the drenched fabric, smirking to herself that she was able to have such an effect on you. You whine at her deliberate actions and pout like a child who wasn’t getting their way. Paige laughs at your desperation and kisses the pout right off of your lips, licking into your mouth with fervor. 

You tug at her shirt, wanting her to be as bare as you were, and she quickly slips it over her head, throwing it onto the floor. There was still an imbalance of clothing between the two of you, and you finger the waistband of Paige’s sweatpants, wanting to see every bit of her. 

Shaking her head fondly at your blatant lack of shame, she gets off of the bed and shimmies out of her pants, leaving her in just a sports bra and those boxers you loved a little too much. From where you were still sitting on the bed, you shamelessly let your eyes rake over her toned figure. She was stunning, and you felt pride well up inside you, knowing you were finally going to have sex with the tall blonde.

It almost made the years of pining worth it. 

“This better?” Paige asks, gesturing towards her body, and you giggle in response. 

She climbs back onto the bed, a knee placed between your parted thighs and presses it against your soaked heat. You let out another loud moan at the contact, and your back arches off the bed from the pleasure. 

There are no thoughts in your tipsy, drunk-in-love brain, and it shows. You’re mumbling in tangents, now, pleading with Paige to do more. 

She finally concedes and goes to take off your panties. She’s being a little tease, slowly dragging them down your legs, while keeping intense eye contact with you. You are pretty sure the act makes your pussy drip even more. 

Placing a leg over her shoulder, Paige opens you up and takes a second to admire the gleaming wet folds that were hers and only hers. You tremble under her stare, feeling deliciously vulnerable in a way that makes you want to submit to her every whim. 

She inches closer to your pussy, pressing hot kisses all along your inner thighs. You revel in the buildup of it, trying to avoid being pushy. To no avail, your hips jut forward, slightly humping the air in an attempt to get some release. 

Coming back up to nip your earlobe playfully, Paige whispers sensually, “Gotta be a good girl for me.” 

You try to respond, but her use of the phrase ‘good girl’ makes the words catch in your throat. She resumes her kisses, trailing them down your throat to your chest, where she takes a detour in favor of showing your pretty, peaked nipples some attention. 

Another whine leaves your lips like a prayer, as Paige leaves love bites over your tits. That would look like a damn masterpiece in the morning, and you’re already planning to take a Polaroid picture of you topless, covered in Paige’s hickeys. 

Finally, she trails back down your stomach, fingers ghosting over your skin and leaving behind thousands of goosebumps in their wake. Your skin felt like it was on fire. 

“Please, Paigey. Need you, baby,” you whimper brokenly, begging for some respite from the torturous teasing. 

Paige gives in, dying to taste to you, and she licks a fat stripe on your pussy, starting at your dripping hole and ending in a tantalizing circle at your clit. Your hands fly to her head, trying not to pull at her hair too much. 

She inserts her middle finger into you, drawing another slutty moan from your lips as she pumps into you vigorously. 

There really is no way to describe just how good she is making you feel. The past six months of sex with Connor had been passionless and repetitive. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to go without this again. 

Paige inserts another finger in your pussy with a smirk and continues to pummel them against your g-spot. The pressure in the pit of your belly was already building, and you knew it wouldn’t be long until you exploded. Paige had taken a break from eating you out to kiss you once more, wanting you to taste your sweet wetness on her lips. It was possibly the hottest thing you had ever done, and the act pushes you closer to the finish line. 

“Gonna cum, Paigey,” you moan wantonly, your thighs twitching and your back arching once more. The tequila in your system causing you to act especially debauched. 

Paige loves it. 

“C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and cum for me,” she moans in response against your soaked pussy, and you fall apart instantaneously. 

High pitched whines and moans fill your bedroom as Paige continues thrusting her fingers in and out of you, slowing down as you ride out your high. If it wasn’t for the alcohol, you would be embarrassed with yourself, but there was no thought of that. 

You needed to taste Paige. 

Once Paige pulls out of you, licking her fingers off as if she was starved, you reattach your lips feverishly. You taste so good, but you are dying to know what she tastes like, and without warning, you strip the rest of her clothes off. 

She lays her head on your mountain of pillows, blonde hair fanning in all directions. You can see the heaving of her chest, already anticipating your touch. Her lips are swollen in a way that’s positively sinful, and you think you’ve never seen anyone look as beautiful as Paige does right now. 

Straddling her, you lean in to suck at the soft skin underneath her left ear, pulling out moan after moan that went right to your still-buzzing pussy. 

Trailing down to her tits, you knead one before attaching your hot mouth to the other, swirling your tongue around it and then nipping it experimentally. 

“Fuck, babe. Please. Can’t do more teasing,” Paige grits out, trying to maintain some semblance of control. 

Just as yours had, Paige’s hips squirm, and you grin up at her. You press kisses across her toned abdomen, mentally noting that her abs would be nice to ride another time, and finally settle at the opening of her legs. 

Spreading her open, you gaze upon her glistening wetness momentarily before diving in. You could not possibly wait another second to taste her. 

You two both moan at the contact, sending muffled vibrations against Paige’s pussy that brings forth a second, louder groan of pleasure. 

Wanting to make her feel so, so good, you plunge two fingers into her sopping wetness, while flicking the tip of your tongue across her clit repeatedly without ceasing. 

It had been awhile since you had eaten another girl out, but it came back to you immediately; it was like riding a bike. 

Paige’s moans fill the room, and you think you could die there happily. You’re unrelenting. The combination of three of your fingers and that lavicious tongue of yours soon has Paige panting out, “fuck, baby. I’m gonna cum.” 

She rides out her orgasm, switching between moaning your name and naughty words that have you immediately wanting to do a second round. 

You pull your fingers out of her wetness, making a show of licking them off in front of her before meeting her in an erotic kiss.

You lay back on your pillows, stifling your sighs and calming the beat of your heart from what you had just done with your best friend. You look over at her, hoping and praying that the sex you just had wouldn’t ruin your friendship. 

Paige bites her lip, in a not so great attempt at hiding a smile, and pecks you on the lips. “That was way better than that fuckhead, Connor, right?” She was smug as hell. But she was not wrong.

“Considering his dick was three inches, uh yeah,” you laugh. “But joking aside, you were amazing.”

“Just glad I could make my girl feel better,” she replies.

“I’m your girl?” you ask, cheeks ablaze in a fiery heat of desire.

“You are now,” Paige chuckles, interlocking your pinkies together in an earnest proclamation of affection. 

You were hers, and she was yours. 

[cuteandhughesy]

grrrr bedsy fluff :((( just thinking ab him being his usual grumpy self while his girl is snuggled into his side and she slowly gets the slightly softer side of him :(( still complaining about the chick flick she put on!!! but giving her little kisses and telling her shes pretty.

you can tell connor is in a mood just by the way his bag hits the hardwood by the front door of your apartment. he doesn’t say anything, kicking off his trainers beside your ugg slippers before padding into the dimly lit living room.

you can understand his pissy mood—the team has just had their 8th loss in a row. you’d watched the game from the comfort of your apartment couch, and as you saw the game begin going south, you’d expected your boyfriend to cancel your movie plans after the game came to a close.

but here he is, his expression neutral as he makes his way to your blanket slumped self.

you send him a gentle smile, arms sneaking out of your pile of blankets to reach towards him. you probably resemble a baby, but you don’t even care. “hey babe.” you say gently.

connor wraps himself around you, pulling you both back down to the couch. he adjusts so that you’re tucked into his strong torso, your head resting on his peck. you can’t even see the tv this way, so you’re being deprived of bridget jones’ diary.

“you get here okay?” the chicago winter this year is relentless, and the roads after this time of night where always bad.

connor shrugs. “roads were covered.”

you hum, nuzzling further into his sweatshirt. “I missed you today.”

his lips quirk up in a smile, because no matter how frustrated he is with the game outcome, the sight of you on his chest with your breathy sighs and sweet voice, always has him feeling amazing. “missed you too, babe.”

that has you grinning, tilting your head back so you can comfortably press a kiss against his jaw. he looks down at you softly, “you have a good day?”

“yup.” you chime, “work was easy, and abigail called in sick so I didn’t have to deal with her constant complaining and tattling.”

connor snickers, very much used to hearing about your day-care coworker who is just nothing but dreadful to be around. “you’re so lucky.”

“I know right.” you giggle. “and I got to come home and watch my sexy boyfriend play hockey.”

you watch him blush lightly, a wide smile taking over his plump lips. “says you pretty girl.”

you giggle again, pushing off the couch so you’re straddling his hips. it’s a bit awkward trying to maneuver through the pile of blankets, but you manage, sliding over him like you’ve done many times before. connor’s hands instinctively slide over your thighs, rising until he’s gripping the round of your ass.

you hum quietly before leaning down, connecting your lips in a much needed kiss. connor groans against your mouth, sliding his lips over yours in a messy, sweet tango. it’s a leisure make out, one that has your tingling all over.

you pull back gently, a smile adorning your face.

connor gives you one more quick peck, right on top of your grin. “love you.”

“love you.” you parrot.

his eyes flick to the tv, and immediately his brows pull. “can we at least watch something else?”

“no.”

—

(not edited)