#he would learn one or two songs and then move on to something else

[birdlover9000]

Reigen Week Day 4: Hobbies

That 0.5 second clip of him stomping on a distortion pedal in the s3 intro lives in my head 24/7 ,,,

Prompts by @wings-of-scarlet-light !

[goldfades]

who else decodes you? / who's gonna know you, if not me? / and who's gonna hold you like me? / no-fucking-body / so tell me, who else is gonna know me? | joe burrow⁹ (part one)

part two!!!!!

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had been inseparable since LSU, with him promising you everything—a dream home and a life together. everything felt perfect during your golden days, but as time passed, things shifted, and the cracks began to show in your once-perfect relationship

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst... just straight up angst. asshole-y joe, lots of fighting, reader being a trophy wife, just real sad things im sorry i wrote this yall. NO happy ending in this part, part 2 will have a happy ending dw guys!!!

You met Joe Burrow before the world did.

Before the Heisman, before the draft, before his name carried weight outside of Athens, Ohio. Before the sleek suits, the Cartier glasses, the endless debates about whether he was the next great quarterback of his generation. Before all of that, he was just Joe. Your Joe.

The one who texted you goodnight from his twin bed in his childhood home, the one who took you to McDonald’s after late-night practices because that’s all he could afford. The one who kissed you in the front seat of his beat-up truck, hands a little rough from lifting weights but gentle when they held your face.

You were there for it all.

Through the transfer to LSU, when he was just a backup with something to prove. Through the championship season, where he turned into a legend overnight. Through the draft, when you held his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, waiting for the moment his name would be called. Through the move to Cincinnati, where you learned the ins and outs of being an NFL girlfriend—then an NFL wife in everything but title.

You never needed the ring to prove your place beside him. Not at first.

Because when you love someone for that long, when you’ve been there since day one, you assume you’ll be there forever. You assume that one day, when the time is right, you’ll walk down the aisle and he’ll be standing at the end of it. That the same boy who once promised you the world in a whisper under Louisiana stars would eventually make good on it.

But love isn’t always enough.

And timing? Timing has a cruel way of making a fool out of you.

Before the waiting, before the uncertainty—there was LSU.

The golden days.

The kind of love people wrote songs about, the kind that burned so bright it felt untouchable, invincible. You and Joe had been through the trenches of college life together—cheap dates, sleepless nights, long drives in his old truck where he talked about the future like it was already written in the stars.

Joe had always been a planner. He didn’t just dream—he mapped things out, broke them down into plays, like a game he knew he would win. And in every version of the future he spoke about, you were in it.

“I’m gonna make it,” he told you one night, lying in the back of his truck, staring at the Baton Rouge sky like it held all his answers. The air was thick with humidity, cicadas singing in the distance, but neither of you cared. You were twenty, wildly in love, and the world hadn’t touched you yet. “I don’t care how long it takes, or how many people doubt me—I’m making it to the league.”

You smiled, running a hand through his hair. “I never doubted that.”

Joe turned then, propped himself up on an elbow, his sharp, determined eyes softening as he looked at you. “And when I do, I’m gonna give you everything.”

It wasn’t just a promise. It was a declaration.

Not just any ring—a rock. One that would catch the light from across the room, the kind that would make strangers do a double take. Not just any house—your dream home, the one you’d always wanted but never thought possible.

You had told him, once, in passing, the kind of house you loved. You were scrolling on your phone, lying with your feet in his lap, showing him a picture of a home that looked straight out of a magazine.

“That,” you had said, tapping the screen. “That’s the dream.”

White exterior, big windows—floor-to-ceiling in the living room, so the sunlight would pour in every morning. A wrap-around porch, because you always loved the idea of sitting outside with a glass of wine on summer nights. A kitchen with the biggest island imaginable, because you loved to cook, even if Joe barely trusted himself to make toast. A cozy sunroom, filled with mismatched chairs and overflowing bookshelves. A clawfoot bathtub in the master bath, where you could soak for hours after a long day.

Joe had barely glanced at the picture before he said, “Done.”

You laughed. “Joe, that house is like… five million dollars.”

“So?” He had smirked, cocky and confident in that way only he could pull off. “Give me a couple years.”

You shook your head, amused, but deep down, you believed him. You believed him because when Joe Burrow set his mind to something, it happened.

And when you asked, jokingly, what kind of dog he wanted, he just scoffed.

“Dogs? No. We’re gonna have like, eight cats.”

You snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He stretched out, hands behind his head, already painting the picture in his mind. “They’ll have dumb names, too. Like, I don’t know… Fettuccine. Or Tuxedo. Or—oh—Larry.”

“Larry?”

“Yeah. Larry’s gonna be the ringleader.”

You shook your head, laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joe just grinned, pulling you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You love me.”

And you did. God, you did.

You loved him through the highs—the Heisman win, the national championship, the night he got drafted when you held his face in your hands and told him this is it, baby. This is everything you worked for.

You loved him through the lows—when he tore his ACL his rookie year and sat in silence for hours, devastated, gripping your hand so tight it went numb. When the pressure of the league weighed heavy on him and he retreated inward, needing space, needing you to be his anchor without him ever having to say it.

You loved him because he was Joe.

Because he was the boy who once whispered about forever under Louisiana stars, who promised you a rock, a dream house, and eight cats named Larry and Fettuccine.

Because you believed, back then, that promises were made to be kept.

--

It started small.

A casual comment, barely even a question, when you were knee-deep in cardboard boxes in your new Cincinnati apartment. You’d been together for years by then, had already lived together in Baton Rouge, but this—this felt different. More permanent. He was the face of a franchise now, the golden boy of an entire city. And you? You were the woman who had been by his side through it all.

So when you held up a framed photo—one of the two of you from his LSU days, his arm wrapped around you, both of you grinning like you had the whole world ahead of you—you said it without thinking.

“Guess we’ll need some wedding pictures to put up soon, huh?”

It was light, teasing, the same way you’d joked about it a hundred times before. But this time, Joe didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile.

He just exhaled through his nose, set down the box he was carrying, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m still adjusting to all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the apartment, the city, the new life he was stepping into. “Let’s just… settle in first.”

You told yourself it made sense.

Joe had always been slow to process change. He liked routine, predictability. He had just gone from college quarterback to the number-one draft pick, from playing in front of thousands to playing in front of millions. If he needed time, you’d give it to him.

And so you did.

You poured yourself into the role of supportive girlfriend, the unwavering presence behind the scenes. You went to every game, wore his jersey, kept your social media lowkey even when the WAGs of the league started reaching out. You made sure home felt like a safe haven for him—a place where he wasn’t Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, but just Joe.

Months passed. Then a year. Then two.

And still, nothing.

You tried to be patient. You tried not to compare. But it was impossible not to notice when guys who had been in the league half as long as Joe were proposing to their girlfriends. When you went to team events and saw wives flashing diamond rings, their hands resting on their husbands’ arms like they belonged there. When your own friends started getting married, settling down, building the life you always thought you and Joe were working toward.

You weren’t the kind of girl who begged for a ring. That wasn’t you. That wasn’t why you loved him. But you also weren’t stupid.

So, one night, after a Bengals win, when it was just the two of you curled up on the couch—Joe half-asleep, his head resting on your thigh—you ran your fingers through his hair and asked,

“Do you ever think about it?”

His eyes cracked open slightly. “Think about what?”

“Marriage.”

The word hung in the air between you, heavy in a way that made your stomach tighten.

Joe didn’t sit up, didn’t tense. But he also didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the ceiling, his fingers drumming lightly against your leg.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think about it.”

That was it. No elaboration. No follow-up.

And maybe it was the years of knowing him, of reading between the lines of what he didn’t say, but something about his tone sent a cold prickle down your spine.

You swallowed. “And?”

Joe sighed, shifting so he was looking up at you fully. His face was tired, drawn, the way it always was after a game.

“I love you,” he said first, because Joe always led with love, even when he was about to disappoint you. “I just don’t know if I’m… ready for all that.”

All that. Like marriage was some heavy, unbearable thing. Like it was a burden, instead of the only thing you’d ever wanted with him.

But you didn’t push. You never pushed.

You just nodded, kissed his forehead, and told yourself that he just needed more time.

You’d already given him years. What was a little longer?

For every golden memory, there was a night that ended with you crying into your pillow, your chest aching from the weight of words left unheard.

And Joe was never the type to yell.

That was the problem.

You could scream, slam cabinets, cry until your eyes were swollen, beg him to just say something—but Joe would sit there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on some invisible point in the distance. Silent. Stone-faced. Like he was waiting for a storm to pass rather than standing in the middle of it with you.

And when he was done listening, when he decided he had nothing to say, he’d just walk away.

No slammed doors. No cruel words. Just an exhale through his nose and the slow, deliberate sound of his footsteps leaving the room.

Then came the silence.

Hours, sometimes days, where he wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge the way you curled up on your side of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself because if he wouldn’t hold you, you had to do it yourself.

It always started the same way.

Joe had never been a selfish person—at least, not intentionally. He loved you, worshipped you in his own quiet way. But he was also a man who had spent his entire life being taken care of.

First by his parents. Then by his coaches. Then by you.

At first, it hadn’t bothered you. You wanted to take care of him, because loving Joe Burrow meant making sure he ate real meals instead of surviving off protein shakes and granola bars. It meant picking up after him when he left his clothes on the floor, washing his jerseys so they always smelled like fresh detergent instead of sweat, keeping your home together while he threw every ounce of himself into football.

But over time, something shifted.

The gestures that had once been acts of love started to feel expected. You would spend hours cooking his favorite meal, only for him to eat in front of the TV without so much as a thank you. You’d clean up after him like clockwork, while he’d scroll through his phone, oblivious to the way you were moving around him like a ghost. You handled the small things—the groceries, the laundry, the appointments—so he never had to think about them. And the worst part? He didn’t think about them.

He didn’t think about how exhausting it was to pour so much of yourself into another person and get nothing in return.

One night, after a long day where you’d cooked, cleaned, and ran errands while Joe came home from practice, showered, and immediately planted himself on the couch, something in you snapped.

You had been standing in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes, while Joe sat in the living room, watching game film, oblivious to the way your hands were trembling from frustration.

“Joe,” you called, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hummed, eyes still on the screen.

You turned off the faucet, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Do you even see me anymore?”

That got his attention. His head lifted slightly, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Do you see me?” you repeated, voice shaking now. “Or am I just here? Like some… unpaid assistant who cooks your meals and cleans your shit and waits around for you to remember I exist?”

Joe blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion. Frustration. A bubbling anger that had been simmering for months. “I do everything for you. And I never ask for anything in return. But you don’t even appreciate it, Joe. You don’t see it. You don’t see me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus, babe. I—look, I didn’t ask you to do all that.”

Your heart sank.

There it was. The knife, twisted so deep you almost doubled over from the pain of it.

You swallowed, eyes stinging. “You shouldn’t have to ask for basic effort.”

Joe exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from the couch. “I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

And then, just like always, he walked away.

The silence stretched for days.

No matter how loud you got, how many tears you shed, it never mattered.

Because Joe didn’t scream.

Joe shut down.

--

The restaurant was dimly lit, the kind of place where the wine was poured before you even asked and the waiters moved so seamlessly you barely noticed them. It was a Bengals event—one of those exclusive, high-end dinners meant to bring players and their partners together, a little PR, a little networking, all wrapped in the illusion of luxury. Normally, you didn’t mind them.

But tonight? Tonight, Joe was off.

He had been for weeks. Ever since the injury, ever since he had to watch his team play without him, it was like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders and refused to budge. You had tried, God, you had tried—to comfort him, to give him space, to be exactly what he needed. But no matter what you did, it felt wrong.

He barely talked. Barely looked at you. And when he did, there was something in his eyes you couldn’t place.

Resentment?

Disappointment?

You didn’t know.

So you sat at the table, plastering on a smile, sipping your wine, pretending everything was fine as the conversation buzzed around you. Ja’Marr and his girlfriend, a few of the other guys, their partners. The usual crowd.

The joke started innocent enough.

“You’re literally the dream NFL WAG,” Ja’Marr’s girlfriend said, laughing as she leaned over toward you. “Like, you do everything for him. Cook, clean, go to every game. You’re basically the gold standard.”

The table chuckled.

You laughed, too, but there was something hollow about it. It wasn’t that the statement was wrong. It was just that… for the past few months, being Joe’s girlfriend hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt like an uphill battle, like loving him was a test you were always on the verge of failing.

But before you could say anything, Joe scoffed.

Loudly.

The kind of sound that cut through the easy, playful atmosphere and made everyone shift in their seats.

You turned to him, confused, but Joe wasn’t looking at you. His jaw was clenched, his grip tight around the base of his glass.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, sharp, edged with something you couldn’t name.

The table went quiet.

Your stomach sank.

“Joe,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm, but he pulled away, shaking his head.

“I need air.”

And just like that, he was on his feet, pushing back his chair, striding toward the exit without another word.

You barely hesitated before following.

The moment you stepped outside, the cold air hit you like a slap. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few blacked-out SUVs and a couple of lingering staff members. Joe was already a few steps ahead, his hands on his hips, breathing hard like he was trying to keep himself together.

You didn’t care. You weren’t going to let this go.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, heels clicking against the pavement as you caught up to him.

Joe exhaled sharply, tilting his head back toward the sky. “I don’t wanna do this right now.”

“No. No.” You grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t get to humiliate me in front of everyone and then walk away like nothing happened.”

Joe turned then, eyes flashing with something you had never seen before. Rage.

“You think I don’t know?” His voice was louder now, cutting through the night air, his face twisted in frustration. “You think I don’t fucking see the way you take care of everything? How perfect you are? How much you do for me?”

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t the first time you’d fought, not even close. But this was different.

This was Joe shouting.

He never shouted.

“You think I don’t know how much you’ve sacrificed? How much you’ve had to deal with while I sit on the fucking sidelines, watching my team play without me?” His hands were in his hair now, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You think I don’t feel like a goddamn failure every second of every day? That I don’t fucking hate myself for it?”

Your chest tightened. “Joe—”

“I get it, okay?” His voice was hoarse, his breathing heavy. “I get it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve any of this.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

Then, finally, you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I never said that.”

Joe looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you saw it.

The exhaustion. The fear. The guilt.

And underneath it all, something else. Something raw and painful and impossible to ignore.

“I can’t do this,” he said suddenly, shaking his head, stepping back. “Not tonight.”

Your stomach dropped. “Joe.”

But he was already turning away.

Already leaving.

And for the first time, you didn’t go after him.

Time, though, has a funny way of making fools out of people.

Because a little longer turned into another year. And another.

And soon, you weren’t just the girlfriend who had been with Joe since before the fame. You were the girlfriend who was still waiting. The one people whispered about at games, in comment sections, in DMs you tried not to read.

Why hasn’t he proposed yet? If he wanted to marry her, he would’ve by now. She’s been with him forever. That’s kinda embarrassing.

You weren’t stupid. You heard the whispers. You ignored them, brushed them off, laughed about them with Joe like they didn’t sting.

But deep down, they did.

And then, one night, you cracked.

It wasn’t planned. You weren’t trying to pick a fight. You were just lying in bed beside Joe, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, when an engagement post popped up on your feed. Another NFL couple. Another ring. Another reminder.

You set your phone down. Turned toward Joe, who was staring at the ceiling like he always did when he couldn’t sleep.

“Joe,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, eyes still fixed upward.

“Are you ever going to marry me?”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t bitter. Just quiet. Tired.

Joe closed his eyes. Let out a slow breath. And in that moment, you already knew the answer.

Not yet. Not now. I need more time.

The same thing he’d been saying for years.

But this time, you weren’t sure you could keep waiting.

--

It didn’t happen in one moment. It wasn’t a clean break, a single conversation where you both sat down, acknowledged the inevitable, and walked away like two people who had outgrown each other.

No, it was ugly. It was heartbreaking. It was loud.

It started in the living room, the place that had once been your sanctuary. The place where you curled up on the couch together after long days, where you laid your head on his lap while he absentmindedly played with your hair, where he kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But tonight, it was a battleground.

You stood near the coffee table, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to keep from falling apart, while Joe paced in front of the fireplace, his hands tangled in his hair. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his entire body radiating frustration. But under it—under the anger, the exhaustion—was something else.

Defeat.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Joe muttered, voice low but strained, like it physically hurt him to say it out loud.

Your stomach twisted. “Doing what?”

“This!” He gestured between the two of you, his voice louder now, raw with emotion. “The fighting, the tension, the constant feeling that no matter what I do, I’m letting you down.”

You flinched, because that wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t letting you down—he was shutting you out. Pushing you away, piece by piece, until you barely recognized the man standing in front of you.

And yet, despite it all, you still wanted to fight.

You needed to fight.

“Joe, you haven’t even tried—”

His laugh was hollow, sharp. “Tried? Are you kidding me?” He shook his head, running a frustrated hand down his face. “I have been trying for months. Trying to be what you need, trying to hold this shit together while I feel like I’m losing everything.”

Your throat tightened. “I never asked you to hold it together alone.”

He looked at you then, and the pain in his eyes nearly brought you to your knees.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “And that’s the worst fucking part.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, you saw it—the breaking point. The moment where all the fights, all the silences, all the nights spent lying in the same bed but feeling miles apart had led to.

This was it.

You swallowed, hard. “Joe… don’t do this.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how to be what you need anymore.”

“I don’t need you to be anything—I just need you to try,” you choked out, hot tears spilling over your cheeks.

“I am trying!” His voice cracked, his hands gripping his hair like he was barely holding himself together. “But I’m not enough for you! And I don’t think I ever will be!”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Your breath hitched, and for a second, everything blurred—your vision, your thoughts, reality itself. Because how could he say that? How could he look at you, after everything, and think he wasn’t enough?

He had always been enough.

He had been everything.

Your chest heaved, your heart splintering, but you forced yourself to take a step forward, reaching for him like you had so many times before.

But this time, Joe stepped back.

Like touching you would break him completely.

Like it already had.

A sob ripped through your throat. “Joe, please—”

His eyes were glassy now, his own tears threatening to fall. But his face was set, his hands shaking at his sides.

“This isn’t working anymore.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through you like a blade.

And just like that, the world tilted.

You had imagined a lot of worst-case scenarios over the past few months—imagined nights where he would sleep on the couch, imagined him needing time apart, even imagined him telling you he wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

But this?

This was never supposed to happen.

He was supposed to fight.

He was supposed to love you enough to stay.

But instead, Joe exhaled shakily, like this was killing him too, and took another step back.

Like he had already made his decision.

Like he was already gone.

And then, through the unbearable tightness in your throat, through the tears blurring your vision, you said the only thing you could.

“What about everything you promised me?”

His face broke. Just for a second.

And then, softer than you’d ever heard him, he whispered, “I meant every word.”

And still, he turned away. Still, he walked to the door, grabbed his keys, and hesitated for only a second before pulling it open.

And you stood there, frozen in time, watching as the love of your life—the boy who once promised you forever under Louisiana stars—walked out of your life like he had never meant to stay.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was deafening.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Your legs gave out before you even realized you were falling. You collapsed onto the couch, hands clutching your chest as if that would somehow stop the pain, as if pressing hard enough could keep your heart from shattering.

But it did.

Piece by piece. And Joe?

Joe was gone.

--

Joe wasn’t sure when it started.

The feeling had been creeping up on him for months—slow at first, like a whisper in the back of his mind, something he could ignore if he kept moving, if he kept winning.

But then he got hurt.

And suddenly, there was nowhere to run.

No game to prepare for, no film to study, no Sunday nights under the lights where he could lose himself in the only thing that had ever made him feel like enough.

He had always known you were out of his league. Everyone did.

You were a force—bright and untouchable, the kind of woman who could walk into a room and have everyone wrapped around your finger without even trying. You were loved in ways Joe had never been. Not because of what you did, not because of your talent or your career, but just because of who you were.

And Joe?

Joe was… Joe.

He had worked for everything. Clawed his way to the top, gritted his teeth through every setback, played with a chip on his shoulder so sharp it could cut. He had spent his entire life proving people wrong, showing them he was worth it, and still, sometimes it felt like it wasn’t enough.

But not with you. At least, not at first.

At first, you had looked at him like he was someone special—not because of football, not because he was Joe Burrow, but because he was yours. And for a while, that had been enough.

But then the marriage thing came up.

Then the quiet expectation that he was supposed to take the next step, that he was supposed to be ready.

And fuck, he wanted to be.

He wanted to put a ring on your finger, wanted to build a life with you, wanted to buy you the house you dreamed about and fill it with all the stupid cats he promised you back at LSU.

But the more you pushed, the more it felt like he was already failing.

You deserved the world, and he—he wasn’t sure he knew how to give it to you. You had grown up with love. Joe had grown up with pressure.

Your family adored you, your friends would kill for you, strangers on the internet called you an angel, and the worst part? They were right.

You were perfect. You were kind, and patient, and you gave so much of yourself without ever asking for anything in return—until, eventually, you did.

Until you started looking at him like you needed something more.

And maybe that’s when it started.

The resentment. The guilt.

The way he began shutting down because every time he looked at you, he saw someone who had given him everything, and all he could do was hold it in his hands and wonder when he was going to drop it.

So he pulled away.

And then he got injured. And then it got worse.

Because for the first time in his life, Joe had nothing to offer.

Football was gone. He was stuck on the sidelines, watching his teammates play without him, watching the world move forward while he stood still. And every time he came home, there you were—beautiful and untouchable and looking at him with so much love, and God, it made him want to rip his fucking hair out.

Because you weren’t supposed to love him like that.

Not when he was like this. Not when he felt like nothing.

And so, he made himself nothing to you.

He let the silence stretch between you, let the fights spiral into something he couldn’t control, let the guilt eat him alive until the only option left was to let you go.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he didn’t love you.

But because he loved you too much to keep being a disappointment.

Because you were everything. And he was just him.

--

Joe barely remembered the drive to Ja’Marr’s house.

The roads were dark and wet from rain, the city quiet in the way it only got after midnight, and yet everything inside him was loud. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles were white, and his breath came in short, uneven bursts, like his body was still trying to catch up to what had just happened.

He had left.

He had actually left.

The second Ja’Marr opened the door, his easygoing expression dropped. “Shit.”

Joe must have looked as bad as he felt.

Ja’Marr didn’t ask questions, didn’t crack a joke or act like this was nothing. He just stepped aside, letting Joe in without a word.

Joe walked past him, straight to the couch, sinking down like his body couldn’t hold him up anymore. His hands were still shaking. He stared at them, trying to steady his breath, but the more he tried to push it down, the worse it got.

He felt like he was imploding.

Ja’Marr sat across from him, elbows on his knees. “You good?”

Joe huffed out something that was supposed to be a laugh but came out broken.

“No,” he admitted.

And then, just like that, the weight of it all came crashing down.

He broke.

For the first time in years, maybe ever, Joe let himself feel it.

His shoulders caved, his head fell into his hands, and before he could stop himself, a sob tore through his chest. It wasn’t quiet, wasn’t controlled—it was raw, guttural, the kind of grief that sat heavy in his ribcage and made him feel like he was drowning.

Ja’Marr swore under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Damn, man.”

Joe couldn’t respond. He could barely breathe.

Because he had spent so long trying to convince himself this was the right thing—that letting you go was necessary, that it was better for you, that one day you’d understand—but now, sitting on his best friend’s couch, in a house that wasn’t his, without you, it hit him.

You weren’t in the next room.

You weren’t waiting for him to come back.

You weren’t his anymore.

And for the first time since he met you, since you were just a girl in his corner, since he was just a college quarterback with a dream—he was alone.

—

The house was silent.

The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but hollow.

You stood in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, staring at the front door as if it would swing open at any second, as if Joe would walk back in, apologize, say he didn’t mean it.

But the house stayed empty.

You should’ve done something—gone to bed, taken a shower, moved—but you couldn’t.

Your body felt detached, like you were floating just outside of yourself, watching as the reality of what had happened settled into your bones.

He was gone.

You sucked in a shaky breath, your eyes darting around the room, landing on all the pieces of him he had left behind. His hoodie draped over the back of the couch. His sneakers kicked off near the door. The blanket you always fought over, still crumpled where he had last used it.

Your throat tightened.

It felt wrong.

How was it possible that someone could just leave, and yet everything still looked the same? How was it possible that the world hadn’t just stopped?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulling it into your chest, clutching it so tightly your fingers ached. It still smelled like him—like his cologne, like home, like everything you were supposed to have forever.

A sharp, broken sob tore through you.

Your legs gave out.

You sank onto the floor, your body curling in on itself, gasping for air between sobs that didn’t seem to end.

You had imagined a million worst-case scenarios for your relationship, but you had never imagined this.

A fight, maybe. A bad one.

A few nights apart, maybe even a week.

But not this.

Not a house that suddenly felt too big, too cold, too wrong without him in it.

Not a silence that felt like it would swallow you whole.

Not an ending that you weren’t ready for.

Not Joe—your Joe—leaving, and not coming back.

Joe didn’t tell his parents right away.

He had gone weeks pretending it wasn’t real, pushing it down, acting like if he ignored it long enough, it wouldn’t hurt. Like the breakup was just another fight, another rough patch, and any second now, you’d come home.

But then spring rolled around, and he found himself back in Athens for a few days, sitting at his parents’ kitchen table, pushing food around his plate while his mom chatted about some wedding she had gone to.

He barely heard her—until she said your name.

“I just know she’ll look so beautiful at her own wedding one day,” Robin said, smiling like the thought made her happy. “Did she ever decide on a dress style? I remember she showed me a few options the last time we talked.”

Joe’s fork clattered against the plate.

His parents looked up.

The room suddenly felt too small. The walls too close. The weight in his chest unbearable.

“She’s not picking a dress,” he said flatly.

His mom’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

Joe exhaled sharply, staring at the table. His throat felt tight, his hands fisting in his lap. “We broke up.”

Silence.

Not the kind he was used to. Not the easy kind.

His dad was the first to speak. “When?”

“A while ago.” His voice was hoarse, his jaw tight.

Robin looked like he had just slapped her across the face. “Joe… what?”

She sounded hurt.

Like he had broken her heart, too.

“You didn’t tell us?”

Joe swallowed. “I didn’t know how.”

His mom was still frozen in shock. “But—why? What happened?”

Joe should have had an answer. He should have been able to give them some logical, concrete reason why the only real love he had ever known had just… ended.

But there wasn’t one. Not really.

So he just shook his head. “I wasn’t enough for her.”

His dad exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Joe—”

Robin’s eyes filled with tears, and that—that was what finally did it. That was the moment it hit him, the moment the denial shattered and left nothing but cold, brutal truth in its place.

You were gone.

Not just for a few days.

Not just waiting for him to fix it.

You were gone.

Joe scraped his chair back so suddenly it screeched against the floor.

“I gotta go,” he muttered, standing up, hands shaking.

“Joe—”

“I just—I gotta go.”

And then he was out the door, out of the house, into his car, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

His vision blurred. His chest caved in.

He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to hold it together.

It didn’t work.

That was the moment Joe decided he needed a distraction.

A new game plan. A new something—because if he let himself sit in this pain, if he let himself really feel it, it might consume him completely.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He threw himself into excess.

He spent money like it was nothing, like it was oxygen, like keeping the spending going would somehow fill the empty space inside of him. New cars, new watches, expensive nights out where the bill was triple what it needed to be. If someone wanted a round of shots? Joe was covering it. If his guys wanted to go to Miami for the weekend? No problem.

And the women.

That was the easiest distraction of all.

They were everywhere—at the clubs, at the restaurants, at the parties where he never used to go but suddenly needed to be. They touched him like they wanted him, smiled at him like he was the most important man in the room. And for a few hours at a time, he let them.

He let them run their hands over his chest, let them whisper in his ear, let them follow him back to hotel rooms or his new penthouse in the city.

He let them treat him like he was whole.

But then morning would come, and the illusion would shatter.

Every single time, he’d wake up next to someone who wasn’t you.

Someone whose perfume didn’t smell like yours. Someone whose touch didn’t feel like home. Someone who would roll over, press lazy kisses to his skin, and call him baby in a way that made his stomach twist.

Because you used to call him that.

And now you never would again.

It was supposed to feel good. It was supposed to be freeing, making up for lost time, for all the years he had spent as the devoted boyfriend, the one-woman man, the guy who turned down numbers and shut down flirting because he only wanted you.

But none of it worked.

None of it made him feel better.

Because at the end of the day, he was still Joe.

And you were still gone.

It took one of his teammates pulling him aside one night to finally say what he couldn’t.

“Bro,” Sam said, hand on Joe’s shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Joe blinked, pulling his attention away from whatever girl had been whispering in his ear at the bar. “What?”

Sam gave him a look. “You’re not this guy.”

Joe let out a sharp laugh. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Joe didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

But he wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

So he just exhaled, forced a smirk, and lifted his drink. “Don’t worry about me, man.”

But Sam was worried.

And deep down, Joe knew why.

Because no matter how many nights he spent surrounded by people, no matter how much money he threw at the problem, no matter how many women climbed into his bed—

The only thing he ever felt anymore was hollow.

--

The day you packed your bags and left Cincinnati, you didn’t cry.

You had done enough of that.

Your best friend had offered—begged, really—for you to come stay with her in Columbus, and after weeks of waking up in a house that no longer felt like a home, you finally said yes.

It wasn’t running away.

It was survival.

Joe had been your world for so long that, without him, you weren’t sure where to stand. Your entire adult life had revolved around him—his schedule, his dreams, his highs, his lows. You had built a life inside of his. And now, that life was gone.

So, for the first time in years, you weren’t trying to be somebody’s something. You weren’t trying to be the perfect girlfriend, the supportive WAG, the woman who held it all together.

You were just trying to be you.

Whoever that was.

—

Columbus was different.

It wasn’t Cincinnati, where every street corner reminded you of Joe. Where the grocery store held memories of early-morning runs before his games. Where your favorite restaurant was the place he took you after he signed his first big contract. Where you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a billboard with his face plastered on it, a cruel reminder that he was still Joe Burrow, still untouchable, still larger than life—just not yours anymore.

Columbus was quiet. A fresh start.

Your best friend had a cozy apartment near downtown, and the first night you arrived, she didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She just ordered takeout, opened a bottle of wine, and let you sit in silence.

That first week, you didn’t do much.

You slept too much, or not at all. Some nights, you laid awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Joe was doing the same. Other nights, exhaustion won, and you crashed so hard you barely dreamed.

The dreams were the worst.

Because in them, he was still yours.

You still woke up to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, still felt the weight of his arm draped over your waist, still heard his voice murmuring morning, baby in that slow, sleep-rough tone he always had.

But then morning would come, and none of it was real.

So, you started over.

You got a cat.

It wasn’t planned—you had just gone to the shelter one afternoon, thinking you’d look, thinking maybe it would distract you for a few minutes. But then you saw her.

Small. A little scrappy. White with a black spot over her eye, looking at you like she had already decided you belonged to her.

The name came easily.

“Larry,” you told the adoption worker, lips twitching into something like a smile. “Her name is Larry.”

Joe would’ve laughed at that.

Joe would’ve—

No.

This wasn’t about Joe.

Larry was yours.

So you took her home, bought her the stupidest, most ridiculous toys you could find, and let her curl up on your chest at night, purring so loudly it drowned out the silence.

You learned how to French braid.

You had never bothered before—your hair had always been something he liked, something he ran his fingers through when he was half-asleep on the couch. But now? Now, you spent hours watching tutorials, standing in front of the mirror, fingers twisting and looping until, finally, you got it right.

It was small, stupid even. But it was something just for you.

You started reading.

At first, it was just a way to pass the time—something to do instead of scrolling through Instagram, instead of wondering what he was doing. But then you fell into it, deep. You found yourself curled up on the couch for hours, lost in stories, letting yourself escape into other people’s lives.

Romance novels were hard at first. Because love still felt like a wound, like something sharp and raw and too close to home.

But one day, months after the breakup, you found yourself reading a love story and not feeling like your chest was caving in.

That was progress.

You cooked for yourself.

You had always cooked for Joe—his favorites, his comfort foods, the meals he requested after long practices. But now, you cooked what you wanted. You tried new recipes, bought ingredients you had never used before, made dishes with no one else’s preferences in mind.

It was weird, at first.

But then, one night, you sat at the table, eating something just for you, and it didn’t feel lonely.

It felt… peaceful.

You went on long walks, alone, with no one to check in with. You bought flowers for yourself. You started journaling, writing down things you had never let yourself think too hard about.

You let yourself exist.

And one day—on a random, unremarkable afternoon—you realized something. It had been weeks since you last thought of him.

Not that he was gone.

Not that it didn’t still hurt, sometimes, in quiet moments when you weren’t expecting it.

But for the first time, in a long, long time—

You felt like you. Without him.

[ms-demeanor]

In my college American poetry class we had to do memorized readings of three poems, one of the ones I chose was Langston Hughes' "Weary Blues" because I'd already built a dramatic performance of it in high school.

This was an interesting college class because it was tiny (16 students at the start of the quarter, 12 at the end) and because it was *poetry* a lot of people in the class fudged the readings and did them the day of class, which meant that they weren't really prepared to discuss them. After two excruciating classes in a row where I was the only person ready to discuss the readings (in the second class I literally had to sit on my hands to keep myself from trying to speak after the professor said "Alli cannot answer for the rest of the hour, somebody else say something" and then nobody did for another ten minutes of the most awkward silence I have ever encountered), the professor brought in lyric sheets for "Summertime" from Porgy and Bess.

He started the class with our normal written quiz, then asked who was ready to talk. I was, because of course I was, but nobody else raised their hands.

"If you're not going to talk, then you're going to sing," he said, and handed out lyrics to everyone. "We are all adults, and we have an adult agreement that you will read the assignments and be prepared to discuss them, and I will lead discussions and teach you about the readings. You are not holding up your end of the agreement like adults, so I'm treating you like children, and your participation for the last three classes will not be based on your quizzes - which is good news for a lot of you - but on doing a sing-along today. So I'm going to sing this first, then we're going to sing it five times together, and then we're going to talk about the song together, and you are going to do your readings before my next class or I am going to be handing out more lyrics and we'll sing another song together like kindergartens."

That class is why the four students who dropped did so, but everyone who stayed was prepared for discussions for the rest of the quarter.

Anyway, that was before our second poetry presentation so by that point I'd already sung with these people and had no shame, so i decided I was going to actually sing the singer's part in "Weary Blues."

I recorded it on my phone and asked my friend Lindsey, who was in the class and happened to be a choir director, to listen to it and tell me if it sounded terrible. She said that it did not and asked if I had any vocal training and I said no and she said "you should join a choir" and i felt very flattered and continued practicing and memorizing the poem.

We had to give critiques of each person's performance, and most people were generally polite like you normally would be when giving feedback, but apparently one young woman was still pissed at me for being a suck-up and doing the assigned readings.

"First of all i couldn't even pay attention to the rest of the poem because you sound like a man. I think singing was a weird choice and singing like a man made it impossible for me to take your reading seriously" and i was a bit surprised (so were other people) but simply said "thank you, that's good to know, i was trying to sound like a man because the speaker in the poem describes the singer as a man, it's good to know i hit that mark" and we moved on.

Lindsey and the professor both checked in on me at the end of class, Lindsey to say "practice made that sound really really really good you should join a choir" and the professor to say "i was leery when you asked to sing part of your poem, i don't usually allow that but I'm glad i did" and both to ask if I was upset by the other student's comments.

I was not upset. Mentally i was jumping up and down and doing backflips and was bummed because the other student was probably just being mean and didn't actually think my voice sounded masculine.

But now I'm finding videos with titles like "is that my mom or a dude? Learning about the contralto range" and I'm like haha wait yeah, gender euphoria is stored in the vocal cords.

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ under your roof ]❜

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ your baby daughter really likes uncle wade’s roommate, and logan would be lying if he said he didn’t form a quick attachment to the two of you as well┊2.9k words; prt one (here), prt two, prt three coming soon!!

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: probably occ logan, he’s on his best behavior, mostly fluff with a little side of angst, single mother reader with an unspecified age, this chapter is mainly between logan & your daughter, reader has a bad relationship with the father & he’s an asshole, one joking threat of stabbing

➤ author's note: this was so much fun to write! single mom reader and her daughter are so lovely and i have two more part featuring these two and logan coming up! i hope you guys enjoy

kids don’t like logan. it’s not a profound discovery nor is it a surprise to anyone who learns this fact. he’s intimidating enough to make some full-grown men piss themselves with so much as a glare, much less little babies who start sobbing uncontrollably when they see a giant scary man walking around believing that he would eat them or something even though he’s literally just standing there. whether the little ones have an instinct that signals him out as a mutant or he simply looks like a bad man from one of their fairy tales, he isn’t sure, but it’s not the best feeling either way when he’s trying to settle back into normal life with the constant weight of knowing that he’ll never fit in.

it doesn’t help that, in general, he isn’t good with kids either. he’s generally patient with their immaturity since they don’t know any better, but he finds the crying and whining extremely headache-inducing to his sensitive senses without a clue how to calm them down.

moving in with wade and acquainting himself with his friends was a start, but the missing part of his life to make him finally feel loved and at home was the family of two who lived downstairs. the first time he met you was also the first time he met your daughter when wade told him to dress a little nicer because the two of them were invited to your place for dinner. he explained that the two of you were practically siblings and that it would probably be something he should get used to, reminding him to “turn that frown upside down” because he was about to meet someone who “puts gordon ramsey to shame.”

the last bit sounded great to him, especially because no one in their household knew how to make anything more complicated than noodles without setting it on fire and the cost of outside food was really starting to tally up. still, he just wore some cargo pants and threw on a leather jacket, running his fingers through his hair once which was already a lot more effort than he’s ever put into meeting anyone else before.

wade didn’t even bother knocking, just being himself and picking the lock as he so typically does, kicking the door open and yelling a loud ass “daddy’s home!” which echoed throughout the apartment as well as the hallway they were standing in. the mouth-watering smell of grilled salmon filled the air, making wade hum in excitement, “do you need help with anything? taste testing, perhaps?”

“no, do me a favor and stay away from the kitchen!” your voice rang out loud and clear, sounding much like a mother scolding a teenager for the thousandth time. “i’ll stab you, do me a favor and just hang out in the living room.”

“okie-dokie!” he responded in an annoying sing-song voice, “come on, peanut, take off your shoes.” the said man could already tell how at home his roommate seemed in this place, just as comfortable as he was back home, walking with steps he’s taken many times before and prompting logan to do the same (except he was mainly keeping to himself and being much more mild-mannered in this unfamiliar area).

the place was as spacious as the small area could be and tastefully decorated, but all sharp corners of furniture were taped over to dull the edges and the carpet had multiple kinds of colorful toys littered about. in the center of it all, was a little toddler about two or three years old, playing with a kitchen set and trying to copy what her mom was doing by running back and forth between the living room and the kitchen. she didn’t even notice the two men at first, not until wade called out her name and she dropped the plastic utensils to clap her hands together before waddling over to him.

“hey, baby! how are you doing? did you miss me?” he cooed in the high-pitched voice reserved only for mary puppins, reaching down to pick up the girl by her underarms and kissing her cheek, spinning around with her in his arms as she giggled uncontrollably. “do you wanna meet the big scary wolverine while i go bother your mommy? who am i kidding, of course you do!” he then dropped her onto the couch, making sure that she didn’t bounce up too high on the cushion and hurt herself. “okay, you keep her company while i go see what’s for dessert— bye!”

before logan could say anything, he was already gone, disappearing around the corner into the sound of sizzling foods and the scent of herbs. pursing his lips together and shuffling his feet around for a second, he grunted and braced himself for the child to start sobbing uncontrollably because she was left alone with him. the first time he meets you, whom he’s heard so many good things about, is going to be when you have to kick him out with his tail in between his legs for disturbing the peace of your home.

but the cries never came, and his eyes met her big curious ones as she just stared up at him in silence. it was honestly a tad bit unnerving like she was sizing him up and carefully thinking about her next move. 

and then she started giggling like earlier, kind of a more gurgling noise of playfulness more than anything, standing at his feet and waving around her short outstretched arms to signal that she wanted uppies from him.

“oh no—“ he’s not sure why he even let out a word or protest to begin with when he knew she wouldn’t listen, but it was pure instinct since, once again, he had no idea how to handle children. although she would probably also start crying if he didn’t listen to her, so he reluctantly bent down to pick her up, holding her close to the side of his chest and nervously awaiting her next move.

she was motionless for a minute with a little hand on her chubby cheek and the other trying to clutch onto the thick leather of his jacket, eyes darting around like she was seeing the world from a new perspective for the first time even though he was a hundred percent certain wade held her like his when they are the same height.

“kitty!”

“what?”

she pointed at the top of his head, his hair tuffs specifically, and reached out to pull on one of them curiously.

“no— not a kitty!” he’s never going to escape that fucking nickname, he wouldn’t be surprised if his roommate taught her to say that before she met him in person, able to perfectly envision wade crouching in front of her with a stupid picture of him on his phone and training her to say “kitty” every time she saw his photo by rewarding her with candy or something since there is no way she associated someone who looks like him to a kitten so quickly unironically.

“no kitty?”

“no— logan, lo-gan.”

she tried to pronounce his name a few times before giving up after getting stuck in the second syllable, blowing a raspberry and going back to what she was doing earlier— finding the most fun in tugging on his cowlicks like she was trying to figure out if he naturally woke up like that with the inability to brush them down or styled them with gel every day.

he sat down on the couch, the cushion sinking under his heavyweight, and sat your daughter down on his lap instead, except she didn’t want to sit down. standing on his lap and pressing her little feet into his thighs, she began to climb onto his shoulder like he was a jungle gym, using his arms as stepping stones to reach her destination while he bent over at the waist to allow her to crawl onto his back without falling behind him.

“you’re like a little lemur,” he muttered, still in slight shock that this kid seemed to like him and wasn’t freaking out like he was the big bad wolf. he wouldn’t admit it, but it was a really nice feeling that gave him a sense of normalcy like he was just some guy rather than the killing machine mutant most knew him as. she wouldn’t stop giggling and holding onto him, which made him feel his ice-cold heart melting like snow by spring’s first touch. 

all the while, he could hear you and wade chatting away in the background: something about him needing to step away from the stove, how you needed to trust him because him starting “that fire” was a one-time thing, what was for dessert, and then taking a sharp turn when the conversation suddenly shifted to the topic of the father.

he felt somewhat guilty about listening in, but he knew that deadpool was going to tell him eventually, so there wasn’t really any harm in a bit of eavesdropping (besides, it would have been difficult to ignore considering that your baby was being very well-behaved and his hearing wouldn’t have been able to pick up on anything else.)

“so… any news about her dad?” the solemn tone of a man who was hardly ever serious a day of his life was more terrifying than anything he’d ever witnessed in his long life.

“... he suddenly wants to be a family man, i guess…”

“what the hell does that even mean?”

the sound of a knife chopping vegetables against a wooden surface slowly came to a stop followed by a sigh. “like he wants to have a family… just not with the one he already started… he’s busy planning his wedding with the girl he cheated on me with and told me not to contact him again for any reason.”

“oh my god, what an asshole! fuck that guy!”

“i can’t believe that was the guy i thought i was going to spend the rest of my life with, could you imagine? i don’t even know what i could have done wrong for him to be like this— i asked him so many times and he just said that he’s ‘fallen out of love,’ has ‘moved on,’ and that i would ‘be cruel’ to ask him to stay even if it was for the sake of our child…”

“well if it’s any comfort, he would have been on the next episode of forensic files the second i got a moment alone with him— i mean, the last time we saw him, he literally pushed his own daughter away when she tried to hug him! what kind of sociopath wouldn’t adore such a cutie patootie, especially his own flesh and blood?! ”

“it’s fine,” you hissed, gritting your teeth at the memory. “it’s not like he’s done anything to deserve getting to be called a father to an angel anyway, i’ll take care of her myself— wait… didn’t i also invite your new roommate? did he not come?”

“no, he’s in the living room, he’s been here this entire time,” he informed, taking a bite out of an apple like an asshole from a film.

“and you didn’t tell me?!!!” you quickly ran into the said area, finding logan and your daughter together on the couch. “hi! oh, i’m so sorry i didn’t come to greet you properly— and left my daughter for you to look after too— god, i’m just a terrible host!” you tilted your head, “what’s your name?”

he then realized he was staring which was rather impolite, mouth slightly agape too like a fish out of water which left a few seconds of awkward silence in between. “i-i’m logan,” he managed to sputter, “nice to meet you..”

wade raised a nonexistent eyebrow at his strange mannerisms before a wide, shit-eating grin split his face. 

“aww, baby, why are you bothering this poor old man— come to mommy, it’s dinnertime,” you clapped your hands and held them out fully expecting her to reach out and grab onto you as she usually does, but instead she looked up at you with big pleading eyes and held onto him even more tightly like a koala clinging to a branch. “oh, did you get attached already? you really are my daughter… logan, could you do me a favor and put her in her high chair while i plate everything?”

“yes, of course.”

you turned back into the kitchen, leaving the two men to follow with one holding your baby in his arms. all it took was one look to understand what he was thinking, logan didn’t need to be a telepath to know. 

“if you don’t shut the fuck up—”

“i didn’t even say anything!”

“good, keep it that way.”

love at first sight, wade has seen it plenty of times and understands it well, something so unpredictable and powerful, that it could bring the wolverine down on his knees. it’s even more potent when he trips over himself seeing you in your natural environment instead of all dressed up for a first date, slightly sweaty from the heat radiating off the stove, unkempt hair sticking to the sides of your face, no makeup or defenses up— just you as yourself to the core.

“alright, bub, let's get you seated…” it took a few tries to get her in because she refused to align her little legs into the holes of the plastic piece, but she eventually got into it just fine and he pulled up his own chair to watch you place a one of the most decadent plates of pasta with chunks of salmon he’s ever seen in front of him with a word of gratitude. 

“sorry it isn’t anything special, i completely forgot that i arranged this in the first place….”

“oh, no, it’s perfect—”

“you’re damn right ‘it’s perfect!’” wade interjected, “lemme tell you, wolvie, this simple plate of pasta is better than sex, i know damn well you’ve never tasted anything like it in all your two-hundred years!”

“well, now that you say it like that, he’s going to have high expectations and it will taste like ass compared to the actual best pasta dish he’s ever had.”

“he likes ass, don’t worry—”

the said man cleared his throat to steer the conversation back around, feeling the foreign sensation of embarrassment burning his face hit him at full force. “it’s delicious, thank you, truly the best i’ve ever tasted.”

“aw, you don’t have to say that.”

“no, he’s right, i think you really outdid yourself this time!”

the dinner was carried by cheerful conversations and fun stories, and despite just meeting you today, logan almost felt like he knew you for years and this was something a commonplace tradition between loved ones which was something he’s been yearning for for as long as he can remember. as he watches you laugh and feed your adorable baby, he can’t help but wonder about the idiotic man who was willing to throw away something so wonderful— something which would complete his life and fill the void in his heart.

“well, you two can hang around while i clean her up and put her to bed. there’s some wine and beer in—” you watched as deadpool had already opened your fridge and was digging around like a raccoon in trash before fishing out two bottles of beers and closing the door with his hips. “alrighty then, i’ll join you two in a bit.”

he watched as you disappeared into the hallway before diving headfirst into the couch next to the wolverine and handing him his beer, kicking his feet and smiling as if he was a middle-schooler at an all girls’ sleepover. “okay, so she has a solid job as an accountant, has her own place and car, is funny and pretty, but most importantly for you, single. she doesn’t like flowers as gifts, but if you gift her groceries or cleaning supplies—”

“she wouldn’t want an asshole like me,” he grunted, taking a sip from the bottle. “not when she just got free from another one.”

“peanut, i met the other guy, you’re infinitely better than him! as much as i would like to keep you to myself, i have already planned out my speech at your wedding as your best man, so just keep in mind that i’m your wingman, okay? don’t lie to me either, i know you have a little crush, and i think she does too—”

“no, she doesn’t.”

“quit cutting me off, you motherfucker!”

it was easier to try and suppress the sprouting seed of infatuation before it bloomed out of control. he didn’t want to hurt you or himself by chasing something that shouldn’t be in the first place. you deserve better, you and your daughter. you both should have someone who was younger and had the energy to be a good father and husband, not some old mutant who was freeloading off of his roommate and terrified of losing more people he cared about. if you knew about the blood on his hands and the claws embedded in them, you would probably be worried that you allowed him to hold your baby and shun him permanently. 

and yet he was already attached, sitting here imagining domestic life where he could see her grow up through the phases of life and help her navigate its complexities while also waking up next to you in his arms and seeing your beautiful smile everyday. 

maybe he won’t let that glimmer of hope die out and just hold onto it for a little while longer, allowing it to leave a little lingering smile on his weary face.

[reoverie]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ /⠀ NOT-SO-LUKEWARM ⠀ ✦ ⠀ ITOSHI ⠀ RIN

⠀ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗇 ⠀ ⨾ ⠀ 𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎

⠀ ⠀ 糸島凛⠀ ⟡⠀ 𝒇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ⠀ ⠀ 𝟪𝟫𝟧 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 ⠀ ⠀ 𝗰𝘄. ⠀ 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 ⠀ ⠀ 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀. ⠀ 𝗂 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗐𝗄𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺 !

feline eyes watch you like a hawk, analysing your every move. if you were an opponent of his on the field, he would have devoured you whole and made you a part of his ploy.

but as he watches you, entranced by the way you carry yourself, he can’t seem to pick you apart. not when it seems like there’s sakura blossoms trailing behind you while an orchestra plays with every step you take.

rin is utterly infatuated with you, and he can’t understand why.

is it because of how you speak to everyone with such kindness and compassion? every word that rolls off your tongue feels like caramel drizzling over a scoop of vanilla ice cream, your dulcet voice echoing in his head when he least expects it.

no, that’s not it.

perhaps it was your willingness to help everyone in your class. you constantly put your classmates' needs above your own, which was somewhat expected of the class president. yet you constantly exceed everyone’s expectations, especially rin’s.

he didn’t expect to crush on someone as lukewarm as you. though the more his sights landed on you, he began to realize that you weren’t like the rest of the class.

every time your name was mentioned in a conversation, rin finds himself glancing at whoever mentioned your name, shifting in interest. apparently, you had ranked first overall in your class.

he didn’t know that.

so he finds himself leaning in his seat, trying to hear more. turns out, you were balancing your studies alongside the sport you did! which was… cheer?

cheerleading is hardly a sport! but he couldn’t help being intrigued by it, by you.

nevertheless, he starts to learn small things about you; your favorite color, your favorite songs, how you were awarded something in junior high because of your outstanding grades and overall attitude towards your classmates.

it urges him to talk to you, to finally utter a word to you and stand in your presence, even if it means awkward silence on his behalf. what would a conversation between the two of you entail? he’s never spoken to another girl, someone that wasn’t his mother or aunts.

rin never thought someone, much less a girl, had him feeling this way.

his usual stoic and confident demeanor was replaced with.. cowardice? anxiety? and is that a glint of fear in his eyes as he approaches you?

mind swirling with second thoughts, rin figures that this would blow up in his face. a soccer prodigy, afraid to talk to a girl? how idiotic was that! he’s never going to hear the end of it from his classmates. he might as well develop a plan to convince his mother to homeschool him so he never has to face you or anyone else again, while devoting the rest of his time to soccer more than he already has.

“oh, itoshi-kun! good morning!” your candy-like voice snaps him out of his impending spiral, cool toned eyes gazing down at you sitting at your desk.

had he walked to your desk subconsciously? it seems so.

the boy clears his throat, trying to get rid of the bubble of nerves that formed. “good morning..” he mumbles, eyes darting to some place in the classroom.

his timidness didn’t go unnoticed to you, which earns a giggle from you.

as class president, you’re friendly with most of your classmates, but there was one person you didn’t have the pleasure of befriending yet – itoshi rin.

he keeps to himself, and only ever speaks when participating in class. he plays soccer and shockingly enough (though it’s no surprise), he’s ranked second overall in class, right behind you. you only discovered that because of some classmates of yours, the group of girls more than happy to share that information with you.

awkwardness grows between the two of you, and it makes you shift uncomfortably in your seat. you were never good with tricky situations like this one, but you were fast on your feet.

“i hear there’s a soccer match coming up,” you speak up in hopes to get his attention. and you do, his teal eyes glancing downwards to meet yours. “are you gonna score the winning goal?”

rin knows it’s just a means to get him to talk to you, but regardless it makes his heart ring in his ears. everyone was aware he was a part of the school’s soccer club, but people rarely spoke to him about it, or spoke to him in general.

he thinks he needs to work on his people skills, but that thought is flushed away as he begins to share details of his upcoming game.

“i plan on it. no way am i letting any half-baked players get in my way of scoring.”

his way of speaking about his opponents stuns you for a moment, but the initial shock is replaced with a light chuckle of amusement and a warm smile.

for a beat, rin’s heart skips, and he’s certain his cheeks have gone from ivory to crimson as you smile up at him. it only pushes him to talk to you more.

and he does, taking a seat at the desk next to yours. he hopes whoever sits there doesn’t mind his overtake, elated over the fact that he’s talking to you, the only other thing that occupied his mind alongside soccer.

© REOVERIE, 2024 ⠀/ ⠀my works are purely fiction and, in no way, is canon aligned. please like and reblog if you enjoyed!

[shyamanuensis]

Showers & Scourers - M.R

a little angsty - a little sweet - a little riddle. enjoy xo

“Has anyone tried talking to him?” “What - and enter the dorm room of that volatile little shit? No fucking way!”

This is where you came in. The friend turned lover turned ex. Your presence hadn’t exactly been a common request when it came to Mattheo Riddle since the rather explosive and episodic breakup you’d had; rumour around the castle being you broke his heart first before the poor boy even stood a chance. However, his mates were well aware of the influence that you once had on him - that you now still, had over him. As such you had been summoned by requests, pleas, and near-begging to try and talk some sense into someone you had once loved who was so far removed from reality and lost in his own thoughts that you could only describe him as emotionally erratic.

Tomes, scrolls, notepads, furniture, curtains, clothing, shoes, a trunk, bedsheets,  quills - all tossed around the dorm as if a ventus charm had been cast and let loose to cause havoc within the confines of the room. Mattheo wasn’t usually violent - or well towards you at least. In the years that you’d known him; an intimidating threat or smartass comment were his more popular choices of menacing actions than a raised wand or fist; but this - the state of everything; discarded like trash made you thankful you nor anyone else was in his firing line.

The sound of running water from the ensuite he shared with the other 7th-years had you curious. Before you knew it; you found yourself still clothed beneath a heavy cascade of warm running water; steam challenging your breath as you pried the steel scourer out of Mattheo’s hand he had swiped from the kitchens and was using vexatiously upon his skin to try and rid himself of a mark he knew all too well was permanent. 

“Stop.” “No.” “Please?” “No.”

Any attempt to turn the shower off was blocked. His eyes were as red as his skin. His cheeks flushed, lips swollen from how harshly his teeth had taken to them. There was no use trying to argue with him. Trying to talk sense into him. Trying to reason with him. Trying to use logic. The boy was blighted, busted, broken. A rare sight; one that your memory wouldn’t miss. Deprived of all sense and sensibility - too messed up, too tortured, too destroyed; your arms snaked a little too comfortably around him; Mattheo closed his eyes immediately, his body betraying him as he sunk into the comfort of your embrace. The tender ministrations of your fingertips gliding through his hair calmed the turmoil within him suddenly. When you told him that everything was okay - that everything would be alright; it was like your words were a balm to his wounds, his soul.  Mattheo’s arms around your waist tightened. His grip was firm yet so, so far from bruising. It almost felt like he feared that if he let you go, you would disappear from him like the end of a dream. 

“I know you said you never wanted this - but it’s just a mark. It doesn’t change you.”

Oh, how he so desperately wanted those words to be true. Burying his face into the crook of your neck, you felt his breath hotter than the shower’s steam burning across your sensitive skin. You began to hum his favourite song; something you’d learned a long time ago would calm his nerves and that along with the feeling of your fingers still running through his hair managed to lull him into a sense of composure, of peace, that Mattheo had almost forgotten he was capable of feeling. His hands still resting at your waist moved unconsciously; almost habitually having his fingers curl into the dampened fabric of your shirt, acting almost like an anchor on you - like a sailor would to find refuse amidst a storm.

How long the two of you stood there for? You weren’t sure. The seconds turned to minutes turned to hours and his ragged breaths and half-choked, incoherent words indicated not so subtly that in and at this moment, Mattheo needed you. His once light, once angel, once love - and little did you know with everything going in the world outside of this shower, that you, undoubtedly would need him to.

[solxamber]

Leona romantic and here's the song!

https://youtu.be/nBteO-bU78Y?si=BNupz7ZfAHeIzMER

Dont forget to drink water and eat some food!

"Love me like I love you" || Leona Kingscholar

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: We're Still Underground by Eve

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 660

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship

Leona Kingscholar had never trusted happiness. It was a fleeting thing, a trick of the light, a cruel joke whispered on the wind before it was snatched away. He had learned long ago that hope was a losing game, that people only stuck around until they found something—or someone��better.

So when you came into his life, so bright and unwavering, so determined to love him without reservation, Leona didn’t know what to do with it.

You were everything he had convinced himself he wasn’t meant to have. Soft laughter in the morning, your fingers smoothing through his hair as he rested his head in your lap. Gentle kisses on the corner of his mouth, whispered words of affection given so freely it made his chest ache. You looked at him like he was worthy, like he was enough.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because one day, you would realize the truth.

One day, you would see what everyone else had always seen—that he wasn’t worth staying for.

Leona had been waiting for that day since the moment you first called him yours.

Waiting for you to wake up and understand that he could never be the person you deserved.

Waiting for the moment you left him behind.

It was late when it happened, when the words he had spent so long dreading finally left your lips. The two of you were tangled together on his bed, your body warm beside his, your hand resting against his chest in lazy contentment.

“I love you."

He froze.

For a moment, the words didn’t quite register, like a foreign language spoken too softly to understand.

Then, his body tensed, and something heavy lodged itself in his throat.

“Don’t joke about stuff like that,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. His voice was calm, but the grip of his fingers against the sheets betrayed him.

There was silence, thick and suffocating.

Then—

"Leona."

His name on your lips was firm, filled with something unshakable. Before he could move, you reached for his hand, gripping it tightly.

"Look at me."

He did.

And you were watching him with something so raw, so devastatingly real, that it made his heart stutter in his chest.

"I mean it," you said, voice steady, eyes burning into his. "I love you."

Something inside him cracked, something deep and buried, something he had spent years convincing himself didn’t exist.

His breath was uneven, his thoughts a mess of tangled emotions. "Why?" he asked hoarsely.

"Leona, you're it for me." Your fingers tightened around his hand, grounding him, keeping him from slipping back into the shadows of his own mind. "I love you. Not some idealized version of you, not some fantasy. You."

His throat felt tight.

You weren’t saying this because you wanted something from him, or because you were caught up in the moment.

"You think I want the sun?" you murmured, your forehead pressing against his, your warmth seeping into his skin. "I don’t care where we are, Leona. I don’t care if we never leave the underground. As long as I have you, that’s enough."

His fingers twitched, then curled around yours.

For so long, he had been waiting for the inevitable goodbye.

But you weren’t leaving.

You had never planned to.

Slowly, hesitantly, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. He could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, could feel the quiet certainty of your presence beside him.

And maybe, he could believe in this.

Maybe love wasn’t about climbing toward something unreachable. Maybe it wasn’t about being enough for the rest of the world.

Maybe it was simply this—two people standing in the dark, hands clasped tight, knowing that neither of them would ever let go.

And for the first time in his life—

Leona didn't mind remaining underground

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[haartemis]

CROSS THE LINE II | Jude Bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x fem!reader, unnamed fictional RM player x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

summary: after a fallout with your boyfriend, you find solace in a spontaneous night at the movies, where you run into his golden boy teammate. one thing leads to another and you cross the line. what happens next?

A/N: happy holidays yall 🥳 lmk what you guys think!! <3

warnings: infidelity (once again, i don't condone it. 🫣), non explicit smut

PART ONE

before all of this, you’d always imagined an affair as something out of a movie: clandestine meetings, tensions running high, stolen moments, secret rendezvous. but in reality, it’s messier, quieter. it’s second guessing yourself every step of the way, staring at your reflection and admitting you’re a horrible person time and time again, and then doing it anyway. 

it doesn’t start with a bang, no dramatic explosion of passion. after the night at the cinema, things unfold slowly. you text every single day for weeks, conversations ranging from the mundane to the deep. you learn about each other, piece by piece. and jude, you realize, is like quicksand. the more you discover, the deeper you sink. he’s too funny, too kind, too good. unfairly handsome, and somehow better for it.

he has an uncanny way of making you unravel. of making you open up so easily that sometimes you don't notice it's happening. you, usually reserved and guarded, find yourself sharing without hesitation. you suppose its the way there's no judgement from him, no disinterest or impatience.

and then there’s the way he lets you in. with every detail he shares, every message, he pulls you in like a magnet you can’t resist. he tells you about the running joke he’s had with his best friend for years, humor inexplicable to anyone but the two of them. the trivial argument he had with his brother that was inconsequential but still annoying enough to stick in his mind. his new favorite song, sent with a note about how it makes him feel. formative memories he’ll never forget, now shared with you. it’s as though he’s placing his heart on a silver platter, daring you: know me. know me and want me.  

and you do. want him, that is.

that’s the exact reason why you find yourself in his bed one afternoon. 

his room is dimly lit, the curtains drawn against the waning sun. you sit on the edge of the bed, your hands twisting in your lap, nerves running high. jude sits beside you, eyes locked on yours, searching for the final hint of hesitation. a sign that you might leave. but you don’t move. you can’t.

when he leans in, his fingers brushing against your cheek, it feels inevitable. of course you’re here, with him. where else would you be? his touch is warm, grounding, and when his lips finally meet yours, it feels like everything that’s ever happened in the world has led to this moment.

his hands find your waist, sliding under your shirt as the kiss deepens. his touch is firm and warm, yet capable of sending shivers down your spine. you don’t stop him when he pulls your shirt over your head or when his lips trail down your neck, leaving your skin tingling.

 “what are we doing?” you murmur almost to yourself as he bites on a sensitive spot. 

jude pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and full of desire, but there’s something else there too: something deeper, more vulnerable. 

“whatever you want” he says, his voice low, his hand grazing your cheek tenderly. “i want this. i want you”

you nod wordlessly, and the rest happens in a blur. his weight presses you into the mattress, his skin warm under your fingertips as you trace the muscles of his back. he kisses you like he can’t help himself, and you kiss him back just as desperately. plush lips and calloused hands taking their liberties, roaming all over your body, eliciting sounds and sensations you’ve never experienced with anyone else. you don’t hold back either, not when his golden brown skin is all yours to explore, to kiss, to bite. to revel in. 

he moves against you, his hands gripping your hips as you arch into him. there’s nothing slow or tentative about it now. his movements are purposeful and you meet him with equal attention . when he finally pushes inside you, you let out a rush of breath, almost like a sigh of relief. it’s overwhelming, the way he fits perfectly inside of you, the way it feels familiar and routine, like he’s done this a hundred times before. 

the room is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing, the creak of the mattress as he rhythmically thrusts into you, his low murmurs against your skin that range from curses to your name to soft groans. your nails dig into his back, and he doesn’t flinch, only moves harder, deeper, his focus entirely on you. “you feel so perfect, so good” he whispers, like its a confession he’s been waiting to make for the longest time. 

you don’t think about the guilt or the consequences. there’s only jude, the way he feels, the way he moves. for now, that’s all that matters.

afterwards, you lie in bed, your head on his chest, his hand softly grazing your now frizzy curls. his heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, a comforting sound. 

“so,” you say, breaking the silence as you trace his chiseled chest with your finger. “you won’t believe what happened at work today. this guy left his mic on during a teams meeting and got caught badmouthing our boss.”

jude’s chest vibrates beneath you as he laughs silently. “no way. what did he say?”

you tell the story, and he listens intently, chuckling softly. you think two things: first, never in your life did you imagine having pillow talk with jude bellingham. and second, the knowledge that you made him laugh gives you such a rush of serotonin you want do it over and over again.

seasons change, your situation doesn’t. months go by and jude and you are sneaking around. no one knows, not even your closest friend or your mother– people who know you better than anyone, people who love and accept the parts of you that you consider deeply embarrassing and shameful. you don’t share this, because it’s different. this secret is well and truly a condemnation of your character. but that doesn’t mean you want to stop.  

you find yourself at a real madrid christmas party one evening. you’re there with your boyfriend, of course. the man who feels more and more like a stranger as the days go by. the man in whose phone, just last night, you’d found incriminating dms with an instagram model. it hadn’t fazed you. after all, you were doing the same.

you sip on a glass of champagne, watching jude from across the room. he’s in his element, charming everyone from the staff to the players to the wags. his laugh carries over to where you’re standing, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering at the sound. 

and yet, despite all the mingling, he hasn’t approached you.

you hate yourself for keeping track, but you’ve noticed. he’s made his rounds, talking to everyone, making small talk that leaves people grinning. but you? not a glance, not a word. it’s like you’re invisible.

you can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy as you watch a group of wags giggling at something he says, leaning in closer as if trying to soak up his presence. your nails dig into the stem of your glass, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“you okay?” your boyfriend asks, his hand resting lightly on your lower back. you must be having a very visible reaction for even him to notice.

“fine” you lie, forcing a smile. don’t touch me, is what you really want to say.

you’re not fine though. not as you steal another glance at jude, who’s now leaning against the bar, talking to vini. he looks relaxed, like he hasn’t a care in the world, like he doesn’t feel the tension that’s suffocating you.

you tell yourself it’s better this way. no one is gonna suspect anything if he avoids you. but still, it stings.

and then, as if he senses your eyes on him, he finally looks your way. the moment is brief, a flicker of recognition  before he looks away quickly, returning his attention to vini like nothing happened.

the champagne in your glass suddenly feels too heavy, and you set it down on the nearest table before excusing yourself to the restroom.

Inside the rest room, you splash cold water on your face, hoping it will calm the heat in your chest, the ache in your gut. but it doesn’t.

the sound of the restroom door opening makes you freeze. you glance up and flinch when you see jude.he steps inside, shutting the door quietly behind him, his eyes locking on yours immediately.

you watch silently as he leans back against the door, his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants. he looks calm but his jaw is visibly clenched. 

“you’ve been avoiding me” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

“i had to” he replies, his voice low. “you know why”

you do know why. but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“you talked to everyone in that room except me” you continue, voice sharper than you expect. “it’s like i don’t even exist to you”

“you think i wanted to ignore you? do you know how hard it is to be in the same room as you and pretend like–” he cuts himself off, hands rubbing the back of his neck.

“pretend like what?” 

“like i don’t want you,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. “like i don’t think about you all the time. like i’m not going crazy knowing you’re here with him”

“then why avoid me?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“because if i talked to you” he says, stepping even closer. “if i got too close, i don’t know if i could stop myself”

your lips meet just then, as if drawn together like magnets. you kiss fiercely, desperately. his hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him. you can taste the sweet champagne on his lips, can feel the heat from his warm hands. when you pull away, you’re breathless, but you feel renewed. like touching him made up for the fact that you had to put up with your boyfriend for the whole evening. 

“i’m breaking up with him tonight” you blurt. “I found out he’s been cheating”

“what an asshole” jude says without skipping a beat.

you laugh bitterly as you adjust the top of his turtleneck. “i’m doing the same thing”

jude smirks. “yeah, bit hypocritical isn’t it?” he says, and you both burst out laughing, the sound echoing loudly in the bathroom. 

you sit with it for a bit, the weight of your actions settling in between you two, both of you knowing what an awful thing you’re doing. you, to someone who’s been a partner of yours for some time. him, to his teammate who he doesn’t particularly like, but still owes some loyalty to, some obligation of decency.

“i don’t regret it” he says quietly, as if reading your thoughts. he grabs your hand and enterwines your fingers.  “i don’t regret any of it”

“me too” you murmur. and you mean it. 

that night, you keep your word and dump your boyfriend. it's an anti climactic ending, both of you mentally checked out of the relationship in the end to even care. still, you feel the weight lifting off your shoulder. good riddance.

that's how an affair with your boyfriend’s teammate unfolds and then ends. if you’re wondering how a relationship with your ex’s teammate begins, here it is: first, you scrub any trace of your previous relationship off the internet (you were always pretty private anyway). then, you gaslight everyone who knows all three of you into believing the relationship was never that serious, so what's the harm if you're seeing the other guy now? stranger things have happened. thankfully said ex-boyfriend conveniently leaves the team and the country at the end of the season, so it makes things easier for you. third step is to keep a careful distance from your new man in public for several months to maintain the illusion that there was no overlap with your past... relationship? situationship? or was it friendship? we’ll never know. finally, hard launch on a sunny afternoon at one of your favorite cafes in madrid, on a random wednesday in late summer. that’s how you do it.

so here you are, seated across from each other. you sip on a latte; jude’s having tea. he’s just come back from an adidas shoot, and he’s exhausted, you can tell by the tired smile on his face and by the way his body is slouched slightly in his chair. the only expression of affection he can muster is the soft brush of his leg against yours under the table. 

you chat about the book you’re currently reading, how the price of pastries in the cafe are atrociously high. yet again, you marvel at how easy it is with him. talking, laughing, slipping into comfortable silences. its like you’ve known him for years. 

“someone’s taking a pic” he nods towards someone behind you. you don’t look back, just smile softly. “going according to plan” he murmurs, taking a sip of his tea. 

you’re silent, thinking about how luckly you are, to have him, to be with him. you continue to chat, and now you’re on the topic of the show you’re watching. jude confesses he watched an episode without you on the plane back from an away game, and you gasp indignantly, kicking his leg under the table. 

“ow” he mutters. “i couldn’t sleep!”

“you couldn't watch anything else?” you say, dabbing at a coffee stain that had tainted the sleeve of your shirt. When you look up, jude’s looking at you with such a tender look on his face that you want to look away. 

“what?” you say, half self consciously. 

“nothing” he grins. “its just that you’re so beautiful. everytime i look at you it gets better”

your stomach is immediately filled with butterflies, and all you can do is grin back at him shyly, cheeks heating up from his words. sometimes being with him feels like you’re on a rollercoaster ride, in a good way. except the rush you get is from basking in his warmth, in his love, in his presence. 

needless to say it was all worth it in the end. thank god for late night cinema trips. 

[cherry-smokes]

I Want You So Bad

AKA the time you got tired of waiting. Based off of I Want You So Bad by Heart. Pairing: Steve Harrington x bassist!reader Word count: 1.5K Warnings: Sugar is uncharacteristically soft for a man.

Two dates. You've been on two dates with Steve and he's been perfect.

On your first one he took out to dinner. A fancy restaurant that you would never take yourself to. Steve insisted you order whatever you want, when you blushed at the price he just brushed you off.

"Steve this is...very expensive."

"You deserve expensive."

You learned a lot about Steve across the fancy table cloth. He's witty, he doesn't flinch when you bite back at a quip. Which you found undeniably attractive. Excluding Buckley, one of his closest friends is a high-schooler, Dustin, who you've heard about through Eddie. He calls him a dork, and a nuisance. The way he smiles when talking about how 'annoying' it was when Dustin and his friends would make him sneak them into the theater lets you know he loves the kid. When you ask about his parents he dodges the question. You don't press, but you can only assume he isn't close with them. You find yourself sad when he asks about you, just because you want to know so much more about him. You want to know what his favorite songs are, what side of the bed he sleeps on, how he takes his coffee, what he was scared of as a child. You want to know exactly how many moles he has and what his hair would feel like if you were to run your hands through it.

He said all the right things. Asked the prefect questions and clung to every word you said. Opened every door for you, he even let you pick what tape you wanted to listen to in the car! Then, he walked you to your door, and kissed you on the cheek. Which was sweet! At the time you assumed it meant he wasn't just looking for a hookup.

Then the second date came around. You walked around town, and went to the record store. You shared headphones in the listening booth. He listened to your favorite albums, never said an ill word about them even though you could tell he wasn't particularly enjoying Metallica. He even bought a Zeppelin tape to play in the car for you. Afterwards, he drove you home, walked you to your door with an arm around your waist, and he kissed you. On your cheek. Again.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't starting to feel frustrated. After he left, you freaked out for about an hour. It made you feel silly, and ridiculous because it’s just not something you do! You’ve never let yourself lose sleep over a guy. Then again you’ve never liked someone the way you like Steve.

He's sending every signal that he's into you, but why won't he just kiss you? Steve doesn't have the reputation of a guy who takes things slow. It’s hypocritical of you. You know better than to base his actions off of who he used to be. Yet, there’s this ridiculous part of you that likes him so much you can’t help but overthink every single move he makes, or doesn’t make. Was he not as into you as you thought? Maybe he wasn't looking for a relationship? Maybe he's just a really...attentive friend?

You plagued yourself with doubts until he called you up and asked you if you wanted to go see a movie. You said yes, obviously. How else are you supposed to figure out if he’s trying to be more than friendly with you?

So now you're standing in front of your mirror wondering if you should wear jeans or a skirt. You hate that the question of what he would like most even crosses your mind.

When he knocks at your door you almost trip over your feet as you rush to open it and you have to take a moment to get your shit together.

Your hands shake as you grab the handle and open the door.

The cold autumn air hits your face as you swing it open. It works in your favor as it cools your flushed face when you see Steve. His hair looks as perfect as always. His sweater wraps around his arms in a way that makes you feel warm inside. You feel jealous of it as you wish you could wrap yourself around them like it does. Worst of all he smiles at you, and seems so genuinely happy to see you. Friends don’t do that right?

“Hey.”

You gasp for air. “Hi!”

This is ridiculous. You sound more excited than you’d like to. Any air of mystery you wanted to keep is gone.

“Uh- let me just grab my shoes I’ll be out in a second.”

“Take your time, I’m in no rush.”

You quickly lace up your boots. The door stays open and you try not to fumble over your laces as you feel Steve’s gaze on you. When you stumble onto your feet and walk out towards him, he lays his hand on the small of your back as you lock your door.

You try to ignore the shiver that crawls up your spine but it’s impossible when you can feel his warmth pressed against you and the smell of his shampoo reaching your nose. Even the hairspray isn’t enough to turn you off, everything about him is intoxicating. Dizzying. He makes you feel so foggy it’s embarrassing.

“This is a really nice sweater.”

His hand dips to the hem, he fiddles with it as he speaks. “It’s soft.”

You turn your face him, he doesn’t move his hand.

“Thanks.”

His lips quirk up as he tugs at your sweater to guide you to the car.

You’re so fucked.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He insisted he didn't mind sharing a straw, and put his arm around your shoulder. He leaned in and whispered soft jokes and comments about the movie in your ear and you felt his arm tense up when you giggled at his words. An attentive friend doesn't do that.

A friend doesn't tell you he doesn't want you to go home yet. He doesn't play Heart in the car while he drives you both to lovers lake. He sure as hell doesn't look at you like that when you're talking.

“What?”

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

You give him a disbelieving look. “You’re looking at me weird.”

“I’m just looking at you. Nothing weird about it.”

You lean against the headrest facing him. You smile at him like you did when you first met him. Hoping to make him blush the way he did then. “You’re looking at me like you like me or something.”

“I do like you…or something”

His words are quiet. If you weren’t listening so intently you might have missed them as they flew under the music from the radio. His car is warm, the heat is on and you can still smell popcorn on him. He’s so close but not close enough and the way the moonlight hits his face makes you desperate to touch him.

“Then why haven’t you kissed me?”

There it is. It’s too dark to see him blush, but you see the way his shoulders tense. He looks down and cowers into himself. He’s so curious to you. He can be so sure of himself, so cocky. He’ll grab at your clothes and whisper sweet nothings to you in the dark of a theater. Yet, the moment you force him out of that shell he turns so shy.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. He chuckles and you see his fingers start to fidget against his steering wheel.

“I just- I wanted to earn it I guess.”

“I think you earned it the moment you called me sweet Steve.”

He looks up at you then. His fingers tense around the steering wheel again and his gaze gets so intense you hold your breath. It must have been seconds but it feels like ages when he leans in. He hovers, and you can feel his eyelashes kissing your cheeks.

Suddenly. You feel like yourself again, and you reach your hand up to the back of his head. His hair feels just as soft as you imagined it between your fingers as you pull him in. His lips are soft against yours and you feel him gasp slightly as you press against him. His hand finally leaves the wheel and lands on your thigh. It sends sparks through you as he digs his fingers into the flesh there. Not intrusive or invasive, almost like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

You never believed people when they said they felt fireworks when they kissed. You don’t now. Kissing Steve is tender. It feels more like a bonfire after you’ve been in the snow too long. It envelops you like a weighted blanket and you curse whatever power created you to need oxygen to survive when you have to pull away for air.

His hand travels up to cover yours behind his head. He holds it there, like he’s scared you’ll pull away.

“Have I earned another one yet?”

Friends definitely don’t ask that.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

a/n: Sugar and Steve are so back. This was shorter than I wanted it to be but I’ll have my asks open for anyone who wants to send in requests or questions. I’m so thankful for everyone who shared their support for my last post! This is a project I want to continue and expand and I would love to hear from y’all:)

the images used are from Pinterest once again!

[lomlhwa]

intern (ot8) [volume three]

pairing: free use intern!reader x office workers!ateez

preview: getting this type of job feels so wrong. but you need money and hey, they're all hot.

tags/warnings: fem!reader, free use, perv!ateez, monster cocks for all of ateez i fear, it's pretty much all dom!ateez but woosan do like to beg to cum so do with that what you will, ties as restraints, hair pulling, spit kink, spanking (with hands and belts), degrading, praise, pet names (slut, whore, cumdump, doll, baby, princess), throat/stomach bulge, sometimes it's one at a time and sometimes it's five, voyeurism, hand jobs, oral (f+m receiving), vibrator torture, crying, anal, two cocks in one hole who cheered, so many creampies [these are general tags for all parts, not all of these will be in every part]

trigger warnings: if i forgot tags, don't kill me

wc: 3.0k

song recs for this fic: moonstruck by enhypen

a/n: woosan girlies be gentle when knocking my door down

previous - next

san carries you out of the lunch room, strutting straight over to your desk. he acts like your weight is nothing more than that of a cat who has decided to sit on his shoulder. he plops you down onto your comfy office chair (the one you had yet to sit in) and you land with a small “hmf.” you look up at san as he admires you, running his tongue over his teeth. wooyoung appears suddenly behind you, basically breathing down your neck. “don’t get too comfy, princess. i think san has something fun planned for you,” he looks up at san with a mischievous look, lust dripping from his smile. 

you have gone through so many different positions in one day that honestly, nothing would surprise you anymore. well, except the fact that you’re learning right now that your chair reclines all the way back like a bed. san drops to his knees and places your legs on his shoulders. he shoves your skirt up so it rests on your waist all bunched up. wooyoung grabs your chin and forces you to look at him towering over you. “sannie is gonna eat your pretty pussy until you can’t remember what day it is. i’m gonna fill your tight throat to the brim until you forget your name. how does that sound?” you don’t even know how to respond to such dirty words leaving such a pretty mouth.

“your speechlessness is full of excitement, so i’m gonna just assume you’re dripping right now. is that about right, san?” wooyoung asks, leaning over to try and catch a glimpse of your sopping core. san groans, drinking in the way that your body twitches. “i’ll take that as a yes. do you wanna know what else we’re gonna do to you?” wooyoung says as san connects his tongue to the skin of your inner thigh. you shudder and nod, wooyoung’s grin growing wider. 

“we’re gonna get you on the floor and get you spread wide open,” san says as he trails his tongue higher. “san’s gonna fill you up with his fat cock that has been begging for your hole all day,” wooyoung adds in a whiny tone as san kisses your other thigh, and you whimper. “and i’m gonna reward you with extra stimulation by treating your puffy clit like a lollipop.” wooyoung concludes as san finally connects his tongue to your core and your whole body jerks. your hands race to grab something, or rather someone, since you ended up gripping wooyoung’s thighs like a vice. 

wooyoung looks down at you with fake pity before wrestling with his belt and dress pants. he drops them to the floor and smirks at you. “open wide, make me feel good like a well behaved whore,” he demands. you obey immediately, your throat welcoming him as he slides past your lips. your head upside down makes for a smooth entrance for wooyoung’s long cock. he lets out a small whine as he watches the bulge of his dick appear in your throat. he gets harder, if possible, watching the bulge move in and out. “o-oh fuck, it’s like your throat was m-made for my cock,” wooyoung’s whole body shakes slightly in reaction. “wooyo, you’re so talkative today,” you hear from a deep voice across the room. mingi. this is the first time you’ve ever heard him speak. 

wooyoung chuckles at his comment. “judging by the way her hips jerk every time i open my mouth, i think she prefers a talkative man. don’t you, my little cumdump?” you attempt at garbling a small ‘yes’ in response but wooyoung is completely blocking your airway. “fair enough. what the whore wants, the whore gets,” mingi replies before going back to typing away at his desk. wooyoung leans down a little to wrap both hands around your throat to feel the way the bulge moves. san and wooyoung act in sync; wooyoung pushes into your throat and san licks a stripe up your core. the whole ordeal is positively mind-numbing. 

san dips his middle and ring fingers into your wet heat, scissoring them to spread you out. you roll your eyes back and cough around wooyoung, your legs beginning to shake. wooyoung whines and whimpers as he uses your throat, catching his lip between his teeth and looking at you with teary eyes. “ah fuck, san, i’m gonna cum,” wooyoung announces and san pulls away from your core to glare at him. “if she can hold it when instructed, so can you. you’re not done until i say you are. the pretty baby gets to cum before you do,” san says in a firm tone. you hear a high pitched whimper leave wooyoung’s throat as his cock twitches in your throat. you can feel just how close to his peak he is and you really can’t tell if he’s gonna be able to hold it. 

san reconnects his mouth to your core and devours you like you’re the last meal he’s ever going to have. your legs shake and spasm around his head, encouraging him to bring you closer to the edge. your back arches as san adds a third finger into your core, digging at the gummy spot inside you. you move your hands from wooyoung’s thighs to san’s hair. your fingers wrap around his black locks, pulling his head further between your legs. you hear a low chuckle from san as your movements become more desperate, rutting your hips against his face to get more friction. 

“san, fuck, i seriously c-can’t hold it much longer,” wooyoung says again. he had stopped abusing your throat and had begun slowly rocking his hips back and forth to try and savour his close orgasm building. you give san’s hair a harsh tug to tell him you’re about to cum and he gives you a nod. “i can’t deny the pretty girl anymore. i want both of you to cum,” san says in a demanding tone. you whole body fills with lighting as you reach your orgasm, pleasure making your vision go white. wooyoung fills your throat at almost the exact same moment, causing you to cough up a mix of semen and saliva. 

wooyoung pulls out of your mouth and san pulls your head by your neck to kiss you. the saliva swapped between you is full of a mix of your release and wooyoung’s. san lifts you up off your chair and places you on all fours, your knees still sore from being like this for yeosang and jongho. you feel wooyoung run his fingers over your slit, collecting remnants of your release, before bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean. “god, you taste like heaven. i could eat you forever,” he comments as your whole body shudders. you hear the sound of san’s pants and belt hitting the floor, signaling to you that you’re not going to be empty for much longer. 

wooyoung grabs your chin and tilts your head to make you look at him. his hair falls over his eyes and sticks to his face so beautifully that even just his gaze has you clenching. “you remember what i said we’d do?” he asks, and you nod expectantly. “good girl. i’m gonna leave you alone with san for a bit so he can really enjoy you. i promise i’ll come back soon,” he says before kissing your forehead and wandering away. where the hell was he going? you had no time to consider options before san used one hand to spread you open and align the tip of his cock with your entrance.

you gasp at the sudden contact, turning slightly to stare at him. he had completely unbuttoned his white dress shirt, leaving his defined muscle completely exposed. parts of his shirt were becoming see-through from the sweat dripping down his body. his arms flexed as one hand gripped your waist and the other guided his cock into you. his eyelashes fluttered and his face contorted into the most blissful look as he bottomed out. his appearance alone was making you clench around him like a vice.

you lower yourself down from your hands onto your elbows, arching your back even more. san ghosts his fingers down your spine, goosebumps appearing in his wake. he enjoys the feeling of you clenching and unclenching around him for a while before pulling out to the tip and slamming back in. his actions send your whole body jolting forward, your eyes rolling back into your head. your fingers scratch at the floor, trying to find something to grip onto, and finding nothing. 

san starts slowly grinding into you, his strokes slow and deep. the feeling is mind-numbing. you can feel every inch of him rubbing against the sweetest part of you. you hear some shuffling behind you and you turn your head to find that san has completely taken his shirt off, his honey golden skin covered in a sheen of sweat. he has discarded his shirt a few feet away, his focus returning to you. he places both hands on your waist, pulling your hips to his in tandem with his thrusts. 

“you're too quiet, make some pretty noises, my angel,” san demands, landing a harsh smack to your ass. you squeal, your body shuddering. “there you go. so fucking beautiful.” he begins to thrust more intensely, more sounds leaving your throat. he was so far in you that you were convinced he was kissing your cervix. 

you reach one arm behind you to grip his forearm, your nails digging into the harshly flexed muscle. “looks like someone's enjoying herself,” you hear wooyoung finally speak. he had finally returned from god knows where. wooyoung sits cross-legged on the floor in front of you, lifting your head to look at him. he leans down to kiss you, passion and aggression filling his movements. you bite and suck on his bottom lip as his tongue darts out to catch yours.

he tangles his hand in your hair, pulling your head to follow his movements. he whines against your mouth, his cock throbbing in his pants. wooyoung pulls away from your mouth, his eyes darting up to look at san. “san, do you think she's earned what i promised?” you look back at san in a frenzy, your eyes begging him to say yes. you'd been well behaved and done everything he wanted. san smiles at you, his perfect eyes disappearing into crescents.

“i think she deserves it. she's been such a good fucking girl, haven't you sweetheart?” san taunts you, leaning over you to stroke your hair. you nod excitedly, raising yourself back onto your palms so wooyoung could slide under you. wooyoung’s pupils are blown as he watches you get ready for him. “oh, so eager. what a dirty girl,” he drops to the floor and lays on his back before sliding underneath you. he comes face to face with your already filled core, a soft moan leaving his mouth at the sight. 

san begins his slow movements in and out of you once again, your arms already shaking from holding yourself up. wooyoung runs his hands up your thighs, and you shudder at the feeling. he ghosts his fingers over your clit, his fingers brushing san’s cock as it moves inside of you. “i’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you being pleasured, slut,” wooyoung comments as he sinks his teeth into the flesh of your thigh. you squeal, the surge of pain that shoots through your body shocking you a little. “the bulge of san’s cock in your stomach could make me cum just looking at it,” he runs his hand over the part of your stomach that is protruding, san lets out a shaky breath behind you. “fuck, don’t talk about it, i’ll cum.”

wooyoung slowly moves his mouth from the skin of your inner thigh towards your core. he gives your clit kitten licks, your jaw falling open in a silent moan. san speeds up his thrusts, drawing your hips back against his to match his pace. wooyoung wraps his pretty, puffy lips around your clit, sucking on it. wooyoung moves his hands to your waist, holding your body up for you. “come on baby, you know you want my cock back in your mouth,” wooyoung pulls away from your core and waits for you to do what he wants. 

your hands fiddle with the button on his pants, pulling at them urgently once you get it open. he lifts his hips off the floor so you can help him tug his clothes off. you get them off just enough to get access to his leaking cock, wrapping your hands around it immediately. your hands move quickly, wooyoung whining under you. “s-slow down, it’s s-still sensitive,” he whines, you ignore his comment. his hips buck up into your hands, seeking more pleasure despite his pleas for you to slow down. he matches your energy by wrapping his lips around your clit again, sucking and licking at it with intense vigor.

wooyoung wraps hair arms around your hips, holding onto you for dear life. “wooyo, i need to fuck her harder,” san says, sounding out of breath. “she’s a slut, so we have to treat her as such.” san’s face contorts into a sinister grin before drawing his hips back and slamming into you. his thrusts are sloppy and desperate for pleasure. wooyoung teases your already full hole with his fingers. “can you take some more, baby? your desperate little hole is desperate to be stretched,” he teases you. you tug on his cock harder in response, a small squeal leaving his throat. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he retorts before shoving a finger in to follow san’s movements.

you squeeze the base of wooyoung’s cock as he thrusts his finger inside you. “fuck, wooyo, be gentle,” you beg, the stretch burning between your legs. “aww poor baby. you didn’t listen when wooyoung told you to be nice, so why should he listen to you?” san smacks your ass a few times in a row, your skin turning red. “add another finger, wooyoung. it’s what she deserves.” wooyoung wiggles another finger into your hole, your whole body trembling. “it’s good that you’re stretching her out now, she’s gonna need it for us,” mingi raises his hand for a hi-five from yunho and finds him glaring at him. “don’t be so vulgar,” yunho comments before going back to his work. “says you?” mingi responds before huffing and crossing his arms. 

you hear san chuckle behind you, finding the interaction to be amusing. san regains his composure and begins thrusting into you like a wild animal. wooyoung scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you out even more than you already were. you do your best to tug on his cock while he adds to your pleasure, but your mind is so foggy that you can barely even remember to breathe. you take small gasps of air every few seconds when your brain decides to work. 

suddenly, your whole body ignites when wooyoung wraps his pretty lips around your clit again, sucking harder than before, and desperately licking at you to taste you more. “remember how you came for yeosang and jongho? do it again. i know wooyoung wants to drown in you,” san squeezes your hips to give his statement that extra umph. wooyoung responds with a high pitched ‘mhm’ his tongue darting out over your folds in a frenzy. your hands move up and down on wooyoung’s dick faster, wanting to get a release out of him too. “okay, keep going, i-i’m so close,” you say, despite being out of breath.

as if they had spoken to each other telepathically, san and wooyoung focus all of their energy on getting you off. you slap the floor beside wooyoung’s thigh repeatedly, the pleasure making your body move uncontrollably. wooyoung digs his nails into your thigh, moaning and whimpering louder under you. “wooyo, honey, please cum with me,” you say breathlessly and his hips jerk in response. finally, you let the chord in your abdomen snap, san pulling out of you to let your release splash out of you. his jaw falls slack, watching you writhe in pleasure, while wooyoung drinks up your release. he finishes in your hand swiftly after, coating your hand in his cum. 

without warning, san shoves back into you, his thrusts fast and sharp. “let me fill you up, baby. i wanna see my cum dripping out of your perfect cunt,” wooyoung slides out from under you to observe the end of your pleasurable ordeal. san leans over you to whisper sweet praises in your ear. “you’re so pretty. so, so good to me,” he kisses the shell of your ear gently. “nothing will ever feel better than you. fuck, your cunt was made for my cock,” you nod along to his words as you feel another, less intense orgasm building. “i can feel you clenching. do i make you feel so good that you wanna cum again? my cock slut, cum whenever you want. i’m almost there,” his cock twitches inside of you, leaking pre-cum all over your walls. 

“please, cum with me, pretty baby,” he pleads and you can’t help but obey. he fills you up so perfectly, and you cling to him for dear life. you hear some shuffling around behind you as san pulls out and goes to collect his shirt. you collapse onto the floor, completely worn out. you press your cheek to the cold floor, your whole body feeling sore and spent. you hear someone clear their throat behind you.

“don’t get comfy. we’ve been waiting.”

© lomlhwa 2024

taglist:

@nopension @cursedeastern @certifiedmoa @tunafishyfishylike @4ngel-f4ngzz @mingisdimple @anxiousskylar @sanhwalvr @querencieaz @vtyb23 @dawn-iscozy

[riveriki]

Falling for your co-host

PAIRING… idol!ni-ki x idol!reader | GENRE… fluff, romance | TROPE… idol x idol | WC… 0.7k

You stood nervously backstage at Music Bank, rattling with the script for the show. The bright lights and bustling atmosphere always made your heart race, whenever you and your group had to advertise your new comeback. you'd always find yourself pitying the poor MCs, who have to remember every line by heart, have to learn the dance to every single song, the poor guys have to have the mind of an elephant.

however, today was worse than usual, not because you forgot the lines or a dance move, today was your debut as of the Music Banks MCs, and not only that. You were debuting with the one and only Ni-ki from enhypen.

as you glanced from the side of your eyes, you spotted Ni-ki sitting calmly scrolling through his phone with a monotonous look on his face. curse him for being so nonchalant, while inside you were breaking down.

what if you forget your lines? what if you mess up the group's choreo? what if you talk over their leader? or accidentally say something rude? just as your brain was spiraling into an anxious turmoil, ni-ki gently tapped your shoulder.

"hey, you ready?" he asks as if he noticed your nervousness.

mustering all the confidence you could, you look up at him nodding with a graceful smile. "mhm, just a bit nervous. what about you?"

he chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm okay. don't stress okay? you'll do great, and since we're new they'll have room for forgiveness. so just follow my lead, alright?"

As the show began, you found yourself recalling the lines from memory yet making it sound so natural as if you didn't have a script. as time progressed, you could see yourself falling into a comfortable rhythm with ni-ki. due to his playful energy, harmless banter was tossed every now and then making the members of the group giggle.

between different segments, you found yourself laughing more and more since he would stop spewing out silly jokes, and you couldn't help but feel the warmth growing in your chest.

weeks passed with this chemistry, one that people have never seen on music bank, not chemistry this strong. with every interaction between you two, the edits grew, and fans began to pick out the way he looked at you. whenever he joked around how his eyes would look at yours to see your reaction. how before he would respond he would wait for you to say something first. you couldn't go a day without seeing social be filled with clips of the two of you.

one day, after the show had finished recording, you sat alone in the studio wanting to take a breather before heading back home. Ni-ki was walking around the building looking for you in hopes of potential progression in your relationship.

"hey," he said sweetly before taking a seat beside you. "you were amazing today."

as if you read his mind, you graced him with a smile and a gentle blush on your cheeks. " thanks, ki. you always make it so easy."

he turned to you with a smile, "i'm glad. you know, i really enjoy working with you, there’s no one else i rather have than you to be my partner."

your eyes widened, taken aback by his claim. "actually? awh ki, i thought you were just being nice."

with his eyes boring into yours, he shakes his head. "no, i mean it. whenever'm with you... i feel brighter. it's like you light up the room."

you look away, unable to meet his gaze.

he reaches out, gently taking your hand into his. "look at me will you?"

and within a second your eyes are back on his.

"would you like to spend more time together? outside of work?" he asks with a slight glimmer in his eyes.

"like a date?" you ask with hope.

"yea, like a date."

"i'd love that ki. in complete honesty, i've fallen for you." you say, with your heart pounding.

he grinned, pulling you into his chest, in a tight embrace.

from that day onwards, your bond only deepened. nowadays, you spend most of your nights in each other's dorms cuddling under the covers as a movie plays in the background. either that or late-night convenience store runs. but it's not like you'd have it any other way.

[osamucide]

⊹ FOR SURE

RELATIVELY STABLE AND TENTATIVELY ABLE TO SAY FOR CERTAIN WHETHER THIS UNCERTAINTY IS FOR SURE . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2k

cw: sad and probably ooc dazai but he’s my husband so i actually know how he falls apart, pretty straightforward references to anxiety+dissociation, references to self harm+suicidal ideation but nothing graphic, angst+hurt/comfort, dazai cries and then you feed him that's all

reid: a little spur of the moment something i started when i wasn’t feeling so hot a bit ago. ethel cain’s cover of this song has altered the course of my life anyway enjoy me projecting

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

He was quiet when he got home, which is uncharacteristic, unless he’s scheming. But there was no glint in his eyes and no menace behind his grin, only exhaustion. What’s more is there was no downcast expression, no particularly sluggish movement to suggest he was upset; granted, he would regularly go on performing his usual persona even if he was upset. He was always all moving puzzle pieces, all thick mask and mystery.

It’s a good thing you’ve learned to read him so plainly.

You owe it to the little shared space you’re in, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, reading a book of his as he shakes his coat off and tosses it across the small dining table with two chairs side-by-side at it instead of across from one another. Dazai usually hangs his coat up on the rack by the door, slips his shoes off mindlessly and comes to flop his entire body weight on top of you, but tonight he pulls his laces undone and leaves his shoes tucked neatly against the wall, walks by the back of the couch to press a ghostly kiss to the crown of your head, and heads straight to the bathroom, which he locks himself in.

You swallow as you hear the shower start. You had specifically picked out an apartment with a standing shower, no tub, when you moved in with him. You’d emptied it of razors a handful of times and you probably would a handful of times more, and you kept all of both of your medication in your bedside table. Still, you can no longer quite focus on the words in front of you.

So, you flick the television on. A little more noise in your brain helps tune out the shower that’s just that—a shower. He showers, most often, because he’s feeling strange and not because he needs to feel clean. Maybe he needs to feel clean, but not in a way that a shower will allow. He does it anyway. You wait.

When the water turns off and he doesn’t immediately bounce out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, singsonging which leftovers you should heat up for him, you turn the TV volume down a few notches. When it’s been five minutes or so, you find yourself in the kitchen putting day-old bibimbap in the microwave. When it’s been ten, you’re knocking on the door.

"Osamu?" Your voice is soft as your knock. "I waited for you to eat." Dirty trick, you know. But you also know he won’t otherwise; not on a night like this.

You hear a bit of shuffling before the bathroom door creaks open. His eyes are red, his nose flushed, and he’s rubbing his face with the corner of his towel like he’s just awoken from a nap. He’s got no bandages on. He nearly whispers, "You didn’t have to."

"Wanted to." You work the towel from his hands as he turns the light off. He’ll hide behind the darkness if nothing else, but it’s alright; you’ll let him. You pat water from his shoulders before you sling the towel around him like a cape. You whisper back, "I’ll get you clothes. Please get silverware, yes?"

You don’t give him much of a choice, but he’s in a state where he’s pliant enough to listen to corporeal orders. Getting silverware will be a marginally easier task than dressing for him right now.

After pulling a sweatshirt and pair of pajama pants out of your drawers—they’re his, or maybe yours, doesn’t really matter; what does matter is they cover as much skin as possible—you return to him on the couch, two bowls of cooling bibimbap with chopsticks stuck in them on coffee table. He’s got as much of his bare body under the towel as it will allow.

When you set next to him and peel the towel back he looks nearly catatonic. It spurs tears to your lash line, but you hold back. "Arms, please."

He shoves himself into the hoodie, tousling his wet mop of hair in the process, and takes the pants from you, which he stands robotically to step into. When he sits you wrap five fingers across the top of his flannel-clad thigh and press a short kiss to his cheek.

As if sparked by your touch, he curls himself into you.

You’re quick to receive him; you unlock his hands from where they latch behind your neck, gently, like everything else, and you lean back, back, until your head is hitting the pillow you were lounged up against earlier. His fingers scramble for somewhere to land; you will his weight down onto you, his shoulder and hip to tuck beside yours on the inside of the couch, his free arm and leg to sling across your body and his sweet face in the side of your neck. The water from his hair soaks through your shirt. You don’t care. You feel his breath; your fingertips trace circles along his spine, and your outside hand comes to tangle up with his. Eating will have to wait.

You don’t waste time asking if he wants to talk. If he did, he would’ve started by now.

So you focus on his breathing, and how lucky you are to have it ghosting along your collarbone. He’s gray, then white, then gray, then blue in the light of the TV as his thumb moves across the back of your hand, stiff, like it’s just been freed from paralysis.

You wait for his breath to shake; you know it will.

And he knows you know, because he squeezes your hand in a pulsing rhythm like a heartbeat. He hates this. He hates that you've seen him crumble so many times that you know exactly what he needs.

You say it so softly, again, almost a whisper: "I've got you, my love."

He doesn't want you to say it's okay or let it out or talk to me; this is another thing you know very well. He feels like he's floating away from what little sense of self he has to begin with and it's not okay, and he doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to be told when to cry or not, but he does need reminded that you're here, and you're real, and so is he, and so is this thing that both have; you'll grab his ankles and pull him down out of the air. You always do. You always do.

So he cries anyway.

It's like hearing a foreign language leave his mouth. There's something so assured about Dazai even while he believes he's all smoke and mirrors and seeing—hearing—his voice jump between heaving breaths and cracking sobs has always jarred you in some way. Moreover, now that you're so attuned to the way he breaks, it fills you with a tired anger that you can't place on anything concrete. It's a frustration you're glad to shoulder with him, but a frustration no less. You would set fire to everything you could touch, strangle it all to death with your bare hands, if it guaranteed his peace. But you know he wouldn't want that, not anymore; you quell the rage inside you between strands of his hair, fingerpads combing over his scalp with all that anger channeled into love, pure love. For as terrible and rotten as he's convinced he is, he's truly turned you into something softer than you thought yourself capable of being.

You feel his heart racing double-time against yours; you briefly wish you had no chest, no ribs, no physical form to separate you from him, so that your heart could cradle his, give over to his troubled body the time of the breath yours breathes.

He's all jagged edges right now and you're holding him like he's made of cotton. It makes him worse, momentarily, and he tears his hand away from yours; he knows wrapping around you like this, like a boa constrictor around its prey, will make his arms lose feeling but he does it anyway, like he's worried you'll go up in a cloud of dust if he doesn't hold onto you tight enough. He knows it's probably uncomfortable for you, too, laying back on his knotted fingers while he shoves every piece of himself as close as he can get to you, but you don't say anything, don't even make a sound when he hyperventilates into your shoulder and pushes out pathetic whimpers between his stuttering. He knows his face is twisted into that expression he long ago deemed too ugly to look at in the mirror. He gasps like he's underwater, and you just press your cheek to his temple while you lose track of if the wetness on your shoulder is from his hair or his eyes. It doesn't matter. You love him so fucking much.

He weeps against you with his constraint surrendered, loud but muffled by your shirt, at least until whatever movie was on is over. When he finally lifts his head, your eyes flutter open. You hadn't realized you closed them.

You tilt to look at him; the seam of your shirt collar is imprinted into his cheek. His bangs have dried wildly; you push them away from his eyes which are raw with sorrow, and Dazai's hands unclasp from behind you, settling back to how they first were with one curled up into the couch and the other interlaced with yours. He's devastatingly beautiful. You can't help the ghost of the sad smile you wear; it's because he's so gorgeous, and also you want to let him know you're content to be here—not content with what's upset him, not at all, but content to pick him up and help him haul himself forward. He does not reflect the smile back to you. You don't blame him.

"Let's eat." You leave the please unspoken, but it hangs there anyway.

"It's cold," he complains, still distant, but with a glimmer of a pout you think may be him. He's not getting out of it, though.

You sit him up, keep him close to your side and pick up a bowl; it's indeed cold, but you take a bite anyway, as if to show him it's not so bad. When you hold sliced carrot and broccoli to his lips, he looks at you like you're trying to feed him dirt, but opens his mouth anyway.

And it may as well be medicine going down. Not that he particularly cares for reheated and recooled leftover bibimbap, but your fingers being at the other end of the chopsticks makes it appealing. More than appealing. Delightful, even. He never really understood how things like food, music, or art could be healing until he met you and you doodles silly pictures of him on slow Sunday mornings, sang old love songs to him while you shooed him away from the stove as you cooked dinner, fed him leftovers in your shared home, on your shared couch, surrounded by all the things that were both yours and his, sweatshirts, books, blankets, chopsticks alike.

And he tells you that in his own way.

"Heat it up again for me? Please?"

He speaks the plea this time, and you grin—not sad this time, but wholly, as he relights slowly in front of you. And as already established, you'd do anything for him.

"Mhm."

"I love you," he blurts. Tags it on. You stand, gathering both bowls, still grinning.

"I love you." No question about any of it. You press a kiss to the crown of his head. He unfurls the blanket from where you'd slung it over the back of the couch earlier, picking up the remote to flick through the channels, finally breathing steadily as he waits for you to return from the kitchen. Your kitchen, his kitchen. He hears the microwave hum, in another room, not on another planet. He knows he'll be alright.

[selfshippinglover2222]

Hazbin Boys And Their Partners modern Music Taste

Alastors partner listens to Hozier, always humming and singing to his music. Alastor prefers jazz, so he was not to impressed by Hoziers more alternative songs. But sooner or later he’d get an earworm, especially after hearing you singing and humming the song. He catches you on the kitchen one night, singing a song from his new album, and he decided to join in, grabbing your hand and spinning you around as he softly joins you in your song. “You’re too sweet for me~”

Lucifer has not kept up with music at all. But he is very open and loves sharing music with you. He loves it when you sit next to him singing songs, showing him your favorite albums. Billie Eilish is your favorite artist so you share her music a lot with him. By proxy she becomes his favorite artist, her songs all reminding him of you and your happiness when you share her music with him. Now he sits making a new rubber duck singing his personal favorite song by her. “Birds of a feather, we should stick together~”

Husk always preferred jazzy songs, a song you would play in a casino. But he is open to any music you want to listen to. Mainly because he loves spoiling you, and when you’re talking about your favorite artist you just light up. So when you bring up Mitski with that look in your eyes, Husk listens in and even learns the lyrics just for you and the smile you give him for it. He learns to appreciate Mitsuki and her songs, even outside of you. “Domi Ti~Why not me?~”

Angeldust loves pop music to his core and you can’t tell me otherwise. He’s a pop girly and when you tell him your love for Taylor Swift, He immediately geeks out with you. You guys bond over the albums and which ones you like the best (he’s a Avid Reputation Stan), you guys will sing to her lyrics to your hearts content, just laughing and sometimes crying together. So now you guys are outside in the streets humming and singing to her songs like nobody else is watching. “The more that you say the less I know~”

Vox doesn’t have much time to listen to music, and he wasn’t big on it when he was alive either. It was just not really something he connected with personally. But he does find it pleasant when you sing or hum along to Chappel Roan. It’s a nice change from the chaos that Valentino brings, or the stern lectures Velvette dishes out. He’d never admit it but he looked into Chappels album after you started to get into it, just so he could feel closer to you. He found he didn’t really care much for it, however he liked the way you moved to her songs. It made his heart swell. So maybe while he was on his keyboard typing away, he started to absentmindedly sing a song or two. “H-O-T-T-O-G-O, you can take me hot to go~”

Valentino likes all music, there isn’t a type he likes or dislikes more. He likes music you can cry to, Music you can move to, Music you can fuck to-Just all kinds. So when you start talking about Sabrina Carpenter he is instantly curious and ready to learn about it. He immediately falls In love with her and her style, dancing and singing along with you as he learns the lyrics. He swings yo around the living room, hands on your hips as he grins and laughs with you. He adds her to his playlists immediately, intent on learning more. Now it isn’t uncommon for his to start singing her songs at random. “Have you ever tried this one?”

[thankskenpenders]

The Knuckles show

The announcement of a live action Knuckles streaming miniseries was surprising, to say the least. I mean, what would such a show even be about in a version of the Sonic universe with no Angel Island and barely any characters from the games around? Is he gonna go treasure hunting with the gang from Montana or something? Would a streaming miniseries have the CGI budget to squeeze in any new game characters, even briefly? Rouge? Amy? At least one member of Team Chaotix? Anyone?

Now the show is finally out, and it turns out what they actually made was a comedy show about bumbling deputy sheriff Wade Whipple, the minor comic relief character played by Adam Pally who you might not even remember all that well from the first two movies, with Knuckles as his sidekick. While, yes, Knuckles does get a decent amount of screentime and opportunities to punch bad guys and do cool moves from the games, large stretches of this show focus on Wade's personal life, to the point that a couple times I almost forgot I was watching a Sonic-related show. If you're judging it purely by the metric of how well it adapts and engages with its source material, this surely must be one of the worst adaptations the Sonic franchise has ever seen.

So then, despite some huge complaints... why do I kinda like it?

(This will contain full spoilers for the Knuckles show.)

A brief summary of what the show is actually about because I know half of you aren't going to watch it

The show picks up not too long after the end of the second movie. Knuckles is now living in Montana with Sonic, Tails, and the Wachowskis out of a sense of debt to them, though he doesn't really see it as his home. He doesn't feel like he belongs on Earth, and his life currently lacks direction. After communing with the ghost of Pachacamac, though, Knuckles is instructed to keep his culture alive by teaching "the ways of the echidna warrior" to a new apprentice: deputy sheriff Wade Whipple, who's currently more concerned about winning a bowling tournament in Reno than anything else.

Things are complicated by the interference of two rogue GUN agents - Agent Willoughby, played by Ellie Taylor in a bad wig, and Agent Mason, played by Kid Cudi. (Yes, the artist behind the second movie's credits song is one of the bad guys in this.) They want to steal Knuckles' power and sell it to a former associate of Robotnik's played by Rory McCann (The Hound from Game of Thrones), who now works as a black market arms dealer. Yes, they're still doing the thing where Sonic and friends' quills radiate some kind of super-energy that the bad guys all want. No, I don't particularly love this element of the Paramount Sonic continuity. Anyway, they go after Knuckles and Wade, complicating their straightforward road trip to Reno. Antics ensue.

The Wade show

So here's the thing. While the first episode focuses largely on Knuckles, the entire rest of the show is very much the story of Wade, and by extension the other original human characters invented for this miniseries.

Episode 2 is about Wade having to rescue Knuckles from captivity after the GUN agents get him. Knuckles spends most of the episode in a cage.

Episode 3 is about introducing Wade's Jewish family, including his slightly overbearing mother and weird sister, so that Knuckles can learn about their family traditions and have Shabbat dinner with them (and then save them from bounty hunters that the GUN agents hired).

Episode 4 only features Knuckles at the very beginning and very end of the episode, probably for less than a minute total. Wade is captured by a bounty hunter he personally knows, and Knuckles decides to let that be a trial for Wade to overcome on his own.

The last two episodes feature the climactic showdowns with the GUN agents and their arms-dealing ally, who comes in with a mech for the obligatory final boss fight. You'd think this would be Knuckles' time to shine, but really, these episodes are mostly about the bowling tournament in Reno where Wade encounters his estranged father, wrapping up his own personal arc. While Knuckles does get some fights, a lot of the finale is spent on lengthy bowling scenes where Knuckles isn't in the room or even mentioned. It frequently feels more like a spiritual successor to '00s sports comedy movies like Dodgeball, Talladega Nights, or Blades of Glory than it does a part of the Sonic franchise, and the presence of ESPN 8: The Ocho commentary in the finale only drives those Dodgeball comparisons home. They get so immersed in the bowling stuff that it's genuinely hilarious when the show suddenly pivots and remembers "oh shit we still need to do the final boss fight"

Throughout all this, Wade is the protagonist. He's the character we spend more time with, he's the character who drives most of the major events, he's the character who gets more of an arc. The emotional core is Wade's journey. Knuckles is still present - sometimes, at least - but he's there as Wade's wingman, and also just as the excuse for there to be some fight scenes.

How much Sonic stuff is actually in this show?

Honestly? Not much.

Sonic and Tails are only in the first episode. Sonic gets some good scenes, but Tails gets a grand total of five lines. I counted. Unsurprisingly, Jim Carrey is absent as Robotnik, though he does get mentioned a fair bit. (For that matter, basically the entire established human cast beyond Wade is absent, even including Tom, though Maddie is there in episode one.)

GUN is involved in the story, which helps it feel slightly more connected to Sonic, but it kind of feels like it's GUN in name only. They don't use any recognizable GUN tech, and they don't call in the military. It's just two agents in suits. They might as well be the Men in Black.

The Master Emerald is mentioned as something Knuckles has to guard, but it's never seen. Angel Island is pictured as a drawing during the show's intro, appearing exactly how it does in Sonic 3, but it's never referenced at all beyond that.

I guess the climax taking place in and around a Reno casino is a reference to Sonic's many casino-themed levels. That's something. I'll give them that.

Oh, and if you're wondering if this is the point where we finally start to get actual music from the games: no, it's not. The soundtrack consists of a lot of '80s needle drops, many of which are generic Hollywood picks like "Holding Out for a Hero" for the billionth time, thought it at least has some slightly less obvious picks than the Mario movie. The theme song is '80s rock song "The Warrior" by Scandal. You'll hear it many times. You'll hear the Adventure era Knuckles raps zero times in this. You'll briefly hear classic A Tribe Called Quest song "Can I Kick It?" before Knuckles takes the question too literally and breaks the radio in Wade's car.

Beyond a handful of surface level references for nerds (one of which is admittedly wild - we'll get to that), this is probably the least an officially licensed adaptation of Sonic the Hedgehog has ever tried to actually engage with its source material. I struggle to think of another Sonic adaptation that has less to do with Sonic. For as much shit as I and countless others have given Penders for seemingly ignoring the content of the games in favor of building his own convoluted mythos, his Knuckles comics honestly included way more elements from the games than this show does.

Somehow, the one new(-ish) Sonic character introduced in this is the ghost of Pachacamac of all characters. Not even Tikal! Pachacamac! A very minor character nobody has particularly strong feelings about! You can't even use the excuse that they already had the character model, because they completely redesigned him compared to his cameo in the first movie to better match his Sonic Adventure design. And he's voiced by Christopher Lloyd! Honestly, so many of his lines are strained that it sounds like he's on death's door here, but then he'll surprise you with a more casual line like "just do it, man" and it catches me so off guard that I can't help but laugh.

Pachacamac here has basically nothing to do with the game character he takes his name and appearance from. Where the game character was a cruel warlord who kicked off a 3000 year cycle of violence, Paramount Pachacamac is now just this chill old man who gives Knuckles (and later Wade) advice in two episodes of the show. Hell, he also feels completely disconnected from his established role in the movies, where he's literally the guy who shot Longclaw. The show will not grapple with this contradiction at all. He's just here to be a thing fans like me will recognize from the games. Again, if that's all they wanted, it's kind of baffling that they didn't just use Tikal.

I don't love Knuckles in this

But what about Knuckles himself? Well, he doesn't feel all that much like Knuckles to me. Ironically, he sometimes feels like one of the weaker elements in his own show.

Back when the second movie came out, I noted that Knuckles' characterization seemed to be pulling heavily from MCU Thor as a gallant warrior from an archaic alien culture who doesn't really understand modern day Earth stuff. That worked for me in that movie. It was just there for spice. Just a little extra flavor for the character in what was otherwise a very faithful adaptation of Knuckles' storyline in Sonic 3 & Knuckles. Without those familiar elements grounding him and with a much higher reliance on comedy, Idris Elba's Knuckles becomes a pretty one-note character in this.

In damn near every scene with Knuckles, he's going to say something about being a proud, honorable echidna warrior, or brag about his glorious feats of strength, or be confused about some Earth thing and call it sorcery, or act like every other character is also a member of some noble warrior clan. He still has his moments for sure, but this schtick kinda gets old fast, and it just doesn't feel like Knuckles to me. His entire character feels derived from the scene in the diner where Thor smashes the cup on the ground and goes "Another!" Sure, I can picture game Knuckles smashing a radio to turn it off and being a little too gung-ho about busting holes through walls. That's Knuckles behavior. But building a barbarian combat pit in the living room so the Wachowski family dog can fight the mailman? Nope. That's some other guy now. It really does just feel like them taking a broad character archetype from something popular that kinda sorta fits Knuckles and just running with that, rather than trying to actually adapt the character.

Oh, but don't worry, he wears the OVA hat for like two minutes! AND he loves grapes! See, Sonic nerds? We read the wiki! That's his favorite food! Grapes! This is gonna come up like five times!

Knuckles kind of gets an arc here, but not as much as Wade does. I think the stuff about him starting to feel at home on Earth thanks to Wade's mom and the way he connects with their Jewish family traditions is oddly sweet. This arc is kind of let down, though, by the fact that Knuckles' heritage is treated as a complete joke. He's a cartoonish pastiche of various historical warrior cultures stuck together in a blender and used mostly for comedic effect. When Pachacamac's ghost appears, he's reading a newspaper and bemoaning the fact that the Mets lost again. This is not the place for a serious examination of Knuckles' feelings on being the last of his kind.

This is far from the only time the show undercuts itself with its jokes and attempts at self-parody. In the first episode, for instance, Knuckles clashes with GUN Agent Mason and his tech-enhanced punches, leading to an extremely on-the-nose inversion of the "Do I look like I need your power?" scene showcased in the trailer for the second movie. Except this time, Agent Willoughby butts in and points out how stupid that line is in this new context, since they're literally trying to steal Knuckles' power. The fight can't just be cool, they have to get cute with it. A lot of stuff like that happens in this show.

Given all these complaints, the first two episodes left me thinking I'd be fairly negative on this show overall. This seemed like the version of the show from the fandom's collective nightmares, one that undoes all of the progress the movie series seemed to have been making towards faithfulness to the games. Like, just look at these cast posters. Is this what you want out of Sonic? Do these excite you?

But then, something strange happened. Over time, I just kind of let the jokes and shenanigans wash over me and basked in how fucking weird this show is.

And I started to actually enjoy it.

Look. The Wade & Knuckles Show was never going to be peak Sonic. But that sure as hell doesn't mean it can't be entertaining.

This show is so fucking goofy

Here's the thing.

The show is funny.

Unlike a lot of other people, I didn't hate all the wedding stuff in Hawaii in Sonic 2, because I thought a lot of it was funny, both in its actual jokes and in the ways in which they tied everything back to Sonic. Tom looking wistfully at some bodybuilders doing Top Gun shit and spraying each other with beer and being like "I wish Sonic had that" is weirdly funny. The twist that those muscle bros are all agents of the newly formed GUN, who orchestrated the wedding as an elaborate scheme to catch Sonic, is funny. Mr. Olive Garden becoming the fucking GUN Commander is VERY funny. Are any of these elements of my dream Sonic movie? No, of course not. But my dream Sonic movie was never gonna happen in live action.

The Knuckles show follows up on the comedy of the previous films by being probably the funniest live action Sonic release yet. Did every joke land for me? God no. There are some stinkers in there that made me roll my eyes. But enough of them landed that it worked out for me overall. A big part of this is the fact that they've got a good cast of actors and/or comedians here.

Adam Pally is funny as Wade, and I found myself liking him more and more as a character as the show went on. He becomes an oddly endearing loser, with some sweet moments in his personal arc that made me feel for the guy. I like Wade more than Tom now, thanks to this show. I will now be happier to see Wade in Sonic 3 than I would have been previously.

The supporting cast is frequently great, too, many of whom are playing completely cartoonish, over-the-top characters. They took a cue from how exaggerated Carrey's performance was as Robotnik and decided to just abandon all pretense that this is the real world. Stockard Channing as Wade's mom is funny, and carries some of the more sincere parts of the show. Cary Elwes as Wade's very British dad who abandoned him as a child to run off and be the world's most egotistical professional bowler is funny. Edi Patterson as Wade's sister Wanda is... well, she's kinda trying too hard, but she has her moments. The Mighty Boosh co-creator Julian Barratt(!!) as a scenery-chewing bounty hunter, who was also somehow Wade's former best friend and bowling partner, is VERY funny. I love this guy.

(Honestly, they should let more people who were on Garth Marenghi's Darkplace be in Sonic stuff. Where's Matt Berry)

This is kind of a stacked cast for a bunch of stupid side characters in a live action Knuckles show! And honestly, that just makes it funnier to me. Even when they're not funny, the fact that this exists makes it funny. They somehow convinced Paramount to give them a bunch of money to make a spiritual successor to Dodgeball about a schlubby guy who wants to beat his dad at a bowling tournament... except also Knuckles the fucking Echidna is there as his personal life coach. My life is richer for the fact that I can say that sentence. I think about all the little kids who are probably watching this show this weekend, going in expecting a show about Knuckles the Echidna and having to sit through extensive bowling scenes and lore about Wade's family, and sorry kids, but I just have to laugh. Wade isn't even on the poster! The poster is just a picture of Knuckles!! They punked those kids!!!

In a franchise where every single aspect is so carefully micromanaged these days, it feels truly special to get an adaptation this bonkers. It frequently appeals to the same part of me that enjoys the fact that there's an officially licensed Knuckles comic in which Charmy Bee's best friend (also a bee) dies of an accidental LSD overdose from a drug-laced chili dog. Or like, everything about the original 1993 Super Mario Bros. movie. Or the fact that they made seven direct-to-DVD sequels to Alpha and Omega, one of which is half a retread of the adventure from the first movie (with more annoying supporting characters in tow this time) and half a literal clip show of the first movie. The sheer absurdity of the fact that these things exist is charming to me. Except, with the Knuckles show, it has the added benefit of frequently being funny on purpose! This is why I'm not sure I'd call it "so bad it's good." Like, it's not amazing, but there were a lot of parts that I enjoyed in the exact way I was supposed to enjoy them.

Look. Here's a list of real lines of dialogue from the Sega-approved Knuckles the Echidna streaming show that they're billing as a pillar of the Paramount+ lineup, to drive this point home. Let these marinate for a minute:

"I only eat grapes, and Cool Ranch Doritos™."

"Annihilate this little girl, Wade. Crush her spirit. Humiliate her so badly her parents won't even look at her again." "Doesn't that seem like we're going a bit far?" "Not far enough."

"So is he Jewish?" "Half, I think."

"I had a friend who when he listened to Alien Ant Farm he could lift a Toyota Corolla over his head."

"I'm in dire financial straits. Due to my lawsuit against an unnamed rainforest-themed restaurant franchise, I don't have two pennies to my name."

"We're here in sunny Reno, Nevada, which is so close to Hell you can smell the sparks."

"You can't threaten me with your Jewish karate chops because I am a federal agent."

"I will say, regardless of how you feel about child abandonment - and I'm against it! - the deals at TJ Maxx can't be beat."

This is a Sonic show in which they got Paul Scheer and Rob Huebel to appear as ESPN 8: The Ocho commentators.

This is a show where Wade's mom insists upon pronouncing "Knuckles" with the throaty Hebrew "ch" sound, and declares that Knuckles is basically Jewish. Later, they watch Pretty Woman together while enjoying a nice slice of key lime pie. Knuckles comments: "I don't understand. This young streetwalker with a heart made of gold, why do the others treat her with such disdain? Is it so wrong to walk the streets?"

This is a show where the fourth episode is directed by one of the guys from The Lonely Island and features a hallucinatory low budget rock opera stage musical put on by the ghost of Pachacamac. It recounts Knuckles' life story, with Wade playing Knuckles and the "evil" Longclaw played by the bounty hunter guy who's played by the Mighty Boosh guy.

Look at this.

And also, Knuckles' singing voice is provided by Michael Bolton, which they proudly announce in the middle of the musical.

And also...

Also...???

IBLIS IS IN IT????????????

Yes, Iblis!

From Sonic '06!!

Knuckles is said to have looked for a mythical power called the "Flames of Disaster" to avenge his clan, which ended up being the power that was within him all along that lets him do fire punches yadda yadda yadda. As part of this, he apparently fought Iblis off-screen at some point, as conveyed with the giant singing papier-mâché Iblis in the musical.

...Then Iblis sings about hitting up Facebook Marketplace

How? How does any of this exist? Why reference '06 of all games? How did Iblis get into the live action Sonic movie universe before Amy and Metal Sonic? Why are they using Iblis and the term "Flames of Disaster" in such a goofy way that completely disregards their original context?

I don't know. I don't know how any of this happened. But I love it. We got a Knuckles miniseries in which Michael Bolton sings the phrase "the Flames of Disaster." The world is a beautiful place sometimes.

Some people will tell you to skip episode four. "Knuckles is barely even in it," they say. "It's dumb and pointless," they say. "They clearly just ran out of special effects budget," they say. These are people whose opinions you should disregard. The episode with the least Knuckles in it is somehow the most entertaining episode of the show. I would, in fact, go as far as to say that if you only decide to watch one episode of the Knuckles show to see what goofy bullshit they get up to, it should be this one.

I cannot be mad at this show. It's so dumb, but it completely owns the fact that it's a dumb and unnecessary spinoff. Inferiority is baked into its very DNA. It's very self-consciously redoing the premise of the first movie, but stupider. It's about The Other Cop from the movies, instead of the competent one. Instead of being into a "cooler" sport, his life revolves around professional bowling. Instead of going to Vegas, he goes to Reno. Even his tragic backstory that shaped his entire life sucks. He was abandoned by his pro bowler dad in a TJ Maxx. Not even a nicer department store. A fucking TJ Maxx. This whole show is a Dril tweet.

They put a ton of effort into making it dumb in an occasionally spectacular way. So much effort was put into that joke rock opera that fans will just write off as stupid filler. They put their whole pussies into it. This is not a poorly made show. This has better production values than half the shit made for Disney+. This was made with love. Maybe not as much love for the Sonic the Hedgehog series of video games as we'd like, but it's love nonetheless.

Maybe this show broke me and these are the ramblings of a madwoman. Maybe I'm just really nostalgic for the '90s and '00s comedy movies all the Wade stuff is modeled after. Maybe the Alan Wake fan in me just really loves it when a story pivots to a silly rock opera for no real reason. I won't discount any of these possibilities. This isn't high art. This isn't something I would recommend to anyone with zero interest in Sonic, and it also isn't going to sway Sonic fans who hate the Paramount universe. I really can't blame them for being bewildered by this show. But for a specific type of person, this is the absurd three-star Sonic-adjacent comedy miniseries of your dreams. It's a mid masterpiece.

Again, I just have to step back, realize the fact that this shouldn't exist, and smile. Sega's too afraid to do stupid bullshit with the franchise like this these days. And I can't blame them, after years of Sonic being a treated as a laughingstock. But part of me misses some of the goofy shit. No matter how much I tore some of the Archie comics apart as I was reading them for this blog, I just look back on stuff like Cal and Al or the Many Hands issues and laugh. And that same part of me looks at this show about Knuckles being the sidekick to this fucking guy, and just goes...

"We're so back."

In conclusion, I genuinely think this was a more enjoyable TV show than Sonic Prime.

I wouldn't go back and rewatch Sonic Prime anytime soon, aside from maybe, like, a couple of the Shadow-heavy episodes. Huge stretches of that show bored me to tears. The writers squandered all of that show's potential. But I would rewatch the Knuckles show, which takes a terrible premise and has a lot of fun with it, in a heartbeat. Even the bowling parts. The bowling scenes in the Knuckles show are more engaging than 70% of the fights in Sonic Prime. I am not trolling. I mean that sincerely, with all my heart. Don't @ me.

Stray observations

There is effectively zero meaningful setup for the third movie in this, unless Wade's family or the two GUN agents come back or something. Project Shadow is not mentioned in this. There is no secret post-credits scene with Gerald

The CGI in this is pretty good. Not quite on par with the movies, but pretty good. Sonic's weird forehead wrinkles are distracting in his scenes though. Please fix that

I wouldn't say I liked this as much as the second movie, which obviously gets a ton of points for, you know. The Cool Sonic Shit. But I had more fun with it than the first movie, which I still feel is a painfully generic family movie that was only saved by Tyson's redesign

"Grapes are an interesting choice for someone who doesn't use his individual fingers."

Agent Willoughby was apparently the one at GUN who had to buy the Olive Garden gift cards and set up the fake wedding. Her origin story is that she hated doing shit like that and wanted to go fight aliens

This miniseries contains another Keanu namedrop because Wade's childhood bedroom has a Speed poster on the wall. I swear, if Sonic doesn't say Shadow sounds just like Keanu...

Knuckles is familiar with Paul Blart Mall Cop

Near the end the ESPN 8: The Ocho commentators say that the 1974 Reno bowling championship was also interrupted by an extraterrestrial, and given that was exactly 50 years ago I can't write off the possibility that that was Shadow. Please for the love of god give us a sequel series after the third movie where Wade takes Shadow the Hedgehog bowling. I need this more than I need air

[writteninlunarlight-years]

How they show affection to you throughout the relationship TW: AFAB Reader, Sexual implications, Cringey men, MY SHITTY ASS WRITERS BLOCK

Lucifer

In the beginning, your story together was anything but perfect. He held unyeilding views about sinners, and in his eyes, you were nothing more than a psychopathic killer, a hopeless drug addict, or even, heaven forbid, a demonic radio host.

Yet somehow, you brought joy into his life. Your corny puns and lighthearted jokes became the new normal for his troubled soul. You consistently put him first, even when you didn’t have to, your calm, gentle smile illuminating the darkest corners of his small world.

It truly began with the small gestures—special nicknames that he lovingly crafted just for you. One fateful day, he became visibly upset when Charlie dared to use the same nickname. He sulked for days, unable to shake off the irritation that someone else had used his personal nickname he made just for you.

As your connection deepened, he began expressing his feelings through lingering touches. Afraid to voice the vastness of his emotions, he sought to convey his affection subtly. He would hold your hand a fraction too long during exchanges, his fingers brushing against yours with a hesitant familiarity. When he tucked a stray hair behind your ear, his fingers lingered against your skin just a moment longer. He would pull you close, his hand resting possessively around your waist, silently claiming you as his own.

Eventually, the weight of his unspoken feelings became too much to bear. He opted for indirect confessions, praising your beauty and grace instead of uttering the words "I love you," which once led to heartache. He swept you off your feet, whether in a playful dance or as you strolled through the infernal streets of Hell, reveling in the joy of simply being together.

The moment of true confession came unexpectedly while Kattie Killjoy was out on the road with her camera crew. She stopped you both, curious about the new sinner who had captured King Lucifer's attention. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulled you into a passionate kiss, declaring to the Hell's rings that you were his.

That kiss sparked a meaningful conversation about the future of your relationship and the love that had been quietly brewing between you for so long. From that moment, Lucifer began guiding you, helping you find your footing as Hell's next queen, all the while cherishing the fact that you chose to stand by his side.

Alastor

He didn’t hate you; instead, he regarded you as a mere plaything—a soul eager to make a deal, much like countless others before you. To him, people were simply pawns in a grand game, assets he could exploit over time. Yet, he never anticipated the profound impact you would have on his life.

Your calm presence was soothing, like the perfect Jazz song on a long night. You found joy in learning about his past, willingly immersing yourself in the world of Jazz, and becoming an enthusiastic participant. It warmed his heart to know he had at least one dedicated listener who wasn’t bound to him by ownership.

He couldn’t help but notice the way your hands lingered near him, a delicate dance of respect and curiosity. Your decision to take up dancing lessons at Mimzy’s work didn’t go unnoticed either. He appreciated your efforts far more than he would ever admit, silently cherishing the way you sought to connect with him.

It quickly became apparent to everyone in Hell—save for the two of you—that something special was blossoming between you. Your every move was shadowed by a newfound intimacy, and Alastor always seemed prepared with an extra outfit for dancing, making it almost too easy for others to see the affection that was growing between you.

Alastor, recognizing your hesitation to risk hurting him, decided to take the plunge and make the first move. He whisked you away to Mimzy’s dance hall, where you spent the night twirling and swaying together. While dancing was not unusual for you two, it was during the slow songs that he drew you impossibly close, enveloping you in a warmth that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

The truth of your shared feelings came to light when Rosie danced by and playfully remarked on how cute and deadly the two of you appeared together. With a broad smile illuminating his face, Alastor looked down at you, and before you could process the moment, he captured your lips in a searing kiss.

This kiss ignited a whirlwind of chaos around you—a symphony of Mimzy’s complaints, Rosie’s laughter, and the distant hum of TV static as carnage erupted in the streets, instigated by an irate man who had glimpsed a glitchy, blurry photo of your exchange. Although the man who snapped the picture met a swift end, the image ultimately found its way into Vox’s hands, setting off a chain reaction of consequences.

Adam

He was the first man, the quintessential figure, the one and only Adam of the Garden of Eden. With an aura of irresistible charm, he dismissed the notion of singular love or romance, believing he needed a multitude of women to satisfy his desires. Sweet, innocent feelings had no place in his world—at least, that’s what he thought.

Little did he know, you were slowly weaving your way into the fabric of his heart. You were the epitome of a perfect angel, obedient and charmingly polite. Initially, he found your demeanor a tad annoying, but as night fell, his imagination transformed you into the devoted wife he never knew he craved.

Over time, his nicknames for you evolved from crude jests to tender pet names, each one reserved solely for you. If anyone dared to inquire about this softer side, he would scoff, brushing it off as if it never happened. The same went for the fleeting touches—his instinct to stand closely behind you, resting his head on yours or your shoulder—he would never confess to being utterly smitten.

His feelings became undeniable when even the mere mention of Eve or Lilith in your presence ignited a fierce jealousy within him. He yearned to shout from the rooftops that you were the one—the "it girl" who had captured his heart. You were his forever, the beginning and the end.

To solidify these feelings and coax you into his embrace, he made it his mission to cling to you, undeterred by gossip or judgment. He wanted you to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his devotion to you matched yours to him.

The pivotal moment that brought your lips together was orchestrated by Lute, who quite literally pushed you into Adam. Just as he was grappling with cold feet, he found himself frozen in place, your wide, sparkling eyes locked on his. In a whirlwind of surprise, Lute nudged you forward, and as he instinctively caught you, one hand on your lower back and the other tangling in your hair, he realized your hands were resting on his chest. In that electric moment, your lips met, sealing a connection neither of you anticipated.

From that day forward, Lute took immense pride in her matchmaking skills. Whenever Adam wasn’t around, she reveled in bragging about how she had transformed the notorious “massive asshole” into a devoted boyfriend, silencing his incessant boasts about his past conquests. This victory was a personal triumph for her and a welcome relief for the other exorcists, who were finally spared from his relentless chatter about your perfect form.

Husk

He had never been on the lookout for love—not even before his untimely demise. To him, it felt like a distant fantasy, something lost in the chaos of his life. As a gambling man with a penchant for risk, he often found that women were put off by his reckless ways and his struggle with alcohol.

But then you entered his life, and it took far too long for him to realize that his drinking had lessened, replaced by an increasing fascination with you. You became his unexpected remedy, igniting an obsession with your radiant smile and infectious laughter. Your genuine spirit shone brightly, even when the world felt heavy and overwhelming.

He transformed your drinks into special concoctions, always incorporating your favorites—whether they were alcoholic or not. Each glass was adorned with playful fruits and whimsical garnishes aimed at coaxing your smile.

One day, he casually suggested that you help him clean the bar, seizing the opportunity to brush his fingers against your lower back or hold your hands, delighting in the warmth of your presence.

He longed to take a step toward something more official, but with Charlie’s exuberance and Alastor’s unpredictable nature, commitment felt daunting. Yet, it was clear to everyone in the hotel how deeply he cherished you. Encouraged by their nudges, he finally gathered the courage to ask you out, only to stumble over his words and blurt out a clumsy, unrelated question that only made you smile wider.

Determined to make his intentions clear, he devised a plan to ask you out on his own terms. He orchestrated a lovely meal and implored everyone in the hotel to vacate for the afternoon. Once the scene was set, everything fell into place. Your laughter at his classy magic tricks and the sweet rhythm of your conversation made him realize—this was love blooming in its purest form.

When he finally confessed, he was beaming—a remarkable feat for someone who rarely wore a smile. Your genuine warmth and unwavering affection were all that mattered to him, melting away his grumpy exterior.

From that moment on, Husk transformed into a new man. He found purpose in his days, a reason to look forward to the end of his shifts. Yes, the looming presence of the radio demon still weighed on his mind, but you were there, ready to fill the void in his heart with everything he had always longed for.

Vox

You were nothing more than an assistant in his eyes—just a cog in the machine while he juggled the chaotic dynamics of his half-hearted relationship with Val and Vel. Love felt like a distraction; all he craved was power and the sweet satisfaction of seeing Alastor kneeling before him.

Yet, you were an infuriating thorn in his side, clad in alluring short skirts and stockings, flashing a smile that could light up the darkest corners of Hell. Each comment from Val or Vel about you ignited a possessive spark within him. He wanted you all to himself, and he was determined to keep it that way.

The nature of your interactions began to change, starting innocently with the passing of papers or showcasing new products on the tablet. But it quickly escalated to lingering touches—his hands resting possessively on your waist, gentle massages on your shoulders, and teasing breaths against your neck as he leaned in to whisper.

He was intent on making you want him, but pride held him back from crawling to you; that would be too undignified. Instead, he resolved to ensure you needed him just as much. One promise rang clear in his mind: he would never, ever use his hypnosis against you.

His feelings became undeniable the day Val cornered you, a tense moment exacerbated by his foul mood, thanks to Angel Dust’s antics and the fact that you had captured Vox's attention. What began as a heated conversation erupted into a full-blown brawl between the two men, both vying for your affection in one way or another.

When Vox emerged victorious, albeit with a few scrapes, he was seething. But the moment you approached him, your worried eyes searching his, everything shifted. In that instant, he realized you were the one—the only one he would ever need. Forget Alastor on his knees; it was you he craved at his side.

With one passionate kiss, he made his feelings clear, giving Val a defiant middle finger as you and Vox ignited headlines across Hell with your new love story. He would do anything for you—truly anything—and he meant every word.

[blackbird5154]

Papa lll's special kung fu

After watching a lot of Terzo footage, I've noticed his amazing talent for turning disadvantages into advantages. And here's what I mean.

▸ If you love Third Era acoustic performances as much as I do, you've probably noticed that very often things went wrong on them. Tangled wires, dropped sound, wrong mic height, forgotten song lyrics 😅 Every time something like that happened, Terzo amused the audience while the problem was fixed, and now we remember those moments as the most touching. He didn't hide the problem, he made fun of it.

▸ Philadelphia Incident, 2015. Pope Francis arrives in town at the same time as Ghost and makes it so they have to cancel the concert. At the next show, Terzo praises the audience for their support and says he is by far the second greatest pope in the world. He says “number two” in such a voice that you absolutely believe that being number two is the coolest and sexiest thing in the world.

▸ March 28th 2017. Papa falls off the stage into the pit and immediately uses this as an opportunity to approach the crowd and hold their hands. Papa, fall more often. Your ass looks really fine.

▸ He almost falls again, but pretends it was part of a dance move.

▸ The legendary hole in the shoe is the result of his ability to turn problems into advantages. Anyone else in his place would have thought, “Damn, my shoe's worn out, now I need a new one. I've got to change it without anyone noticing.” But Terzo thinks about turning it into an event and makes it iconic. Sometimes I think he could be a successful businessman with the most creative ideas. One of those people who can make a fortune from used cans.

▸ How to resolve situation if you passed out during a concert? That's right, compliment the ladies who are so beautiful that you fainted, and make their hearts melt.

Now let's dig a level deeper.

Radley and I have already written quite a bit about the theme of loneliness in Terzo's monologues. It all boils down to the fact that, according to Papa, ghosts can be pretty good company if you're lonely. Here are a couple of telling quotes:

We can't always get what we want. You know that, huh? But one thing that can keep you company in a lonely hour… are the ghosts inside. Let them be your friend rather than your enemy. It's that darkness that sometimes makes the person, eh?

Lawrence, Kansas, USA (October 5, 2015)

And

You have a lot of things in your life, huh? We all crave so many things. If we list… in order to feel as if… we all get all these things and then everything will feel better. Ain't that right? I am exactly the same. But I do know one thing… is that if you have the spirits and the demons inside you that causes a little… wreckage. That can be to your favor. Believe me. An empty shell is nothing, so...

Chicago, Illinois, USA (October 3, 2015)

Usually ghosts are associated with something scary, or they're a metaphor for memories of people you've lost. It sounds like Terzo was able to “win them over” to his side, make them his allies in a lonely hour, turn them from tormentors to trusted companions. Sounds like a profound reinterpretation of the experience of unhappiness. Someday I'll learn to do the same.

A phrase from the classic comes to mind, You have to make the good out of the bad because that is all you have got to make it out of. Maybe Terzo would argue with the second part, but would agree with the first.

▸[Part 7] ▸Encyclopedia of Terzo