#he’s almost always touching one of them in some way

[goldfades]

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

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

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

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

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

Seven months.

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

But in reality, it had been everything.

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

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

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

It wasn’t about Joe.

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

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

It was the dream. Your dream.

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

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

For you.

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

What happens when he sees you again?

--

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

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

And for a while, that was the point.

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

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

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

But he didn’t say that.

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

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

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

So, he drank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Loneliness.

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

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

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

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

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

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

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

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

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing was prepped.

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

And that’s when it really hit him.

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

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

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

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

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

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

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

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

But it didn’t. It never did.

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

--

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

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

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

No. Not even a little.

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

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

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

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

It was his city.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you were.

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

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

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

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

It was time.

--

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

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

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

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

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

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

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

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

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

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

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

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

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

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

Yeah. That sounded about right.

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

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

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

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

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

You knew what they were thinking.

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

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

You ignored it.

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

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

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

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

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

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

This was alone.

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

And God, it was loud.

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

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

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

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

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

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

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

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

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

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

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

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

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

--

The first game of the season was electric.

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

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

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

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

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

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

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

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

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

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

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

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

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

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

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

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

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

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

Didn’t know him like you did.

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

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

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

Because winning used to mean everything.

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

He had never felt more hollow.

--

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

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

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

You picked up new hobbies.

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

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

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

And for a while, it worked.

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

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

—

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

Until it wasn’t.

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

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

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

The words landed like a gut punch.

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

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

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

But inside, you were shaking.

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

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

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

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

The unraveling.

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

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

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

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

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

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

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

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

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

He knew your moods before you did.

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

--

December used to be your favorite month.

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

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

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

You had never held back.

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

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

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

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

But it all felt wrong.

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

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

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

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

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

But your body knew.

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

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

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

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

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

But it wasn’t his family.

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

And it wasn’t him.

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

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

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

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

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

--

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

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

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

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

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

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

--

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

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

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

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

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

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

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

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

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

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

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

Because he was there.

Joe.

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

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

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

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

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

You felt sick.

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

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

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

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

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

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

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

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

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

She wasn’t you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course she knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

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

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

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

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

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

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

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

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

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

But he had been wrong.

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

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

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

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

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

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

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

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

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

But it didn’t.

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

It was shock. Discomfort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he felt it.

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

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

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

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

--

You had spent a year healing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

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

No, this was performative.

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

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

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

And that? That was unbearable.

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

No. No, no, no.

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

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

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

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

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

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

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

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

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

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

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

It made him move.

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

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

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

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

Gone.

Just like that.

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

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

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

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

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

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

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

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

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

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

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

--

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

All of it.

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

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

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

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

He missed everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knocked.

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

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

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

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

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

He broke.

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

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

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

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

So he just kept going.

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

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

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

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

But he couldn’t.

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

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

But there it was again—that ache.

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

He was still your Joe.

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

And you could have.

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

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

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

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

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

Because fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

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

And then, you let him inside.

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

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

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

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

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

So you told him. You told him everything.

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

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

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

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

Your heart clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to try.”

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

But you weren’t finished.

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

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

The next few weeks felt new.

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

This was different.

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

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

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

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

Joe never stopped trying.

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

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

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

Really listened.

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

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

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

And Joe had never been happier.

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

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

He showed up for you. For everything.

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

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

And he realized—this was you.

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

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

But you.

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

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

And you had never wanted to be one.

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

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

But because you had chosen him.

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

--

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

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

This was better.

This was right.

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

But not this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

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

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

And the worst part?

You did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

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

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

The crowd erupted into applause.

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

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

And yeah.

He really, really had.

--

The night felt easy.

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

Now, it was effortless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were just here. With him.

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

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

Joe was on one knee.

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

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

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

Only love.

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he whispered.

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

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

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

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

[steddieas-shegoes]

slowly, then all at once

for @steddielovemonth inspired by the quote "as he read, i fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once." from the fault in our stars by john green

rated t | 731 words | cw: nightmares | tags: pre-relationship, feelings realization, literal sleeping together, cuddling

📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖

Steve’s nightmares aren’t a secret. The severity of them, along with the frequency, and how shitty he feels after, those are all secrets. Not even Robin quite knows how bad it gets sometimes.

The summer is worse: the memories of the Russians, the way the pool reflects off his window at night, the humidity clinging to his skin reminding him too much of the way dust and ash and mud clings in the Upside Down.

He feels stupid after spring break, that he should even still have traumatic memories when Eddie almost died. But he does. They’re worse now. He isn’t being tortured, Robin isn’t even in these ones. It’s always Eddie.

Eddie bleeding.

Eddie’s broken body.

Eddie not breathing.

Eddie dying.

It’s weird how quickly he took over Steve’s brain, how he went from being someone Steve barely knew from school to being one of his closest friends. Near-death experiences tended to do that, he supposes.

But it’s almost every night, and he rarely gets more than a couple hours of sleep before they hit, so he’s in a constant state of exhaustion these days. It’s not great for all the volunteering he does, and the usual taking the kids where they need to go, and trying to find a new job, and trying to convince Robin he’s fine. The bags under his eyes and the constant slump of his shoulders says everything.

She worries, but she knows he just has to get over the hump.

They all do.

Eddie stays with him late into the night a lot. It’s like he senses that being alone is the catalyst.

He finds excuses, tries to make it seem like he’s the one who doesn’t wanna be alone. Steve appreciates it, but he’s far past the point of feeling any shame for being afraid of being alone.

He doesn’t turn him away, though. Eddie sticks around for hours most nights, well past the point he should. Sometimes they watch movies, sometimes they just turn music on and sit quietly in the living room. Eddie is always moving a little, fingers tapping, leg jiggling, head bobbing. It’s good, though. It’s nice.

And sometimes he lays down in Steve’s bed with him until he falls asleep. He doesn’t touch him, or really do anything more than just exist in the space while Steve closes his eyes and drifts off. He’s always gone when Steve wakes up.

Tonight, he’s got a book open and Steve’s curled up under his blankets. His bones ache from how tired he is, and he wonders if his body will ever get to the point where exhaustion keeps the nightmares away. Steve’s eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. Not yet.

Eddie’s voice is soft, accents coming through for some characters, colorful inflections describing the scenery. Steve smiles to himself as his eyes start to feel heavy.

It’s nice to be read to. He doesn’t know which book this is, but it sounds like a dream.

Maybe he’ll dream about this instead of bats circling a body he loves.

Oh.

His eyes open and he looks up at Eddie, who doesn’t stop reading, even when Steve knows he can feel his eyes on him. It’s a beautiful thing, to see Eddie so enraptured in a story that he’s probably read before, to see him still putting the effort into giving Steve a show even though Steve was mostly asleep.

He loves him.

Steve loves Eddie.

Not the way he loves Robin, or the kids. Maybe closer to how he loved Nancy, but even that didn’t feel quite like this.

This feels like a later sunset after a long winter, a fresh breath of air after being stuck in the Upside Down, a glass of cold water in the middle of summer.

It’s refreshing, and waves of calm take over his body.

He settles.

He reaches out, places his arm over Eddie’s stomach, curls his fingers into his shirt. He buries his face into Eddie’s side.

Eddie pauses for a moment, just long enough that Steve worries he shouldn’t have done this. But then one arm covers Steve’s body and he continues, voice softer but no less enthusiastic.

Steve closes his eyes and falls into a deep sleep.

When he wakes, it’s calm. There’s no crying or screaming, no thrashing, no fighting.

Eddie’s there, holding Steve against him.

He loves him.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Where Do You End Pt. 2

Main Masterlist

Read on A03! - Pt. 1 - Pt. 3

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, angst, body swap, mentions of smut, humor, horniness, very weird

Summary/Warnings: You put the plan into motion, and Sam realizes you're not Dean a little too late.

Author's Note: Supernatural characters are incapable of the just making the emotionally smart choice on the first try, but they're doing their best.

Word Count: 4.5k

Dean had half shoved the phone into your hand. His hand. Your hand was the one who shoved it into Dean’s hand, and Dean’s hand was the one that was dialing Sam while your hand drummed on the table, and your own eyes watched you with a searing intensity that only Dean was capable of. 

You’re not sure what suddenly made him take this seriously, but you don’t really care. You just need this to be over. 

Because the last twelve hours have been the longest of your life.

It started with your eyes wandering where they shouldn’t. Dean would shift in his chair, your body would shift with him, and when your boobs would bounce it was suddenly impossible to stop staring at them. Dean would walk away from you—to the parking lot, or through a door, or over to the bar—and your hips would do a little swaying thing that made Dean’s body tense. 

Your body tense. Dean’s body that was right now your body—and only about twenty percent in your control—tense. 

And he’d bend over, and your ass would stick in the air, and it was like your eyes were magnetically drawn to it.

You have a nice ass. You’ve never really seen it before, but it’s a nice ass. And nice tits, and an overall face that was better than you’d ever really given yourself credit for. You’re pretty. You have good features, a nice voice, and a great body.

This experience would be an overall ego booster, if you haven’t spent the whole time trying not to lose your mind.

Because then Dean wiggled his ass—your ass—and your jeans felt tight. Almost painful. And there was a weird throbbing feeling between your legs that was deep in your core, but it was heavier than you were used to-

You’d glanced down at your lap with a frown, worried you’d done something to fuck up Dean’s body, and almost fallen out of your chair.

You never wanted to experience an erection again. They were uncomfortable and sudden and annoyingly obvious. They made it hard to focus when you were trying to talk to Dean about the situation, and distracting when you were trying to do research. 

It didn’t help how they were purely out of your control. How easily they appeared, and how impossibly they went. 

And Dean was not fucking helping. He’d squirm when you touched him, and you’d get a boner. He’d use your voice to whine or mumble or just say anything at all, and you’d get a boner. At one point he kicked you and you got a boner.

You don’t know how he functions like this. You’d been a little worried that he doesn’t. That you’re getting turned on by your own shockingly attractive body for some fucked up Freudian reason, and Dean’s got nothing to do with this.

Then you’d dragged him out of the diner, and it had killed that doubt with fire and smoke. You’d never drag your own body like that. You hated it when Dean did that to you—the close proximity and overall Dean-ness of the action always made you weak and soft, molding into him when you were supposed to be pounding on his chest and calling him an asshole—and you hadn’t even really been considering it as an option to stop him going to the bathroom, but Dean’s muscles had flexed against your will, his body had stood taller without your permission, and suddenly you’d been grabbing your own arm and manhandled Dean out of the diner.

He’d been sulking the whole ride back. It was the same way you usually sulked after he did that to you, with a pout and arms folded over your chest.

His boobs—your boobs—were pushed up. You could see cleavage when you glanced to the side, and your cock twitched in your jeans to shove between those pretty fucking tits-

What the fuck was wrong with you.

It was like your body—Dean’s body—had a mind of its own. Behaving as Dean would behave, had none of this shit ever happened. Opening doors and placing that broad hand on your lower back, towering over you closer than he had any right to be and pressing you into corners until he was only just not touching you.

You really wish you’d pushed harder to make him stop doing that. If only for the sake of you now, crowding your own space and getting hard whenever Dean would squirm away from you. But you hadn’t, because when it was you in your own body, you loved it.

It was a cruel, masochistic drug you’d hooked yourself on, where Dean didn’t want you like that but he was still giving you this. You were only his friend in his mind, but he still liked you as a body. He didn���t feel anything for you the same way you felt things for him, but there was still an animalistic attraction that made him hover and smirk and tease you.

It gave you something to hang onto. It gave you something to hate about him, because you really did love everything else. 

You really loved Dean. You really loved his dumb jokes, and his shit-eating grin, and how loud and annoying and adorable he could be. You loved how he loved his car, how he cared about Sam with everything he had, how he was maybe to biggest, hottest geek you’d ever met. 

You really simply loved Dean.

And he didn’t love you, and you’d forced yourself to live with that because you had to. He was still your best friend. You hate him, and you’re furious with him for telling you no and then acting like nothing had changed when he’d ripped your heart out of your chest, carved his name on it, and returned it without any desire to care for how he’d mauled you in a beautiful and irreversible way, but he’s your best friend. And you love him.

And this needed to be fixed now, because you can’t keep living in such firm and solid proof that Dean’s body wants you, but there’s something revolting enough to his brain that he never ever cross that line you’ve had to restrain yourself from all day.

The first step is to call Sam, and execute the secrets plan so you can have some help that isn’t just a grumpy Dean. The second step is to hiss at Dean that he needs to leave the room before Sam picks up, because the whole point is that this a you and Sam secret, and Dean isn’t allowed to hear it.

“You can’t just cut me out of this, sweetheart,” he hisses back, narrowing your eyes. It’s cute. You’re going to fucking die. “I’ll be damned if I let you and Sammy whisper about me while I just stand in the freakin’ hall-“

“Not everything is about you, Dean.” You sneer. “And if you want this to work, wait outside.”

“But-“

“Outside.” Your voice raises slightly as you point to the door, and there’s an authoritative, commanding tone to it that makes Dean’s eyes—your eyes—widen. “Now.”

Dean scowls and shuffles outside, his low grumble about this being bullshit muffled as the door closes behind him.

You glare after him—not loving how annoyed his body is that you just let Dean walk away without picking him up and kissing his hair—and Sam picks up seconds later.

“Listen, Dean, I know you’re freaking out, but you can’t keep calling me.” Sam sounds exasperated, and you frown into the air as he continues. “This is supposed to be my week off with Eileen, and it’s hard to relax when you keep fucking calling me.”

“I-“ You shake your head slightly, glancing back to the door. “What?”

“You’ve called me seven times, Dude. Listen, it’s not going to go bad, she doesn’t hate you, and all you need to do is talk about your feelings like an adult and everything will be fine.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know.” You can hear Sam’s eye roll through the phone. “There’s nothing to talk about, she doesn’t know what she’d be getting into, you’d rather be miserable and all that shit. Look, Dean, at this point all I can tell you is to get your head out of your ass, and stop calling me.”

“Sam.” Your voice is slow, cautious, and wired with things you don’t fully understand. “What are you talking about.”

He says your name like it’s obvious, and you think the world stops spinning. “I know you didn’t wanna solo hunt with her, but-“

“Why didn’t he- Why didn’t I want to solo hunt with her?” Your voice is more frantic than Dean’s usually is. You don’t really care. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her, Dean, you’re just still in love with her, and kind of being a fucking dick about it.”

Sam keeps talking. Something about how Dean’s always worried about hunting with you, how he’s always worried he’s going to slip up and put you in danger, how he’s afraid you’ll catch on to his real feelings, how he believes it’s easier when Sam is there to run interference and prevent too much of Dean’s hand from being shown.

It’s all just noise, though. Because there’s no way Dean loves you. He’d said he didn’t. He’d said you were his friend and nothing more, he’d shot you down, he’d apologized and told you the feeling would fade, because it was just a crush, and it would pass.

You’d spent months forcing yourself to be okay with that. You couldn’t make him love you. It would kill you to contort and reshape yourself into someone he would want, and if you did go down that path there was a chance you’d come out the other side someone he hated. 

You’d lost sleep reminding yourself that Dean loving you was not something you were owed. That you were lucky he cared about you enough to be your friend, and to let you down gently. He could’ve been cruel, and listed every reason you were vile and repulsive and had no right to be his. He could’ve told you to pack your bags and leave the bunker. 

And you’d tried to move on, because you owed him that much. You’d failed, but you tried.

He’d always stopped you. At countless bars he’d stepped between you and whoever you were flirting with, telling you Sam was drunk and they had to go now, or you all had an early drive in the morning and had to go now, or you just had to go now.

Sam had never really looked that drunk. 

Dean had always guided you out of the bar with a possessive hand on your lower back.

He’d rejected you, and he’d never let you get over him. 

As if he-

“Sam.” Your tone is harsh and cold. You don’t care. “How long has- Have I been in love with m-“ You correct yourself again with your own name, your voice dropping another octave, and there’s a long pause over the speaker.

“Forever, dude. You told me that like, day one you were whipped. I mean- You know that. Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You snap. You’re barely breathing. “Sam, I need you to feed the cat.”

For a second, you think the call dropped and that the plan hadn’t worked. The plan needed to work. You needed to get back into your own body so you could fucking kill Dean-

“Dean, we don’t have a cat. You’re allergic-“

“Sparky. In storage room nine. He needs food.”

“Spar- I don’t- What- Did-“ Sam snaps your name, and your heart jumps into your throat. “Did she tell you something? Did you get her drunk again? Because you know she’ll kill you when she gets sober, she hates it when you do that-“

You know exactly what Sam’s trying to accuse you—accuse Dean—of. You get loose-lipped when you drink. You tell secrets and lose your filter, and you always feel horrible in the morning because they’re rarely your secrets and the lack of filter is really embarrassing.

Dean’s told you it’s adorable. That he likes drunk you, because she’s honest and takes somehow less shit than sober you. That she’s you in the rawest form, and its’s awesome.

You can’t believe you ever bought that he didn’t have any feelings for you at all.

“There’s wet food in the pantry, behind all the cabbage and carrots. Should be enough for Sparky until I get home.” You push on, narrowing your eyes at the air. “Scoop the litter box too. I think I forget.”

“You- You’ve never been in the pantry. That’s why we-“ Sam cuts himself off, and you can hear the gears spinning in his brain over the phone. 

Then he says your name, and there’s an element of horror in his voice that feels pretty appropriate. 

“Thank fuck.” You mutter, and take your chances to try and just say it. “Code Vermilion, Sam.”

“Code- That’s a zombie situation, are there-“

“Shit- sorry.” You chew on your tongue, trying to recall the emergency system you’d fucking designed. “Code Puce.”

“You fucking body swapped?!” There is it. Thank God. “Why didn’t you just, you know, say that-“

“I couldn’t!” You were shouting, but Sam was also shouting, so it was only fair. “I called you all day on my phone, and the moment I tried to, the call dropped! I tried to email or text you and it never sent, I tried to fucking snail mail you and the letter burst into flames! Dean short-circuited a fax machine-“

Sam groans. “Shit, you’re gonna kill me. I mean Dean, Dean’s gonna kill me. I was never supposed to tell,” Sam says your name, then cuts himself off with another groan. “Fuck, I mean you, I wasn’t supposed to tell you- God damn it-“

“Sam.” Your voice has become clipped. Short. You don’t need a reminder of the previous conversation, and this just really needs to be over. “If I email you all the details, can you start looking for fixes?”

“Yeah, sure, just-“ He pauses, his voice dropping sightly. “You think emails gonna work now?”

“We’re talking about it and the call’s not dropping.” You shrug, even though he can’t see it. “Text me any solutions you have. I’ll keep you updated on my end, and when Dean gets home, make him sleep on the floor of your room and don’t let him go to the bathroom alone. Okay?”

“Oh- Wait-“ Sam says your name, and you can hear the confusion in his voice. “What do you mean when Dean gets home-“

“I mean when Dean gets home. Bye, Sam.” 

You hang up, and spend a long minute just staring at the wall.

Dean’s in love with you. Sam says Dean’s in fucking love with you, and you believe him, and you-

You can’t stay here. 

This needs to be fixed, but you cannot stay here. 

You open the door to the hall. And there he is. There you are, and your body—Dean’s body, the one that’s allegedly in love with you—is leaning forward to be closer to you. To Dean.

Fuck.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Dean frowns at you, pulling your lips down into a pouty frown. It makes your dick—Dean’s dick—twitch in his pants. 

“Tell you what?”

You brace your whole body, standing a little taller. “That you love me.”

“That I-“ Dean’s eyes narrow, and you’ve never been on the receiving end on your own glare. It’s more violent than you’d imagined, and his dick is twitching again. “What the hell did Sammy say to you-“

“Don’t blame Sam.” You snap. “Answer me.”

“You didn’t ask a freakin’ question, sweetheart-“

“Yes. I did.” You lean down a little, holding Dean’s gaze. “Were you ever going to tell me you’re in love with me.”

Dean stares at you, and you think he’s going to deny it. That he’ll grunt that you’ve had this conversation before, and he doesn’t love you. That he doesn’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and whatever Sam said was a joke. Just a prank, and you need to focus on fixing this body swap instead of your feelings.

What he does is worse. 

He shakes his head, refuses to meet your eyes, and pushes his words through his teeth.

“You were never supposed to know.” He mutters. “It was for your own good-“

“Shut the fuck up, Dean!” Your voice is a roar, and you make yourself flinch, but Dean doesn’t.

He’s in your body. 

You never flinch when Dean shouts, because you know he’d never actually hurt you-

You’re going to start fucking crying. You probably already would have, if it didn’t feel like an effort in Dean’s body.

“You- You broke my heart.” You glare at him, your voice half between a hiss and a whisper. “You told me you’d never seen me that way, and you apologized. You said you didn’t want me. You told me the feeling would pass, and then you fucking stopped it-“ Your voice raises, and you stand a little taller. You can be shattered and furious. You can be a fucking storm of glass to break and carve into Dean the same way he did to you, because how could he do this to you. “You fucking stopped me from moving on! You cockblocked me, and you got angry whenever I’d go out without you, and you kept touching me and acting like everything was fine-“

Dean says your name slowly, and you can hear the regret in his voice, but you don’t care. This hurts, this hurts so much worse than before because you’d felt insane, you’d driven yourself mad with love for Dean and he’d just tightened the straitjacket and acted like you’d find a cure for this when he’d been actively keeping it from you-

“Why the fuck would you do this?! Do you hate me? Am I really that horrible that you can’t stand the idea of being in love with me-“

“It’s not you.” Dean snaps your name, shaking his head. “It’s- I was keeping you fucking safe-“

“Fuck off-“

“No!” His voice—your voice—is trying to mimic your own shout, and it’s not really working in his favor. “You- you don’t fucking get it, sweetheart, if I let us do that, let us be that, you’d have a target on your back, every son of a bitch in hell and heaven would use you and hurt you, just to get to me-“

“I’m not stupid! I know what the risks are just associating with Winchesters, and I don’t care.” You rub your face, and everything hurts. You feel like you’re choking on the air, and you can’t be here. “I didn’t care, Dean, I just wanted you.”

“You would’ve cared.” His voice—your voice—is bitter. Hollow. Resolved. “When you were being tortured and murdered, you would’ve cared. And I would’ve had to live with it. With the fact that I lost you-“

“You wouldn’t have lost me, Dean.” You fish the keys to the Impala out of your pocket, and toss them to him with his phone. “You never would’ve lost me, if you’d actually fucking tried.”

It would be kinder to let him get in a word, or a protest, or even a sort of apology. But everything hurts, and you really can’t fucking stay here or you’ll rip off your skin—Dean’s skin—and beat in your own skull with your hands. 

Your real skull—holding Dean’s mind—with how raw and furious this pain is, or Dean’s real skull with self-inflicted pain.

And that’s why you’re past kindness. You’ve been shot and choked and stabbed and sliced to pieces, but this is the worst pain you’ve ever know. He was never supposed to hurt you. You’d always trusted that this huge lunk of a body would never hurt you.

But you hadn’t counted on Dean, and how he’d been willing to risk your of peace of mind for his misguided, self-sacrificing martyr bullshit.

You’d always tried to tell him that you didn’t want him to sacrifice for you. That him staying with you meant more than him leaving you alive, but alone.

And he’d never listened.

So now you’re walking away.

Dean will be fine. He’ll get your body safely back to the bunker, tell Sam everything that happened, and figure out how to justify this to himself.

Sam will make sure nothing happens to your body until this gets fixed. And you’ll take care of Dean’s body by yourself, far away from Kansas, hiding in a shitty little harbor town until you work this out.

Alone.

Just like Dean had wanted.

For a long week, time drags to a crawl. You hole in a motel room with a laptop, coffee and vodka—you don’t really care which on you’re drinking when your go for a glass, just as long as it’s one of them—about half of a gas station’s junk food supply, and the local library’s entire collection of books of cult, myth, and lore.

The motel is dusty and warm, and the nights are horrible and cold, but this is what you needed. You stop running into doorways and hitting your head on things, and you figure out how to sleep comfortably in his body. You learn how to go to the bathroom and barely touch or think about what you’re doing, how to not get weirded out when the same face you see in your dreams is the same one that greets you in the mirror.

And you miss him. A lot.

But your fury is stronger than the ache for him to return to your side. And there’s a slightly fucked up comfort to being trapped in his body. You can watch the hands you’ve had graphic and detailed dreams about sort through papers, and you can bite your lips and understand what that sensation would do to Dean’s body.

You never cross that line. Dean’s cock will call itself to attention at random time, and you’ll just ignore it, no matter how demanding it feels. 

You’re getting really good at ignoring things.

Calls. Texts. Voicemail after voicemail from Sam and Dean. You listen to one or two, just to check—they’re fine, just angry you’ve vanished and demanding to know where you are—and delete all the rest. Sam gives up after a few days, when you respond to his email about Eurasian body swapping lore with a list of your own working theories. 

You think he’s just happy to know you’re alive.

This doesn’t seem to be the case for Dean. 

He doesn’t stop trying to get you to pick up the phone. His voicemails get longer and longer, and his texts come more and more frequently, and the only thing that save him from being blocked is that you still love him.

You’d meant what you said. Dean would never lose you, not really. You’re just certain that if you talk to him or see him he’ll try to explain himself, and you don’t want an explanation. You just fucking want him, and as long as he’s going to keep pretending that’s something he can’t give you, he doesn’t get to have you at all. 

So you keep the door locked, keep your phone on silent, and just fucking work until you fix this. 

And when you do, you don’t bother with a warning. You find the exact curse, work out the ritual for reversal, and do it. 

The world blur, your head spins and Dean’s body seizes like it’s been struck by lightning, and that’s it.

You’re in the bunker library, lying on the floor as Sam hovers over you, and it’s over.

“Dean, what the-“ Sam jostles you slightly, and a little vomit shoots up your throat. After effects. “Dean-“

“Not Dean.” You mumble your own name, shoving Sam’s hands away from your face and pushing yourself upright. “I fixed it.”

“You-“ Sam shakes his head, scanning over you with a frown. “You fixed it?”

“Obviously.” You rub your temple, your head pounding and everything far too bright. “Dean’ll be in Sekiu, Washington.”

“Why-“

“Because that’s where I was-“

“I know that.” Sam snaps, giving you a glare. “Why are you telling me. You’re the one going to get him.”

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m-“

“You are.” Sam’s making a stern bitch-face. He’s about to get punched. “Because either you act like an adult and go talk to Dean, or he stays in Washington until you grow up.”

“Until I-“ You give Sam a look of pure disbelief. “He’s the one who lied to me! Why do I have to grow up-“

“Because it’s Dean. You know he wasn’t trying to hurt you-“

“But he did.” You rub your arms for comfort, and God, it’s nice to be back in your own body. You know where to pinch your own skin to keep your head right, and you can cross your legs without any discomfort, shielding your face from Sam by bowing your head and letting your hair take care of the rest. “He was just going to let me think he didn’t love me, that he didn’t care-“

“You know he cared.” Sam says, his voice still firm, but a little more gentle. “He does care. He spent the whole week trying to figure out how to fix this, and when I told him to stop calling you he told me to shove it, because he needed to work this out. He’s just-“ Sam sighs. “He’s Dean.”

“I know.” You chew on your lips, frowning at the floor. “But it’s- It wasn’t fair, Sam. It was mean. It- I don’t feel loved. I just feel like he didn’t love me- didn’t want me enough to do something about it.”

“Okay.” Sam shrugs. “Tell him that. Or just kick his ass, because he deserves it, or make out with him. I don’t care, as long you go pick up Dean, and I get my week off.”

You give him a flat look. “You just want your secret spa time-“

“Yeah, I do. Get out.”

“But-“

“You get to drive the Impala again. The keys are in your pocket.”

Your hand flies to your jeans, and they are. And Sam’s right, you do have to work this out somehow. If you leave the bunker, you’ll be abandoning the secret cat to Sam, and it’ll die within the week.

So you’re either kill Dean or-

You don’t let yourself think of the alternative. You’ve trained yourself not to. 

But it doesn’t stop the spark of hope in your chest when you start Baby’s engine, take a long breath, and head out to go get Dean.

End Note: Sam I hope you have a wonderful secret spa day, you've earned it my king.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

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@jofinka @allthetroubleiveseen @dyhsversion @Laurakirsten0502

[n1ght0f-nyx]

simon riley headcanons- returning home to you

simon riley x reader headcanons

He’s not used to the quiet. The first few nights, he has trouble sleeping because he’s so used to the hum of machinery, distant gunfire, or the chatter of his squad. You often wake up to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, lost in thought.

His hands are always reaching for his gear, even when it’s not there. You’ll catch him unconsciously checking for a weapon he doesn’t need. It takes time for him to relax his instincts.

He still wakes up early out of habit, but instead of rushing to gear up, he just watches you sleep, memorizing the peace in your expression.

He isn’t the best with words, but his love is shown through touch—tight, lingering hugs, a hand on your lower back when walking, or resting his head against yours when he’s feeling particularly vulnerable.

The first time you cup his face after he gets home, he leans into your touch like a starved man. It’s been too long since he’s felt something so gentle.

The mask comes off more often at home, though it still takes time. If you ask him to, he won’t hesitate, but he likes it when you don’t pressure him.

He’s protective—almost overbearingly so. You go to the store alone? He’s tense until you’re back. You mention someone acting suspicious on the street? He’s scanning for threats next time you step outside together.

At first, he forgets how to just be at home. You find him pacing sometimes, restless, unsure of what to do without an objective. It helps when you give him small tasks—cooking dinner together, fixing something around the house, or even just watching a show with you.

If you make a habit of reading or watching TV at night, he eventually joins you. He doesn’t always follow the plot, but he likes the routine of sitting beside you, feeling normal for a change.

Loud noises still make his heart jump, but he hides it well. If you’re holding his hand when it happens, you feel the way his fingers tighten slightly before he forces himself to relax.

He has nightmares, but he tries to keep them to himself. The first time you wake him from one, he flinches away instinctively before realizing it’s you. He hates that. You start waking him more gently, murmuring his name, grounding him before he jolts awake.

He appreciates when you don’t push him to talk about things. Some days, he can open up a little—mentioning a funny moment with his team or something that happened on a mission. Other days, he just wants to exist beside you, no questions asked.

If he leaves again, he always leaves something of his behind for you—his old dog tags, a hoodie, something small but important. It’s his way of making sure a part of him stays with you.

He’s fiercely loyal. The thought of losing you after everything else he’s endured terrifies him. He doesn’t say it often, but when he does, it’s raw and heavy: “I don’t wanna lose you too.”

He rarely asks for comfort outright, but when he finally lets himself rest his head in your lap, or lets you hold him close after a hard night, it means the world to him.

[yarnabee]

What kinks do you think the doctor would be into?

(I boldly ask as I sit in my bed kicking my feet like a schoolgirl whenever I see something about that guy)

OH ANON. i have a LOT to say about this. (me too anon i always twirl my hair and giggle like a schoolgirl whenever i think of him 😵‍💫) also: check end for a little note!

THE DOCTOR HEADCANNONS — THE THINGS THAT BRINGS HIM PLEASURE? (NSFW 18+)

tags/warnings; NSFW! MINORS DNI, gender neutral (pound town but with no mention of spesific genitalia! hell yeah!), dom! harley sawyer x sub! reader, impact play, degradation, predator/prey dynamics, dacryphilia, size difference (you know how tall his physical body is compared to the player? yeah.. 🙂‍↕️) rough and raw all day and all night long,

we all know how our dear doctor sees himself as some sort of god among men. he created something almost as perfect as life itself—someone with such intelligence and capabilities surely makes a difference than others of his own kind, no?

of course—such a narcissistic, apathetic, struck-up sociopath would need his ego to be constantly fed well. and sawyer has just the perfect prey to feed himself off.

what other source could he get it from if it weren't from you? you were his perfect little lab rat, his dearest prized trophy—someone he could easily break for his own satisfaction.

sawyer loves it when he gets to hunt for his prey. there's no victory sweeter than having you—a clueless, pathetic little rat—trapped in his so-called 'experiments', forcing you into oblivion as he watches your defenses slowly crumble before his eyes. oh, how he lives for the thrill of hunting—your figure cowering under his tall one, his grip on your neck tight enough to snap it in half. "shush now, little rat. you don't want to know what happens to noisy little rats, do you?"

it's also quite obvious how sawyer possesses some sort of sadistic trait: he finds it amusing to toy with those under his mercy. he loves hearing you plead, your cries growing desperate from his rough touches—hell, you don't even know what you were begging for in the first place. was it to make the pain stop? or is it because of the overwhelming pleasure? either way, sawyer feasts on the meek chants of his name as you beg him to be more gentle—your entire body twitching in bliss as he lends no mercy. he'd purposefully go faster, rougher than before—his hoarse chuckle echoing through the room with a following taunt, "lab rats don't get to decide what happens to them, do they? now keep me amused, little rat, i expect you to take it well."

his ego thrives the most when he finds you drooling over his mean, mocking words—oh, what a lovely sight it is to have your body tremble to such lowly words—he finds it amusing how you react so eagerly everytime he calls you worthless. the way his gentle voice coax his cruel words never fails to drive you insane, just enough to push you over to the edge. "look at you, pathetic little wretch. just a moment ago you were so confident, yet now.. nothing more than a worthless whore begging to repent, hm? " god, his voice will be the death of you.

sawyer loves pushing you to the brink of tears—there's something about seeing you in tears that.. satisfies him. he would purposefully rip his hand away from your aching core just as you were getting close to your high—earning him your needy gasp as your body trembles from the sudden loss of contact. oh, what a pretty sight it was to see you wail and sob underneath him, tears pooling on your lashline, soon making its way down to your cheeks. it almost had him.. pitying you. almost. sawyer would simply let out a chuckle, wrapping his fingers around your jaw tightly as he eyed the beautiful sight beneath him in awe. "now would you look at yourself, little rat.. you look like a pathetic, lost little puppy. it suits you very well."

oh, how your stomach dropped when you found out that your sobs and whimpers only pushes the doctor further to his edge—his actions completely unhinged as he uses you for his own pleasure. he'd slap your cheek across until it's burning red; leaving trail of bruises all over your body from his tight, clawing grasp; or gently grabbing a lock of your hair only to yank it roughly, holding your head in place as he carelessly uses you like a ragdoll. you'd scream, beg, wail, and sob—but those were the exact response he craves from you.

the size difference between you and sawyer pushes him further to the brink—realizing how he could easily snap you in half like a dried twig if he wanted to. i mean, his figure alone is almost as twice bigger than you are. god, how he loved seeing those delicate, trembling hands of yours reaching out to his arm for support as he presses your thighs against your chest into a mating press, pounding into you with no care as he constantly hits the deepest part of you, eyeing the bulge imprinted on your stomach—it makes you look like a little rat who dares to take more than what they can.

sawyer will make sure that everyone knows you belong to him. he wants everyone to see you as his little lab rat, his only to toy with and to use to his liking. he'll make it clear as daylight with the bruises all over your delicate skin, an impact from his rough claws—enough to even draw blood from it. he'll make sure to let everyone else know that it wouldn't end well if anything other than him dares to leave even the tiniest scratch on his dearest lab rat.

despite the roughness of his act, sawyer would never cross the line of breaking you apart. don't get him wrong though, the genuine act isn't simply out of the kindness of his heart—oh, that's even if he has any. he'll make sure to tend your wounds well, feed you with proper food, and make sure you get enough rest—all this just without the sympathy. all he knew is that broken toys are never fun to play with.

note; HEY GANG IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK LONGER THAN IT SHOULD !! honestly this isn't my proudest work, i feel like i can do better but dang the writer's block and uni assignments fucked me up real bad ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 so i wanna say sorry in advance for this work :( but i do hope this can still bring a lil treat to the table 🍴

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: random word prompts with jin, tohma, luca, kaito, alan, sho, and leo!

COMMENTS: i made tohma a magician lol. ALAN GOT ANGST IM SORRY

tagging @amaribelt for luca!!

Jin - Option

“Which one do you want?”

You stare, dumbfounded, at the mass of formal wear on the rack in your room, all different colors and shapes and sizes. Jin stands in the midst of it all, arms crossed over his chest and an expectant eyebrow raised.

“You...for me?” you point at him and then back at yourself lamely, mouth hanging open.

“Just pick one.” he says, gentle despite the ice in his tone, “I want to know what you’ll be wearing tonight so I can match.”

Oh. Right, the dance tonight. You’d almost forgotten with all of your inspector work.

“Thank you.” you murmur, hesitantly reaching out to touch them.

“It’s no problem.” he says.

Tohma - Lily

Hand in hand, you twirl.

The blue fabric of your outfit brushes against Tohma, and for once he isn’t bothering to keep his distance. His hand burns where it touches your waist, his eyes glinting even behind the monocle. You can tell he’s keeping track of your state, catching you when you slip and leading you when you stumble.

Formal dances have never been your scene, but you’ve always been willing to try for him.

When the music stops and the couples disperse, Tohma stands by your side, leading you to the refreshments table and grabbing you some water.

“You dance beautifully,” he says.

“You were a wonderful lead.” you compliment him back before gulping down the water.

His eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles, and you find yourself smiling back.

“One last thing.” he whispers, leaning in closer.

Your breath catches in your throat as his hand reaches past your ear—

And he produces a flower.

A pristine white lily, no less.

New beginnings.

You can’t help but wonder what new beginning he sees in you.

Luca - Horizon

The breeze is soft against your face as your baby hairs tickle your cheeks. The birdsong fades as the sun creeps lower behind the horizon, oranges and yellows and pinks dying in the sky. You turn to Luca and become warm when you meet his gaze, his hand over yours.

“Did you have fun today?” he asks.

He sounds so soft, like he’s telling you a secret. He almost sounds scared you’ll say no.

“Luca.” you lean over, placing your other hand overtop of his and squeezing, “I had the best time.”

He ducks his head but fails to hide his smile, boyish and tender and so him. It sets your heart ablaze and you scoot closer and closer until your thighs are touching. Your head hits his shoulder and he rests his head against you in return, almost thankful.

Reverent.

Kaito - Rational

“Kaito!” you huff, grabbing his forearms, “How dense are you?”

He stops yelling at Luca immediately, mouth hanging open at your forceful touch. His cheeks are bright pink and he’s stunned.

“Luca is not putting the moves on me! If anyone has been putting moves on anyone it's been me trying to get you to notice how into you I am!” you scold.

As you shake him violently, Luca politely excuses himself, making his way towards the stacks to give the two of you some privacy.

“Wait! Hold on, what did you say!?” Kaito shrieks, voice cracking at his shock, “You’re into me!?”

“Yes!” you sigh heavily, glaring up at him, “How dense are you?”

His lip flap some more before he can squeeze another sentence out.

“Are...are you sure? Am I dreaming!?” he fumbles for his uniform jacket, yanking the sleeve up his forearm and pinching himself violently.

“Kaito! Be gentle with yourself.” you swat his hand away.

“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry about me, I’m sorry—Eeek!?”

You kiss where he pinched himself, and Kaito just about falls to his knees.

Oops.

Alan - Notebook

Alan doesn’t mean to scare you. It’s the last thing he wants, really.

Which is why he apologizes profusely when he manages to creep up behind you as you scribble sentence after sentence in that notebook of yours, his eyes snagging the last few words and oh they send his heart racing.

I think I’m in love with him.

He feels lighter than he has in years, but he squashes the feeling. He greets you gruffly and sits beside you, not missing the sigh of relief you let out. You cram your notebook back into your bag and he presses his lips together.

“Hey Alan!” you laugh nervously, using your elbow as support as you slump against the table, “What brings you here?”

You bring him here. Is that not obvious?

“I need to study. It’s quiet here.” he says instead.

He hopes he’s the one you’re in love with.

Sho - Infection

Sho has never looked more unimpressed with you.

You shrink away from his gaze, a tissue bundled up against your nose. You side eye him hard as you blow your nose, directing all of your animosity at him and hoping he doesn’t notice your shame.

“You don’t have to look at me like that.” he snorts.

You glare harder. He sighs.

“I’m sorry for laughing at you. Will you forgive me if I make you some soup?” he kneels by your side, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You sniffle and nod.

Sho laughs again, this time softer.

“Okay. Wait here for me, alright?” he says.

“I’m not going anywhere like this anyway...” you gripe.

Leo - Month

“Huh? Do I know what day it is?” Leo parrots your question back lamely, eyes glued to his phone.

“Yeah...? It’s sort of important.” you huff.

He hums, scrolling through various short form videos. You lean over his shoulder to recapture his attention, but he hides his phone all too quick.

That makes you suspicious.

“What are you hiding?” you tease, bumping your body against his.

He sputters and whacks you back, glaring at you.

“Can you not act like a brute for two seconds?” he hisses, “I didn’t plan this fucking party for your birthday just to get this treatment.”

You freeze. Leo keeps walking. He grumbles something under his breath and starts scrolling on his phone again.

You have to speed walk to catch back up with him.

“You planned a birthday party for me?” you ask, not quite believing what you heard.

“Of course I did.” he rolls his eyes, “I’m not stupid enough to forget something like that.”

[chleem]

are you taking requests?

Frat!Drew taking care of his sick gf ❤️‍🔥

⋆.˚ Warnings: fluff, swearing, making out, symptoms of fever mentioned, (still, read at own caution

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: okok i really enjoyed writing this one btw happy valentines!

word count: 4.7k

──── 𝜗𝜚 ─────

The door creaks open with a faint squeal, the unmistakable sound of keys jangling through the room. 

You peek from underneath your covers, and you see Drew, your boyfriend, coming into your dorm. It’s not surprising, since he always tends to drop by after his classes, knowing you’d be here. 

But today, you wish he wasn’t here. The last thing you want is for him to see you like this—sick, drained, and barely holding it together. 

And trust, you’ve seen yourself this morning, and you looked like a mess—felt like one too. Your hair’s tangled, face pale, and eyes heavy with exhaustion. The feverish sheen on your skin isn't helping either. 

Definitely not the best version of yourself, and you’d rather he didn’t see it.

He doesn’t seem to notice right away, his eyes lighting up when he spots you in bed. 

“Hey, babe,” he calls out, lazily dropping his bag on the chair, “I’ve got, lunch.”

You don’t even sit up, barely managing a faint smile. You should’ve at least looked excited, or at least, when he walked in, greet him. 

But the burning sensation in your throat prevents it, along with what felt like the sun riding your face.

Drew hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering over to you, before he puts the food down on the desk and moves toward you.

He’s quiet for a moment, brows furrowed with his smile fading, his eyes scanning over your features. The concern in his eyes overtakes the blue in them, and it’s like you can see every worry he has for you reflected there.

He mutters something under his breath, the realization sinking in. 

His hand comes in contact with your forehead, cold compared to it, “you’re, shit, burning up.”

Without another word, Drew stands up, moving towards your mini fridge. 

He pulls open the door, kneeling down to inspect its contents. You could only assume he’s getting something cold to press against your forehead. 

“Drew…” you choke out, your voice weak and strained. "I’m fine, I’m fine, really.”

You watch as he gets up with a cold water bottle in his hand, making his way back to you. 

“No, you’re not,” he says, his voice soft but firm. 

The bed creaks under Drew's weight as he sits down beside you. 

He raises his hand to press the bottle against your forehead, but with all the energy left inside of you, you move away.

“No—no, I—I don’t need…” you protest, your words shaky. 

You can see the way Drew has a little smirk forming on the corners of his mouth, like he finds this amusing, or cute, even. But that’s impossible, with how disgustingly sick you are right now. 

“Come here,” 

His other hand wraps around your wrist, attempting to pull you back in. 

“No-“

“Babe-"

“No,” you whine, trying to shake off the grip he has on you. It’s not tight, but it’s enough to make you feel like there’s no escaping his care. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, and with one final tug, you’re lying close next to him again, your body too tired to resist. 

He takes the cold bottle, pressing it to your forehead gently, the coolness almost immediately providing some relief from the heat that's been overwhelming you.

You flinch slightly at the contact, then slowly melt into it.

Drew's hand stays steady, a comforting presence you can’t deny even if you try. 

“How long have you been like this?”

“Just this morning,” you mutter, and you take his hand around your wrist, interlocking his fingers with yours, the simple act grounding you in the moment. 

Your attention drifts to the way his hands look around yours—rough yet soft.

“Didn’t even text me,” you hear him scold, his voice holding a touch of playful frustration. “Not even a call-“

“I can’t even sit up,” you excuse, your voice cracking slightly. 

His thumb moves absently over your knuckles, “y’know why- why you’re sick?”

You tear your eyes away from his hand, meeting the blue eyes of his. 

“Because of this small, small ass dorm,”

A playful smile tugs at his lips, his eyes teasing as they look down at you. You can’t help but smile too, having heard this from him many times before. 

You already know what Drew’s next lines will be-

“Y’know how much better my frat is,”

-and it makes you chuckle weakly.

Your hand comes up in an attempt to push him away, and it causes his signature deep, throaty laugh to escape him.

“I didn’t text because-“ a cough escapes you between words, “I look ugly right now.”

You watch the way Drew’s eyes settle on your face, lingering on every little detail, his mouth slightly open, as if he’s speechless, and for a moment, you almost forget that you’re sick.

“…you do,” he finally speaks up, after what felt like eternity, “look worse than ever.”

"Oh my god," you mutter, a smile on your lips. You make another attempt to push him away, that only brings him closer, his laughter low and genuine. “Get out-“

“Shhh,” he lightly coos, the smile wide on his lips, “y’know I don’t mind.”

"That's worse," you whisper, a pout forming on your lips as you look away from him. The warmth of his teasing makes your chest feel lighter, even as you try to act annoyed.

You hear him chuckle again, then you feel his hand leave yours. It rests gently on your chin, tilting your face back toward him, forcing you to meet his gaze.

His eyes are softer now, the teasing giving way to something deeper, a tenderness that makes you feel seen in a way you didn’t expect.

“Y’know I don’t mind,” Drew repeats, this time more softer and, with a certain, almost promising tone in them. 

And with the way he's slowly leaning down, eyes locked into yours, lips parted, you know what’s going to happen next. 

For a split second, all you can focus on is the closeness, the warmth, the anticipation…

But then reality hits you.

“I’m sick,” you whisper, hand resting on his chest as you push against him, your face flushed not from the fever, but from the sudden rush of nerves.

Drew pauses, hovering just inches away from your lips, his breath warm on your skin. “I don’t care,” he murmurs, the need to kiss you obvious, as if it’ll physically harm him if he doesn’t do so. 

“I’m sick,” you repeat, eyes flickering to his lips. 

“Mhm,” he bites down on his lower lip, his hand gently cupping your cheek. 

You don’t even realize that he’s dropped the bottle that was against your forehead. 

“I’m sick, Drew,” your voice cracks, and you giggle, noticing how it cracked. 

“I missed you,” he suddenly confesses, his breath against your skin not as hot as the blush on your cheeks. 

The admission catches you off guard, but it melts something inside of you. 

Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. It’s like an automatic response, one that brings him to lay gently on top of you, the pressure light.

“I’m sick,”

You repeat, for the thousandth time. 

“I’know,”

And just like that, Drew kisses you.

It’s gentle at first, like he’s testing the waters, a light brush of his lips against yours. But the more you let yourself melt into him, the deeper the kiss becomes, a massaging of tongues. 

Despite the burning, sickening feeling coursing through your veins, Drew’s kiss seemed like the cure. No, it was better than the cure itself. 

You could feel yourself go breathless, the arch of your back enough to prove how much you enjoyed this. 

Drew does too, a low groan escaping him. 

You could feel him shift above you, supposedly to bring his whole body onto the bed. 

Your legs instinctively spread underneath the covers, feeling one of his knees between them, then your hands threading through his hair. 

Drew’s lips trail down to your neck, leaving soft love bites that make your heart race. The warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, everything feels like a perfect moment.

But like all good things, it all comes to an end.

A cough erupts from you, deep and nasty, the kind that only old people seem capable of producing. It causes your entire body shake.

Drew’s movements come to a halt, his reaction buried into the nape of your neck. 

You could feel your face flush from embarrassment, your grip on his hair tightening. 

Then, slowly, he pulls up, his face inches from yours.

The way his blue eyes are looking at you, so close, it’s almost overwhelming.

“…sexy,” 

he says, a chuckle following after, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.

You don’t even realize you’ve been frowning until laughter comes out of you. The sound surprises you, your chest lightening from his teasing and the absurdity of it all.

“Shit,” you say between laughs, your hands leaving his hair to cover your eyes. 

Drew watches you, his grin softening. He loves it when you laugh, especially if he’s the one that makes you laugh like that- genuine, free, and unburdened by everything else.

“Sexy, just my type,” he adds on, and you laugh even harder, despite the stinging in your head. 

“Oh my god,” you exhale, the words a mix of disbelief and amusement, as your laughter gradually comes to an end.

The sound of it lingers in the air for a moment, filling the space between you two.

You lightly push him off of you, and Drew lands on your small bed next to you with a soft chuckle, his body sinking into the mattress.

“I’ll fuck you even though-”

he starts, his voice teasing but with an underlying sincerity. 

The words are strange, but the way he says them makes you glance over at him, his body fully angled toward you, his arm tucked under his head. “-you’re dangerously sick.”

You shift your body to face him, mirroring the way he tucks his arm under his head.

“I wouldn’t,” you whisper back to him, eyes locking into his. 

He’s studying your features again- intensity in his eyes as he lingers a beat too long. 

“What?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“If you were me? Or if I was sick?”

“If I were you-“

“So if I was sick, would you fuck me-“

“What?”

“Yeah, if I was-“

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I?” You chuckle, your lips curling into a playful grin, as you raise an eyebrow at him.

“God, now I feel stupid for saying that-“

Drew laughs, but you can tell he’s not really embarrassed. He doesn’t feel stupid for saying it. If anything, he’s being completely genuine and honest, even if the words were a little out of field.

“You’re stupid no matter what you say,” 

You tease, a chuckle following after. 

He doesn’t laugh. 

Instead, his gaze lingers on you, more intent than before. His eyes are gentle, yet there’s a depth to them that makes you feel like he’s seeing you in a way that’s more than just surface level. It’s clear he’s not joking anymore.

“…I guess I am,” he mumbles, almost like a whisper.

You can’t help but look at Drew the same way, taking in the way his hair falls messily around his face, the natural plumpness of his red lips, and blueness of his eyes.

“…yeah, you are,” you whisper, more to yourself. 

Your eyelids start to feel heavier, the exhaustion from being sick catching up to you. 

You let out a small yawn, knowing that you’re unable to fight the sleepiness anymore.

Your eyes flutter just enough to see Drew’s hand reach out, landing gently on your waist to pull you closer to his embrace. He wraps his arms around you, your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. 

At that moment, you can feel yourself relax into the familiar scent of Drew. The steady rise and fall of his chest is soothing, and the sound of his heartbeat lulls you further into comfort.

A soft sigh escapes you as you finally let go, finding peace in the safety of his arms, letting the quiet of the moment carry you off into a restful, much-needed sleep.

——

hours later

You wake up slowly, a soft grogginess lingering in your mind as your room comes into focus. 

The bed feels a bit colder than before, and you blink a few times, confused at first.

You stretch your arms out, only to realize you’re spread across the bed, your body tangled in the covers. 

You also realize that Drew's missing, the entire warmth of him gone, and for a moment, panic flutters in your chest.

“Drew?” you murmur, your voice raspy and thick from sleep.

As you turn your head to look around, you finally spot him. 

He’s sitting beside your pillow, leaning back against the headboard. 

You blink again, a little surprised. 

He gives you a small smile, “hey sleepyhead.”

You rub your eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, but that’s when you feel the cool, almost damp cloth on your forehead. Your hand reaches up, and you tug at the cold bandage, frowning. “What?-“

“Cooling patch,” Drew says softly, a light chuckle escaping his lips at your reaction.

Your mind stirs as you process how he managed to get one, but before you could ask more, you feel one of his arms hook under against your boobs, pulling you to sit upright.

“Oh,” you giggle stupidly, noticing how effortlessly he does it.

Drew laughs too, and lets his hand rest there, his thumb gently rubbing small circles against your skin, his touch soothing.

His other hand reaches to your nightstand, and he hands you a glass of water. 

“Here,” he murmurs, glancing down at the cup as he holds it out.

You reach to take it, but just as your fingers touch the glass, his hand doesn’t let go. His fingers curl gently around yours, enveloping your hand as he guides the glass to your mouth.

You laugh softly at his persistence, feeling his warm touch around yours. His lips curl into a small, playful smile as you take a few sips, the cool water soothing your dry throat.

“Better?” he asks, his gaze soft and patient, still holding the cup for you.

“No,” you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, though part of it is true. You still feel a bit off, but the way Drew is looking after you makes it all feel a little more bearable. 

His expression softens even more, a faint chuckle escaping him as he tilts his head slightly, “you want me to kiss you again?”

The sudden question catches you off-guard, your eyes widening. 

“Seemed to work earlier,” Drew adds, with a playful wink.

“Is that your cure for everything?” you tease back.

“Sadly, no,” he shakes his head, before planting a quick kiss to your temple, the warmth lingering there. “But, I do have this-“

He sets the cup on back on the nightstand, before leaning down to the floor, and your eyes follow his every move in anticipation. 

The sound of plastic bags rustling fills the air, and then, Drew pulls out the all-too-familiar packaging of that disgustingly, bitter fever medicine.

Your face scrunches up at the sight, the thought of it already making your stomach turn. “Ugh, seriously?” you laugh, already imagining the taste.

He smirks, holding it up like it's some sort of prize. “Yup,” he teases, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watches your reaction.

“You need to eat first, though,” Drew adds, and before you can protest, he leans down once more, rummaging through the plastic bag at his feet. 

This time, he pulls out a takeout box, different from the one he had earlier.

It hits you: so that's how he got everything. The medicine, the cooling patch, the food—it all makes sense now. He must've gone out to buy it all while you were still sleeping.

He carefully sets the box on your lap, smiling as he opens it to reveal fried rice, from your favorite Chinese place. Even through your clogged nose, you can smell the delicious taste of it. 

Your heart swells at the thoughtfulness of this man, your boyfriend. 

The way he’s gone out of his way to make sure you’re taken care of, to comfort you, and to help you feel better—despite everything, it’s like he’s always a step ahead.

You can't help but smile, and for a moment, you forget the sickness, simply basking in how lucky you are to have him by your side. 

“Thank you,” you say softly, your voice laced with genuine appreciation. The smile on your lips tugs a little wider, and you look up at him, meeting his eyes, your gaze soft and filled with gratitude. 

It’s not just the food or the medicine, but the kindness behind it all. The quiet reassurance that, in moments like these, you’re not alone.

Drew’s mouth is slightly open, and he seems a little taken aback by your sincerity. He quickly shakes it off, almost shyly, the hand around you pulling at the fabric of your shirt. 

His voice is quiet as he murmurs, “It’s nothing… I told you, I've got you.”

His words hang in the air, and despite the simplicity of the statement, they resonate deeper than anything he could say.

You nod, whispering, "I know.”

As your eyes drift down to the food in your lap, a realization settles in for the both of you - you need utensils. 

“Fuck,” Drew chuckles softly. He leans down again, the soft rustle of plastic filling the silence before he effortlessly tears open the packaging with one hand.

He hands the chopsticks, and you take it, starting to eat. 

The familiar taste hits your tongue almost immediately, and you let out a small moan due to how good it is.

Drew watches you, his smile softening. “Good?” he asks, a hint of pride in his tone.

“Perfect,” you smile, his attention making you feel light. 

You laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder as you continue to eat, savoring both the meal and the comfort of his presence.

——

True to his word, he really does got you. 

Over the next few days, Drew was with you, stuck to you, almost. At least, whenever you were awake, he was there—by your side, ensuring you had everything you needed. 

Whether it was fetching you water, making sure you were comfortable, or just sitting beside you quietly scrolling his phone, he was always present.

Showering? Thankfully, your dorm had its own private bathroom, so Drew could help when needed. Whether it was holding you steady, washing your hair, or just sitting on the bathroom seat watching over you.

Meals? Takeout or deliveries. Drew made sure you ate, even when you didn’t feel like it.

And the medicine? Drew was strict about it. He made sure you took it on time, never missing a dose.

Last but not least, your class notes. You never quite figured out how he did it, but somehow, Drew had them. You’d notice a stack of neatly organized notebooks by your desk, or catch a glimpse of him typing away on his laptop. 

You knew you had to find a way to repay him for everything he’d done for you. It felt like a huge debt—which you would have to find a way to pay once you were back to full health.

The opportunity came sooner than you expected. 

Just two days after you started feeling better, you got a message from Drew—a photo of him lying in bed, looking completely miserable. 

He had that all-too-familiar expression on his face—exhausted, feverish, and looking like he’d just been hit by a truck. The same look you had just a few days ago.

Without hesitation, you grabbed the essentials: fever medicine, water, tissues, cooling patches, etc.

When you arrived at his frat house, one of his roommates answered the door, clearly expecting you. “He’s upstairs,” he said, yawning, probably tired from whatever party he was at the night before. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, before heading upstairs, knocking gently on Drew’s door before opening it. 

There he was, sprawled out on the bed, looking like he was in no mood to move, his face flushed and eyes barely open.

“Aww, poor baby,” you say softly, making your way over to his bed. 

You sat down beside his pillow, watching him as he slowly turns his head to look at you, a weak but amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You came?” Drew murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You didn’t have to-“

His words are cut off by a sudden cough, loud and rough, and you instinctively reach out, running your hand through his hair in a soothing gesture. 

“Well, you sent me that picture,” you start, talking about that selfie, “was I suppose to ignore it?”

Drew gives a tired chuckle, “…it’s that kiss.”

“What?”

“That kiss-“

“-which one?”

“Aw, fuck,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut, clearly bothered by the headache that's making him wince.

You brush his messy hair out of the way, your palm resting against his forehead. Yep, he’s burning up, just like how you were a few days ago. 

You reach into the plastic bag, pulling out the cooling patches, the ones Drew had used for you not long ago. 

You peel one off, carefully pressing the cooling patch onto his forehead. You note the look of relief across his features, his lips curling up into a faint smile.

“Every- every kiss we shared,” he murmurs, answering your playful question from earlier. 

Drew might have kissed you a bit too much, while you were sick. 

You chuckle quietly, remembering how his lips always seemed to find their way to you, even when you could barely keep your eyes open or your head from spinning.

“Are you blaming me?”

Drew shifts in his spot, and you can tell he’s trying to sit up, but the fever has him weak. You move quickly to help him, your hands gentle as you support his back and guide him into a sitting position.

“Yeah,” he mutters, leaning back into his headboard, a lazy look in his blue eyes, “you’re- too fucking hot.”

You shake your head, a smile on your lips, “gosh- even a fever isn’t enough to shut you up.”

You reach down to get the bottle of water from the bag, the sound of Drew’s laugh softly echoing through the room. 

You open the tightly sealed bottle of water with a little more force than necessary, and as you glance up to hand it to him, you find Drew already staring at you. 

His gaze is either starry-eyed or unfocused, with his lips parted.

And the combination of his flushed face and the cooling patch on his forehead makes him look comically adorable.

You try to hide the grin tugging at your lips, but it's impossible.

“Drew?” You call out. 

Out of nowhere, he leans down, his movements slow but deliberate. Before you can even register what’s happening, he’s hugging your waist, pulling you closer to him with a surprising amount of strength.

You blink, caught off guard, the warmth of his embrace making your heart skip. 

“Drew?” you repeat, voice hitched. 

He stays there for a moment, face muffled into your lower abdomen. His grip into your shirt tightens just a little, as if he doesn’t want to let go. 

His breath is warm against the area there, his weight slowly pressing into your lower stomach. 

The way he’s clinging onto you feels more intimate than it should, his back rising and falling with every breath he takes, your hand slowly finding itself trailing under his shirt, rubbing onto the skin there. 

“Just... need this,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against you.

“…okay,” you whisper, as you give him the comfort he craves.

He then murmurs something else to your lower stomach, which causes him to shyly rub his face deeper down. 

You furrow your eyebrows, fingertips coming to a halt on tracing his back. 

“…did you say something?” You ask, looking down at him. 

He says it again, but it’s too muffled in. 

“…I can’t hear you,” you tell him, genuinely unable to hear whatever he just said. 

He lifts his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of blue, shining up at you. For a moment, you can see the tiredness strip from his eyes, replaced with something much deeper. 

“I- keep doing that,” Drew says, referring to the way your hands trace over the outline of every muscle on his back. 

“Oh,” you smile, doing it. 

You don’t know why, but you thought he was gonna tell you something important. Something he hasn’t said before. 

And Drew didn’t know why he didn’t say it- why he didn’t say it directly to your face. 

He didn’t know why the simple act of saying ‘I love you’ felt so difficult, especially when it seemed like the perfect moment (at least for him) for it. 

His heart was full, yet the words stuck in his throat. It pounds loudly in his chest, making him nervous in ways he wasn’t sure of. 

Maybe it was the fever rush, or maybe it was just the closeness, the way you were here, holding him.

Maybe it wasn’t the way he’d imagined it—said into your eyes, clear and strong. No, he said it to your lower stomach, muffled by his own vulnerability.

But the words were out there, and even if they weren’t exactly how he intended, Drew knew he meant them with every part of himself.

Then, interrupting his thoughts, another nasty cough ripped through him, causing his body to shake violently, you shaking along too. 

“Oh- babe,” you chuckled gently, patting his back to get those coughs out, “sit up and drink some water, mhm?”

Drew gave a small nod, though he didn’t make an immediate move. His exhaustion weighed heavy on him, but your gentle encouragement was enough to coax him into action. 

With your support, he shifted slowly, leaning back just enough to reach the water you had brought earlier.

You watched him take a few sips, his hands steadying on the bottle. 

“Better?”

“No,” he teases, the corner of his lips curling into a grin. The familiarity of that line makes you roll your eyes at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

He chuckles too, but then his grin fades into something softer, more sincere, as he leans back against the headboard, sliding a bit further into his pillow.

The look in his eyes is a quiet invitation, asking you to lay down with him.

You don’t need to think twice. You kick off your shoes, urging him to scoot over, and slide under the covers with him. 

This time, it’s Drew who rests his head into your chest, his arms holding you tightly to him. His leg comes up between yours, almost as if caging you in completely. 

His grip on you is possessive yet gentle, and it makes you feel like nothing else matters in this moment but the two of you, tangled up in each other's presence.

And maybe, holding you is just what Drew needs too, as a ‘cure’ for his fever. 

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

bit long- but only bc i had so much fun writing this, hope you like it!

other

[screamingcrows]

Notes: Anaxagoras drabble pre-release because I simply can't resist a blasphemous scholar. Steal this and you're getting every airborne pathogen I know. Tags: Anaxagoras x reader, implied friends to .... well, sfw, 800 words Minors DNI

The forces governing all phenomena must operate based on universal fact. An all-encompassing set of 'laws' when explained through our language. But how do we even begin to comprehend what we cannot perceive, and by what means do we discover the blind spots?

Anaxagoras had always been fascinated by that which he could not explain, a trait coveted by adults when you were both children. The pace with which his knowledge expanded had been nearly frightening, swallowing it up as though a vortex existed in his midst.

"Truth," he continued, one hand covering an eye as he peered into the starlit night, "is what we make of it, what each of us can perceive and prophecy the bridge between what we know and what we see."

A soft hum left your lips, merely signaling that your attention was still on him. The two of you had been friends for far longer than a decade, so used to the ideas spurred on by his now scorned curiosity that nothing he said could rattle you. Not even the idea of prophecies being lies.

"But there must be something, somewhere, that perceives all, possibly even orchestrating it."

Your hand left the cold rock that you were both resting atop, reaching towards the stars alongside his. Blots of ink and faint red lines from where paper had cut his skin stained the delicate hands that had wiped countless tears from your cheeks.

His monologue halted for a moment when your fingers laced with his, guiding his hand back down to place a kiss in his palm. The content sigh he let out made you smile, knowing you'd once more halted his detachment from the ground. If not for the fragility of the physical body, surely his spirit would've long since taken a seat among the stars.

"I propose the existence of a 'mind' governing and ordering everything. If all is made from the same base components, it must be given shape to create all that we see," his voice had softened to an almost melancholic tone, "I will not pretend to know the laws that govern all, but this must be part of the truth as I view it. I've termed it 'Nous', the cosmic mind ordering homogenous chaos into this-"

A white flower was placed in your hand, the rarity of the gesture translating to something foreboding as you completed his sentence, "orderly chaos, but chaos nonetheless."

Worse still was the feeling when he moved your hand to rest atop his heartbeat. "I'm almost led to believe you pay attention to my words." Even with the lightness of his words, nothing in their meaning lessened the weight settling on your soul.

Still, it would be cruel to let it show, instead responding in a way he knew, nudging his shoulder gently. "I always do."

Satisfied, Anaxagoras saw fit to continue, "This Nous, of course, implies the existence of not only life beyond what we know, but also of forces mightier than our Titans."

"Have you heard what they're calling you?"

He turned his head, bright eyes piercing both the darkness and your heart, "A fool? I-"

"Some of them take it further than that, calling you a blasphemer," truly, you had no desire to oppose the man beside you, the regret no doubt seeping into your words, "maybe exercising some restraint in public would do you good?"

It was unreasonable for him to cup your cheek at a time like this, your throat tightening in anticipation of the gentle press of lips against your own.

"Only those with something to hide are angered by questions," his words were almost lost to the ringing in your ears, "the truth I've suggested challenges the validity of their prophesies, should it not then be their honor to disprove me instead of lashing out like cornered beasts?"

You let him guide you closer by the back of your neck, foreheads touching when the words you'd been dreaded were spoken into existence. "I'm leaving."

"I know," your voice trembled far more than you would've liked, his attempts at gently rubbing your skin all but soothing this time. You'd always known this day would come, his bearing in itself enough to know that his path would be a lonely one.

"I'll present my ideas at the Grove of Epiphany, blind faith in the Chrysos Heirs and a prophecy alone cannot be the only way forward. I will force their eyes closed if I must to let them glimpse reality beyond what they see."

You inhaled his scent, fresh and crisp like a cold morning in the sun, determined to commit it to memory, so engrossed that you barely heard the whispered apology and a confession better lost to the breeze.

[leonscottwolfkennedy]

WOLF VIKING (UPDATED)

NORMAL OUTFIT

He wears this when stepping into the ring. Right before throwing that shit off SOME PICTURES BEFORE INFO.

Just his faces. YA!

His hand without his gloves or bandages.

(name thing made by my homie, homeslice @levsguy THANKS BRAH!!)

WOLF VIKING (WORLD CIRCUIT)

Luke Johansson

25 years old

Swedish Luke is 5 '9,  He is very quiet, and cold. He never really enjoys other people unless they gain his trust. As well as he can be pissed off pretty easily. He doesn't have a good temper nor good anxiety. He has a panic disorder aswell. And he is always on edge.

He has a problem with biting himself due to stress, anxiety and other complications and or just a way of not freaking out. As well as making scars on his body. He does take pills to calm himself, too much. 13-3 Win to lose ratio

Light Welterweight Class. SPECIAL MOVE He has an illegal special move which is called the WOLF POUNCE. Just like Aran Ryans headbutts and shoulder jabs, He presses himself up on the ropes, climbing on them. Then just jumping up and head-punching the enemy. If dodged it will make WV fall to the canvas and the timer to his get-up starts. Not dodging with will get an instant knockdown which is harsh but bro puts all his force into that single punch. Intermission During intermissions, usually he just sits there growling. Yet Round 2 and 3, he will be sitting there Wheezing. He has a breathing problem, Not asthma, Just a general problem he won't let anyone know about, not even medical. 

Out of the ring. 

Luke never comes near the locker room to change, Yet he has his own locker. He always disappears after matches, the only times he is in the locker room is if he's already in his boxing attire and or is just waiting his turn. 

Attributes

His eyes can dilate, almost owl like when he Uses his special move or just panics and or rages. He has a fanged tooth, a tooth which grew out of his gums due to the other tooth not falling out just yet. 

He has bite marks everywhere on his arms. He does lick his wounds sometimes if the medical is taking too long. He has three moles on the same side of his face, Freckles also. He growls, and can mimic an actual wolf growling.

He wears eyeliner!!!

Infractions

He has 6 infractions, some are wearing makeup Eyeliner, Wearing an undershirt. Wearing more padding underneath his gloves, Having braids that could whip and or injure people.

LIKES

Luke really enjoys alot of things, His friends mostly. Piston Hondo, Marie. He likes blue raspberry slushies, swedish fika, Blodpudding (Blood pudding a swedish dish.) Coconut oil, Lotion, Music. 

Midsommar, Horror movies, peppermint candies. And cold like ice cold drinks. And eating ice. AND PEACH TEA!!

DISLIKES

Super macho man, Aran ryan, Cheaters (Like he isnt one.). Being called pretty, being touched. People touching his things, Muzzles (He had to have one on. Due to his biting.) His father, and younger brothers. 

Paparazzi, the smell of strong perfume. Super macho man. 

He has made alot of enemies in the WVBA due to his fast progression to the world circuit. Before getting overthrown by Aran ryan. (Luke still blames a certain manager.) He has no trust in other people that he has never interacted with. He also dyes his hair black, his original hair color being blonde.

He also has many secrets he wont even let people know about. He can't trust people enough even if they are close to know who HE actually is.

.

Born in Gothenburg to Jennifer Johansson and Christian Johansson, a former Swedish boxing champion. He was diagnosed with depression early on, he never had energy to do anything other than watch his dad on the tv. Since his dad liked boxing and was a boxer, he also aspired to be one. But his dad always told him that he was too soft for that, too delicate. So he never pursued it, just played play-boxing with his friends. He lived near the cities of Gothenburg, Yet it was always dull to him. He lived in a normal suburban house with his mom, Older brother, And 2 younger brothers. 

And during his childhood as I said he really enjoyed watching boxers on TV. Even though he wasn't allowed to box, His mom always gave him boxing merch. His father lost his champion belt when Luke was 9, and that made his father not want to mention anything about boxing. Not even allowed on tv if he was home.

Getting older, he defied his own father and went out to box. Going to secret classes and training and he always said that he was studying more with friends to become a doctor.

He had to keep up that lie, by saying that he was studying to become a doctor. And his father never knew about who he actually was. 

After 18 years he flew out to America, training even more. Still up-holding the lie. He worked part time jobs to up his money so he could pay rent, and after a few years when he turned 24 he was accepted into the WVBA after the managers scouted out random fighting rings and Luke was there. Seeing the money worth on one of his illegal moves, they took him in. Joining other random Boxers. 

Yet fears of his secrets being discovered puts him on edge in this team.

NOW ONTO THE OTHER BOXERS RELATIONSHIPS WITH LUKE! (Going in actual boxer game order)

Glass Joe: They have exchanged a few words, yet nothing really much. WV respects Joe and almost let him win, before he had to go on. Von Kaiser: Friends, they speak alot. Due to WV knowing german, They respect eachother aswell. Sometimes making sarcastic jokes about eachother. Disco Kid: Homies, close enough to have WV crack a smile around him but not close enough to let Disco even nudge him. Respect eachother. King Hippo: Never got along so never spoke to eachother. Piston Hondo: Close friends, almost the only boxer whom didnt say anything just was amazed and respected Lukes boxing techniques (If he ignores the special move) Luke lets Piston touch him, after all he trusts him. But not too much. Piston mostly helps with making Luke stop being in is locked in state for too long. (Its by pouring cold water on him.) Bear Hugger: They have exchanged a few words, nothing really more. Yet Bear hugger always comes in and gives Luke something to eat because he says ''You look very tired.'' Ya Great Tiger: They are okay, Great tiger always scares Luke with his clones. They talk yet not too much. Don Flamenco: Hate, too much perfume too much ego. Too much of everything, Luke wont even talk to him only if hes forced to. Aran Ryan: HATE HATE HATE, 'Bastard cheater..' - Luke. He doesn't like him at all, he freaks him out. His look, his appearance and even his own aura just makes Luke gag in fear. Yet Aran thinks they are almost friends, and Luke always climbs the lockers to make sure Aran doesnt touch him. Soda Popinski: Just both dont like eachother, Luke doesnt trust him and doesnt like his excessive drinking which makes him sticky (His glove got stuck on Soda popinski's chest once when he accidentally bumped into him) Bald Bull: Too much anger, reminds luke of his father, and he just doesnt wanna get his skull cracked if he tries to fight him. Super Macho Man: Luke HATES him out of everyone, He has an Ego and smells like shit, too much tanning oil and too much perfume. Hes just disgusting, he doesnt like how he treats girls. Mr Sandman: Intimidated, will run if seeing him. (Got his shit rocked, he could only land his special move on mr sandman which only stunned him) Doc Louis: Hes alright (They say both at the same time) Little mac: Lots of respect for the kid, doesnt mind him. Carmen: Who? (They both say) Referee: They are alright with eachother, atleast Luke isnt more insane than the others. https://open.spotify.com/track/7HcNDEjIeXPfcIgSNR0ZjK?si=4a5c110d66ae4b94

HOPE YALL LIKE HIS REDESIGN!! I SPENT HARD MAKING THIS, now... Its time for the ocs again!! When I have my energy DONT WORRY THEY ARE BEING MADE!! Still hope you all enjoy this, I tried making a drawing out of the punch out style :3

[satellite-evans]

champagne problems

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

Summary: Charles and you endure champagne problems.

Word count: 3.7k+

Warnings: angst, based on the Taylor Swift song.

A/N:

I’m here yet again with another fic for the folkmore series, this time with Charles and one of my favorite songs champagne problems!! Hope you will like it xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Monaco, December 24th, 2024.

The air was bitter, the kind that cut through your layers and sank deep into your bones, leaving a sting in its wake. Snowflakes drifted from the sky, delicate and fleeting, landing softly on the stone streets of the city. The Mediterranean breeze twisted around the towering buildings like a whisper, and the scent of saltwater clung to the crisp air, mingling with the rich, earthy fragrance of pine from the nearby trees. It should have been a postcard-perfect scene, like something you’d seen in the movies. Streets lined with glittering lights, windows glowing with warmth, the soft hum of Christmas songs drifting from hidden speakers in the corners of the square.

It should have felt magical.

But you stood still, numb, feeling the cold deep in your chest—not from the temperature, but from something much more hollow, something far deeper. It felt as though the weight of the world had settled onto your shoulders. The joyous atmosphere around you, the laughter, the chatter—it all felt so distant, so alien, like a dream that was slowly slipping through your fingers. You should have been swept up in it, should have been laughing, should have been smiling as you stood here, in the heart of Monaco, your heart bursting with excitement for what was to come. But you couldn’t. The warmth of the season only made the emptiness inside you more evident, more painful.

You were standing in Place du Casino, the world seemingly alive around you—tourists and locals alike, clutching steaming cups, their eyes bright with holiday cheer. Some of them were caught up in the magic, others were just passing through. But you? You felt like you were watching them from a distance, like you didn’t belong. The sound of laughter, the clinking of cups, the festive music that had once made your heart flutter—now it only stirred a painful knot in your throat. It was beautiful, almost too beautiful, but there was no joy to be found in it. It felt suffocating. Stifling. A stark reminder of everything you were losing.

Because you knew.

You had been here before, in this very place, years ago. With him. With Charles.

The man who had once been your everything.

The man you had once believed you’d spend forever with.

But forever had never come.

Charles had swept you off your feet back in college—he had been the one who saw you, the quiet girl who preferred the corners of the room, who shied away from crowds. He had found a way to love you that was both overwhelming and gentle. He was your safe place, your anchor, the person you thought you could always turn to. He had been there for every up, every down, standing beside you through the lowest points of your life, offering a love so pure you sometimes wondered if it was real. You had built a life together, sharing quiet mornings, spontaneous trips, and whispered dreams. He was the constant you never thought would change.

But something had shifted, over time. Something you couldn’t pinpoint at first, but that had slowly grown until it felt like an insurmountable chasm between you. The smiles had become more forced, the touches more distant. The moments of laughter had been replaced with silence, the kind of silence that felt so loud you could hear the echoes of every unsaid word.

And now, standing in this winter wonderland, surrounded by the lights and laughter, you could feel it more acutely than ever. You had been expecting tonight to be the night—the night he would ask the question you had been waiting for. He had planned it all: the perfect dinner, the perfect view, the perfect moment. You had imagined it a thousand times. A proposal beneath the stars, a promise to be together forever. This was it, wasn’t it? This was supposed to be the culmination of everything you had built.

But it wasn’t.

Because when he had looked at you tonight, his eyes full of hope, full of expectation, you had felt nothing but dread.

The ring was heavy in his pocket, and you had seen it when his hand brushed against yours earlier. The moment you’d been waiting for, for years, had arrived—but it had been swallowed by a suffocating truth: you didn’t want it anymore. You couldn’t take that next step, not with him. Not when the love that had once burned so brightly had dimmed into something cold and distant.

You wanted it to be different. You wanted to feel the joy everyone else seemed to be basking in, the excitement of a life-changing moment. But instead, you felt like you were drowning in the heaviness of it all. The weight of a future that no longer felt right, of a love that had become a shadow of what it once was.

And that was the hardest part.

The hardest part was knowing that, in the deepest part of your heart, you still loved him. But the love that had once been a fire was now little more than a flicker in the dark, and you were terrified to admit that it was fading, slipping through your fingers like the snowflakes falling around you.

Tonight was supposed to be the beginning of forever. But you both knew, deep down, it wasn’t

Earlier that day.

The morning had arrived with a heavy, unsettling stillness in the air, a quiet pressure that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried. The feeling settled in your chest, like an invisible weight pressing against your ribs. You had woken up with a knot in your stomach, one that didn’t make sense. Everything around you had seemed perfect—Charles had been so full of life, so full of hope the night before. His excitement had been infectious, a bright spark in the cold, and you had desperately tried to match his energy, to slip into the joy of the occasion, to feel the same way he did. But beneath the surface, something was wrong, something that you couldn’t explain or put into words.

You had tried to ignore it. You had tried to push it aside, to pretend it wasn’t there. But it lingered, the storm cloud in your chest that refused to dissipate.

You spent the day preparing, as expected—how could you not? The evening was going to be everything, a night you both had imagined for so long. A night so carefully curated, with every detail planned down to the smallest moment. The gown was beautiful—simple, elegant, the kind of thing you knew would look perfect in Monaco's polished streets. You’d stood in front of the mirror, watching the fabric settle around your body, knowing it made you look beautiful. Charles had even helped pick it out, and that should have felt meaningful, special, but instead, it only served as a reminder that you were caught between two worlds—one of polished perfection and one of unspeakable doubt.

Your makeup was soft, the way he liked it—light and understated—but as the brush touched your skin, you couldn’t help but feel like you were hiding behind it, like the layers you were putting on were also covering up the truth inside. The scent of your mother’s perfume lingered in the air, sweet and familiar, but it only brought memories of a time when everything had seemed simpler. Now, it felt like you were drowning in those memories, suffocating under the weight of them, as though they were the only thing left holding you to a life you weren’t sure you wanted anymore.

Still, you smiled. You smiled because you had to. You smiled because he needed you to, because the man who had been so eager, so in love with you the night before, was waiting downstairs, his heart full of hope and expectation.

And yet, even as you stood there in the mirror, your reflection staring back at you, you felt like a stranger.

Something was slipping through your fingers, and you could no longer ignore it. The distance between you and Charles had stretched, ever so quietly, like a crack running through the foundation of something you once thought was unbreakable. His presence had always been a comfort, a constant you could rely on, but now, lately, it felt more like an absence. It wasn’t that he had changed, or that he had done anything wrong. It was you—you were the one who had changed, who had become distant, unsure. You felt like you were slipping away from him, becoming someone he no longer understood, and no matter how hard you tried to reach out, no matter how much you tried to hold onto the version of you both once knew, it felt like the distance between you was growing wider by the day.

It was too much.

Too much to bear. The pretending, the hiding.

You could have told him. You could have stopped the charade right then and there. You could have said the words, finally admitted what had been building in your chest for so long—that you weren’t sure you could keep pretending anymore. That the weight of carrying this fragile illusion, this love that no longer fit, was becoming unbearable. But instead, you held it in, swallowed the truth like you had so many times before.

So you smiled. You forced the smile that didn’t reach your eyes, that didn’t touch your soul, and you walked down the grand staircase of your apartment, your steps heavy, each one pulling you further from the person you used to be. Ready to meet him. Ready to pretend.

Because, at least for tonight, that’s what you had to do. Pretend.

Back in the square.

The world around you felt like a blur, a dream you couldn’t wake up from, as though you were hovering above it all, disconnected from reality. The laughter, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—all of it seemed so distant, as if muffled by an invisible wall. It was as though you were watching life unfold from behind a thick pane of glass, unable to touch or reach it. And then, in the midst of that hazy, detached feeling, you saw him.

Charles.

He was walking toward you through the crowd, his face a mixture of excitement and nerves, so familiar and yet so far away. His tousled hair was perfect tonight, a slight wave that somehow made him look even more effortlessly charming. His eyes sparkled with that same brightness, the same gleam that had first caught your attention all those years ago, that had drawn you in and made you believe in the possibility of forever.

But now, as your gazes met, it was as though time slowed down. Everything you had been holding back, everything he had hoped for, collided in that single moment. It was supposed to be beautiful—his love, your love, everything you had built—but instead, it felt like an illusion. A moment where the past and future tangled together, but neither seemed real. Nothing felt like it belonged anymore.

He reached you, and his smile was warm, so full of love and anticipation—but beneath it, you could see the uncertainty, the fear. He took your hand in his gently, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

"You look amazing," he whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch sent a shock through you, but it wasn’t the warmth you had once felt—it wasn’t the feeling that had once made your heart race. It was a reminder, sharp and painful, of everything you had lost, of the person you used to be when you looked at him with the certainty of love, of belonging. But now? Now, his touch felt like an anchor, pulling you down into a place you couldn’t bear to be.

He led you into the center of the square, where a small group of friends and family waited, their faces glowing in the soft light of Christmas decorations. They were all smiling, their voices light as they chatted over glasses of champagne. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon, the soft hum of carolers in the background filling the air with warmth. The entire scene was beautiful, almost unbearably so. It was the perfect setting, the culmination of everything Charles had been planning, everything he had dreamed of.

This was it.

Your heart thundered in your chest, a loud, rhythmic pounding that drowned out the music and the conversation around you. You could feel the weight of every pair of eyes on you, the quiet expectation in the air. You had been with Charles for years—long enough that it should have been easy, natural. But now? Now, you couldn’t even look at him without feeling like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of what he was about to ask. You had already known, for so long, that you weren’t ready for this. That you weren’t sure you could keep pretending, keep lying to both him and yourself. But you had smiled. You had nodded. You had let him carry you to this moment, all while knowing you couldn’t escape it.

The thought of saying yes made you want to crawl out of your own skin. It felt like suffocation. And the thought of walking away, of breaking his heart, felt like something far worse—a sharp, twisting pain that cut deep into your soul.

And then, as if in a dream that you couldn’t control, he dropped to one knee.

"Mon amour," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "You’ve been my best friend, my partner, my love, for so long. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to build our future together. Will you marry me?"

The world seemed to stop. The bustling square fell into an eerie silence. The champagne glasses stilled in the air. You could hear nothing but the rapid, uneven beat of your own heart, your breath shallow, trapped somewhere between your chest and throat. You stared at him—at the ring he was holding, gleaming under the soft glow of the Christmas lights. It was beautiful. It was everything he had dreamed of.

But when you looked into his eyes, all you saw was a future you couldn’t be a part of. You saw the man who had once been your whole world, who had held you close in moments of joy and despair alike. And yet now, you couldn’t reconcile the woman you were with the woman he thought you were. You were so tired—so incredibly tired—of carrying this weight, this expectation, this illusion of a future that no longer fit. You were someone he couldn’t reach, and you weren’t sure you could keep pretending you were.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible against the silence that had descended. "I can’t."

It was a punch to the gut. A brutal, hollow punch. You watched the light drain from his face, the warmth in his features evaporating as confusion and disbelief took its place. His eyes searched yours, as though hoping to find something that would make this make sense, some explanation he could cling to, something that would reassure him that you were still there, still the person he thought you were. But you weren’t. And you couldn’t be.

"I love you," you choked out, your voice cracking, "but I need to be alone right now. I need to fix myself. I need to find myself. I can’t… I can’t marry you."

The silence that followed was deafening. The crowd, once vibrant with excitement, was now frozen in shock. You could feel the weight of their gazes, the disbelief and the hushed whispers. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the hollow echo of your own voice, the steady ache in your chest that refused to go away.

With a final glance at Charles—at the man who had once been your everything—you turned away, walking away from him, from the life you had once thought you would share, from the future he had dreamed of. And as you walked, the world felt colder, emptier, as if you had left behind everything that had once been so full of promise.

The aftermath.

The following days in Monaco were a blur, each one blending into the next like the pages of a book you couldn’t bring yourself to finish. Christmas came and went with all the cheer that the season should bring, but somehow, everything seemed muted, distant. The festive lights that had once felt like tiny sparks of magic now seemed to flicker weakly, the warmth of their glow faded. The streets, so vibrant and alive just days before, now felt hollow, as if the life had been drained from them along with your own.

The whispering started immediately. It wasn’t surprising, not really. Monaco was a small place, where everyone knew everyone, and stories traveled faster than the sea breeze. But knowing it was coming didn’t make it any easier. It wasn’t just the subtle, sidelong glances in the cafés or the knowing looks passed between strangers in the markets. It was the words. The cold, sharp words, laced with judgment and pity.

You heard them everywhere. "Poor Charles," they would murmur behind their hands, their voices filled with exaggerated sympathy, as though he were the victim in all of this. "How could she do that to him?" they’d ask, as if you were some kind of monster, as if you had ripped his heart out for no reason. It was painful, but it didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. Maybe you had steeled yourself, prepared for the backlash in a way that left you numb to it all. You couldn’t deny it—there were times when the weight of their words crushed you, when the sting of their judgment felt almost unbearable. But they didn’t know. They couldn’t possibly know.

“She was never good enough for him anyway,” one woman had said, shaking her head as she passed you on the street, the words cutting like a knife. "She was always a little unstable, wasn’t she?" someone else added, louder than necessary, almost as if they wanted you to hear. "She would've made such a lovely bride, what a shame she's fucked in the head," they said as if they were speaking about the truth.

It wasn’t your mental health that made you walk away, but their words never let you forget the hurt they tried to lay at your feet. It wasn’t about being unstable. It wasn’t about failing in any way they could quantify. No, it was about a truth you hadn’t been able to face until that moment in the square, when everything came crashing down in an instant. It was about realizing that you were no longer the person you had been when you and Charles first met, that you had lost something inside yourself long before that night.

And Charles? He disappeared. Completely. You tried reaching out, at first—texts, calls, the occasional message left unanswered. But you never heard back. And after a while, you stopped trying. What was there to say? How could you explain to him that the love you’d shared was no longer enough to keep you from suffocating under the weight of expectations, both his and your own? How could you explain that the person he thought he knew, the person who had loved him with all her heart, was gone? You couldn’t.

You didn’t blame him for the silence. How could you? What could you possibly say that would make sense of the mess you had left behind? The pain, the heartbreak—you could feel it in every empty space where his presence used to be. But it wasn’t just the silence from him that hurt. It was the loneliness that began to settle in, a deep, gnawing kind of loneliness that made you question whether you would ever be able to fill the hole he had left behind.

But there was something else, too. Every night, as you walked through the quiet streets of Monaco, the city’s glittering lights reflecting off the water and the chill of winter biting at your skin, your heart would feel heavier, sinking lower with each step you took. You missed him. God, you missed him. The sound of his laugh, the way he looked at you with so much love, the feeling of his hand in yours, steady and sure. But no matter how much you missed him, you knew, deep down, that you couldn’t go back to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Not while you were still a stranger to yourself.

The thought of being with him again, of putting on that smile and pretending like everything was okay, like everything could go back to the way it was, was unbearable. You couldn’t offer him the love he deserved, not when you were still tangled up in the wreckage of your own heart. You needed to find the girl you once were—the girl who had been whole before all of this, before the doubts, the fear, the slow unraveling of something that should have been forever. You needed to find yourself again before you could even think about being with him.

And so you walked. Every night, through the empty streets of Monaco, you walked. You walked because it was the only thing you could do. The only thing that made sense in the chaos of your mind. You tried to find pieces of yourself, moments of clarity, in the quiet of the night, under the cold winter stars. You tried to remind yourself of who you were before him, before the love you had shared became a heavy chain, pulling you deeper into the murky waters of doubt and uncertainty.

But it wasn’t easy.

Some nights, the emptiness felt suffocating, like the weight of the world was on your shoulders, and you were carrying it all alone. You had loved him so fiercely, so completely, and letting him go had been the hardest thing you had ever done. But you knew, even in your darkest moments, that it had been the right thing. It had to be. Because as much as you loved him, you knew that you couldn’t be the person he needed while you were still lost. And maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that when you found yourself again, you could be the woman he deserved.

But for now, that was all you could do. Find yourself. Learn to breathe without the weight of his absence pressing down on you. And hope, with every step you took, that someday, somewhere, you would learn how to love again.

[knitmeatardis]

Making Up for Lost Time

I can't believe I am actually posting this, but you all have given me such lovely Hotch x reader fics, I felt the need to add my own contribution. I do not usually write this kind of thing, usually slash all the way, but here we are. For my favorite Hotch smut dealer @aureatelys

Words: ~6.9K; Rating: 18+; Aaron Hotchner x fem bau!librarian!reader

Warnings: safe p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), canon typical violence, reader is being stalked and threatened, smut, no use of y/n

There’s a certain anonymity involved in being the research librarian for the BAU. No one really takes notice of you, and you assume no one even knows your name, while you get to watch and observe everyone and get to know them from afar. Spencer and Derek, messing with each other like brothers. Emily, so assured and beautiful, confident in everything she does, especially the way she moves. JJ, open and warm despite the daily horrors she deals with. Rossi, the pater familia of the whole crew. Garcia is the only one you have any real rapport with, but she spends so much time in her cave that you rarely see her.

The only one you can’t get a read on is Hotch. In fact, you only know he goes by Hotch because that’s how you hear the rest of the team refer to him. You know he has a son and his ex-wife was killed. You know he’s often the first one here and the last one to leave. But his stern expression never really seems to change. He’s always polite to you, nodding his thanks when you bring the files he needs, but rarely speaks. 

So it is all a bit of a shock when JJ stops me in the hallway. “Hey,” she greets you, but her face is pinched, worried. “We need you in the conference room.”

“Me?” you blanch, frozen to the spot.

“Yes. You. Right now,” JJ says, taking files out of your arms and walking quickly toward the conference room. 

You follow in her wake, feeling like a bug under a microscope when you enter behind JJ and everyone’s eyes turn to look at you. It may be the first time most of them have ever really seen you. 

Hotch stands behind a chair and looks at you. He pats it. “Sit, please.” 

His voice is gentle, soft, almost apologetic. He offers his hand to you to guide me into a chair. His touch makes a strange flutter go through your body but with the way everyone is acting, it’s too hard to focus on it. 

“What’s going on?” 

“I’m sorry, but I need you to confirm,” Hotch says, looking at the screen and pressing a button, “that these pictures are of you.” 

The screen fills with pictures of you outside your apartment, outside the grocery store, on the Metro on the way to work, and most alarmingly, through the curtains into your bedroom while you were undressing. Your blood runs cold. You clear your throat. “Yes. Those – those are all of me. What’s – I’ve never seen anyone…”

“These photos were sent to the bureau,” Hotch explains. “To me, specifically. It’s obviously a threat of some kind, but it isn’t clear exactly what’s going on.”

“Who else knows you work here?” Rossi asks. 

“I mean, lots of people know I work for the FBI. It’s on all of my forms and employment records. Friends and family. But only my immediate family knows I work with the BAU. I don’t discuss it with anyone. Not anyone.”  You can feel your heart racing and your stomach churns. “I think I’m going to be sick.” 

You can feel Emily following you as you run for the ladies’ room. She’s waiting near the sink with a wet paper towel as you finish vomiting. You’re shaking violently and it feels like your legs are going to go out from under you.

“We’re not going to let anything happen to you,” she reassures you, pressing the towel to your forehead. “Do you think you can come back to the conference room and listen to the plan?” 

You nod and follow Emily back to the conference room. Everyone else has cleared out, leaving just Hotch and you and the pictures up on the screen. You can’t help the way your eyes are drawn to them. Emily puts her hand on your shoulder for a moment and then leaves us alone. Hotch reaches over and turns off the television. 

“I know this is distressing –” 

“Why you?” you ask suddenly. “We’re not close. I’m not a regular member of the team. You’re only nominally my boss. I mean, technically I report to you but I spend more of my time reporting to the other librarians. We barely speak.”

Hotch’s brow draws together as he looks at you. “That’s a good question. We think that whoever this is has cast me in the role of protector and he has chosen you as the object of his delusion. He wants to draw me out for a confrontation.”

“So, what’s the plan?” 

“We’re going to give him what he wants,” Hotch says, putting his hand over yours.

….

The next several hours are a blur. The team stash you in Garcia’s lair, deep inside the bureau and away from any windows. Garcia arms you with several of her comfort tokens to keep you safe. As soon as the team is ready, you’re shuffled down to the garage and into the back of an SUV. Hotch sits next to you while Morgan drives, Prentiss next to him.

“Once we get surveillance on your apartment set up,” Hotch says to you, “I’ll take the first watch. He’s going to want to see me protecting you.”

“I understand.” Of course he’s watching you. That’s what the photographs were all about. Making sure you knew that he could see you but you couldn’t see him. “And if there’s anything I need, I should call you.” 

“Right,” Hotch says. He’s gone over all of the protocols with you several times, but he seems to understand that you repeating them is your way of dealing with your anxiety. “Agent Morgan will be walking the perimeter as well.” 

You nod, looking out the window at the scenery without really seeing it. When you get to your apartment, Hotch keeps his arm tight around you as Morgan and Prentiss lead and take up the rear, respectively. Despite the circumstances, something about the way he’s holding you makes a little thrill go down your spine. 

The three of them are efficient, almost brutally so. You want to laugh and cry at how comfortable they are with setting up this kind of surveillance. They barely even have to talk while they’re doing it. Still, it’s getting dark by the time they’re done. 

“I can only imagine how invasive this feels,” Hotch says, his voice gentle as he sits next to you on the sofa. “As much as possible tonight, go about your normal routine. In the morning, one of us will pick you up for work.” 

“Normal routine,” you huff. “At the moment, I can barely think of what that is.” 

“Well. I know when I get home, I like to take off my tie, maybe fix myself a drink.” Hotch gives you a small smile. “Just close your eyes a second. Think about what you’d be doing if none of us were here.” 

Obediently, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. “The first thing I do is change into my pajamas and fix myself something for dinner, I guess. I’m pretty domesticated and boring.” 

“There’s nothing boring about having a normal life,” Hotch says. “We’ll leave you to it. And I’ll be just outside.”

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner.”

“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head and giving you a smirk. “It’s Hotch.” 

“Hotch,” you say with a small smile. 

….

You try not to think about the microphones and cameras around the apartment as you go through the motions of eating something and watching television. You work on some craft projects, not really paying attention to any of it. You keep listening for someone outside or trying to come into the apartment. Finally you give up and get into bed, but all you can do is toss and turn. 

You contemplate picking up the phone and talking to Hotch, but you don’t want to distract him. On the other hand, he did say to reach out if you needed anything. And all you really want to do is sleep. You cave in, too exhausted to care about seeming weak or needy. You pick up the phone and call him.

“Hey. You alright?” Hotch answers immediately.

“I’m fine.” You huff. “I just can’t sleep. I keep listening for someone to come in.” 

“That’s not going to happen. I’m here,” he says, his voice calm and certain. It feels warm. “Would it help if we talked?” 

“Agent Morgan can’t hear us, can he?” 

“No, he can’t hear us. Tell me what’s going on.”

You laugh humorlessly. “Oh, you know. I’m just staring up at my ceiling thinking about some random guy out there who wants to maybe kill me or kill you or both, so not much really. What’s going on with you?” 

Hotch chuckles. “Fair enough,” he says. “I’m just sitting outside a nice woman’s apartment trying to make sure that no one hurts her. So not a lot going on here, either.” 

That startles a real laugh out of you. “So yeah, boring.” 

“All totally normal.” Hotch smiles to himself. “Tell me something about you,” he says. “How long have you been at the FBI?” 

“You already know the answer to that,” you say. “You hired me.” 

“So? Tell me again.” 

“I’ve been a librarian at the Bureau for about five years,” you say. “After I got my masters in library science from Georgetown. I never thought that a librarian would be needed for something like the BAU, but once I started working with the unit, I loved it.” 

Hotch leans back in his seat, looking at my apartment, imagining you laying in bed on the phone. “That’s not something I hear very often.”

“I imagine there’s a lot of burnout,” you say. “And if I was an agent, I’m not sure I could hack it. But when you all come home and you’ve saved someone or brought someone to justice, I get to feel like a little tiny part of that. It’s not a bad feeling.” 

“I probably don’t say it enough, but we value your help. We couldn’t research everything we need to on our own.”

“Of course not. You need to get your boots on the ground. I know that,” you say. You pause, worrying at your lower lip. “Before today, though, I couldn’t be sure any of you even knew my name.” 

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. “I know your name. I’ve always known it.” He clears his throat. “We’ve always known it.” 

“Thanks, Hotch,” you say softly. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, just as soft. “How are you feeling now? A little less anxious?”

“A little, yes. Thank you, Hotch.” You smile into the darkness. “Your voice is very soothing. And, forget I said that because that’s just embarrassing.” 

“No, it’s fine.” Hotch isn’t able to keep the smile out of his voice. “I’m glad I can help. Do you think you can sleep now?” 

“I think I’m ready to try again,” you say to him. “Seriously, thank you. For everything.”

He clears his throat again. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow might be a long day.” 

….

You’re groggy and grumpy and still in your pajamas when Hotch calls you from outside your front door. You check the peephole like he instructed and then let him in. 

“Good morning,” he says softly, holding out a cup of coffee to stall any protests. 

All you can do is grunt and accept the cup, taking a long sip. It’s perfect. Exactly the way you take it. You look at Hotch, lifting an eyebrow but saying nothing. “Give me five minutes to fix my hair and put clothes on,” you say to him, turning away back toward your bedroom.

“You have at least ten,” he says, looking around your front room. You try to imagine what he’s seeing and the conclusions he’s drawing as he looks over your family photos, nerdy collectibles, books, and stuffed animals. You brush your hair and throw on some lipstick, thanking your past self for having your closet organized in such a way that makes it easy to pick something out and put it on. 

You emerge from the bedroom, put together and ready to go. “Told you I only needed five,” you say, pushing your hair off my face. 

There’s a moment when he looks at you that something surprised and interested crosses his face, but he quickly masks it with his patented professional stoicism. “Let’s go, then,” he says, holding an arm out to usher you ahead of him as he opens the door. Hotch escorts you down to street level. There’s an agent you don’t know driving as Hotch helps you into the backseat.

“I’m going to start expecting this kind of treatment all the time now,” you say lightly to him as he joins you. 

Hotch smirks at you, lifting an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, just settles into the seat next to you. This drive is less anxious than the one the previous day, even though you’re still mostly looking out the window. Hotch is a solid, calming presence next to you. 

“You’re so gentle,” you say out of nowhere, immediately blushing. “Sorry. I was just – I’ve seen you during briefings and with the team and you’re direct. Concise. I wasn’t expecting you to be so warm with me. Encouraging and solicitous.” You shake your head. 

Hotch nods in acknowledgement. “Not everyone gets to see that side of me. It’s usually when bad things happen.” He glances at you. “I’m working on it.” 

“Well, just know that I appreciate it,” you tell him, putting your hand lightly on top of his. There’s a small tinge of red across his cheeks, but he slips his hand out from under yours quickly enough that you think you might have imagined it. The rest of the ride passes in comfortable silence. 

When you get to Quantico and up to the 6th floor, Hotch walks you to your office. “While you’re in the building, you can move around freely. But if you have to go outside for anything, get one of us and we’ll walk you.” 

You take a steadying breath and nod. “I will. Thank you.”

He puts a soft hand on your elbow. “This isn’t going to be forever. We’ll find him. I promise.” 

“I believe you,” you say, offering him whatever kind of smile you can manage. He nods at you and drops his hand, heading away as you go into my office. Without his hand on your arm, you feel suddenly cold, but you try to shake it off and concentrate on your work. You can already see that the messages light on your phone is blinking. 

Trying to recapture some sense of normalcy, you sit at your desk and check your email, looking to see if there’s anything urgent that needs attending to. Then you start with your voicemail. The first ten messages are normal, mundane, then there’s the last one. All it contains is a long exhale and then a low laugh before he says, “I see you have your knight in shining armor giving you rides, walking you into the building. That’s good. It’ll be all the easier to kill you both.”

Your blood runs cold, but you manage to hit save on the voicemail system. Your fingers are numb when you pick up the phone and call Hotch’s extension. It feels like seconds between when you hang up and when he’s there in your office. Penelope has already pulled the voicemail off the servers and saved it to her own system, but he wants to hear it for himself. It’s somehow more disturbing the second time through. When you look up at Hotch, his lips are pressed into a hard, thin line. 

“Does he sound familiar to you?” he asks you. 

“No. But I talk to a lot of people when I’m processing requests. Everyone starts to sound the same after a bit.” 

“He sounds familiar to me.” He frowns and crosses his arms. “As soon as I find out more, I’ll tell you,” Hotch promises, looking you in the eyes before he leaves. 

You feel like you’re at loose ends, not at all sure what to do with yourself. You start to work on requests and email, but your attention keeps drifting away. Every time your phone rings you think it’s going to be him again, taunting you. Eventually you turn off the ringer and turn to stare into space, until Hotch returns.

“Anything?” you ask, looking up at him. 

He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. Penelope is working on it.” Hotch takes a deep breath. “Are you okay back here? I could find a desk for you in the bullpen.”

“I’m fine. I can’t really concentrate, so not much is getting done. But I’m alright.” You try to give him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I’ll make sure someone picks up the slack for you,” he says. 

“Hotch, isn’t it safer if I stay at home?” You look at him with wide eyes. “I was hoping that work would be a distraction, but that doesn’t seem to be working out so much.”

“Now that we have confirmation that the threat is to both of us, it’s better to keep you close.” He twitches an eyebrow. “I’ll get Garcia to set you up with some games on your computer.”

You chuckle and duck your head. “Thank you. I’m going to owe you so hard after all of this.”

“You don’t owe me anything. This is what we do for our own.” Hotch lingers in the doorway for a moment and then leaves. 

….

Nothing happens the rest of the day except that you have a new obsession with video games thanks to Penelope. Hotch again rides with you to your apartment, promising to take the first watch again. 

“Hotch, you should go home. I know you have a son. You don’t have to spend another night watching over me when you can go be with him.”

“Jack is on a trip with his aunt and cousins,” he says, ducking his head. “Which is good because since this unsub wants to kill me, too, I’d have to stay away from him anyway.” Hotch looks back at you. “I’d rather stay where I can get to you if I have to.” 

There’s something in his voice, something beyond his professional concern, but it’s too quick to identify. “Okay. Good night, then. If I can’t sleep…”

“Just call me.” He smiles softly. “I’ll be here.” 

Once again you try to go about my evening routine and after you try to go to sleep. When once again you can’t, you talk to Hotch. This time you’re on the phone for almost half an hour before you start yawning and he tells me to go to bed. 

The morning is a repeat of the previous day except there’s no creepy voicemail today. Feeling a little more like you’re on solid ground, you start working. The requests have piled up, despite the help you’re getting from other librarians, so you dig in. Once you generate a list of materials to pull, you head to the archives. 

The stacks are comforting and quiet as they surround you. The smell of paper files is familiar and strangely soothing. You start working through your list, putting files in carts and organizing them per request. You don’t even hear the footsteps as someone comes up behind you. 

“Good morning.”

You jump and whirl, barely biting back a scream. “Jesus! Sean! You scared the shit out of me.” You laugh a little, pushing your hair off your face. “Sorry. Just a little on edge today.” 

Sean looks you over. “That’s what happens when your white knight leaves you alone to fend for yourself.”

That’s when you see the gun. Your eyes go wide, but before you can ask any questions, he pulls you to him, your back pressing against him, the barrel of the gun pressed into your side. 

“Shh, shh, your part in this little drama is almost over. Don’t worry. I’ll kill you quickly. Come on. We have to go see your knight.” 

Sean walks you through the hallways, managing to keep the gun concealed. No one really looks at you, too absorbed in their own tasks to notice. When he pushes you into the bullpen, no one even looks up. 

“They don’t even see you. They don’t care,” he murmurs in your ear. “And it’s a tragedy. So I am going to make sure that they never, ever forget you. Go on. Get their attention.” 

“A-Agent Hotchner!” you call out. Everyone’s heads turn and in an instant he appears at the top of the stairs outside his office. Before you can even take the next breath, the guns of all the agents in the room are pointed in your direction, including Hotch’s.

“Oh, well done,” Sean says to you. He keeps you in front of him, using you as a shield and making sure no one can get behind him. “What are you going to do now, Agent Hotshot!” he says, looking at Hotch. “Huh? You, always in the spotlight, always getting attention! Think you can get me from there, Hotshot? The sniper expert.” Sean sneers at him.

Hotch stares at him for a long moment. “Lower your weapons,” he says, not raising his voice but adding a hard steel. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the rest of the team slowly lower their weapons. His gun doesn’t even waver. “Yes, I can kill you from here.”

You can’t take your eyes off of Hotch, the relaxed but poised stance, his sharp eyes focused on you and the tip of his weapon steady, trained on you.

“Can you do it before I put a bullet in her?” Sean says, ramming the barrel into your ribs and making you whimper. 

“Before, no. Within a heartbeat after, absolutely. But it’s not really what you want. You want to be recognized, you want me to see you,” he says. “Well, Sean. I see you. Now what?” 

“So you know my name. Am I supposed to be impressed? You walk around here like you’re the king of the castle and we’re just peasants under your feet. You have her, right here in front of you every day and you never see her worth,” Sean says, looking at you. 

His arm is so tight around you that you can barely breathe and you’re suddenly afraid that you’ll pass out. “What are you talking about?” you manage.

“You. You’re amazing and they don’t even consider you part of the team. You do everything for them, and they never see you. Not the way that I do. Not the way you should be loved and adored every minute of every day.” Sean’s eyes are adoring for a moment but then they turn hard again. “So I’m going to take you away from them. I’m going to take you away forever, so they will know what it means to live without you like I do. And then I’m going to kill him for every slight you had to take because of him, every late night and exhausting pace and overloaded work. I’m going to punish him for all of it.” 

“Sean, Sean,” you plead, tears streaming down your cheeks. “You don’t need to do that. Agent Hotchner, he’s been amazing. He’s taken such good care of me, and he always has. He’s never treated me badly or ever raised his voice. When I’m working late, he’s right here, working, too.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Sean yells. “He doesn’t see you when it matters! He doesn’t stand up for you! He doesn’t care! And I’m going to prove it.” 

Sean’s grip loosens and he pushes you so that you’re facing him, his gun raised. You scream as strong hands tug you down and away and a shot rings out. You hit the floor hard and you’re immediately covered by the body of whoever pulled you down, protecting you. There’s a terrible silence for a long moment, the sound of your breathing loud in your own ears. Slowly, the body over you – Derek, you realize – starts to move. 

“Hey, sweet heart,” he says, looking down at you as he gets up and then offers a hand down. “How you doing? Are you hurt?” 

“No, I’m alright,” you say, breathless. You keep your eyes on Derek. “Is – is he…?”

“Yeah, yeah he is. I’m sorry,” Derek says, voice gentle. He turns you away and puts his arm around you. 

You hear Hotch’s feet on the stairs as he comes down to the bullpen.

“Put her in my office, Morgan,” he says, still strong but quieter now. “Please.” 

You feel more than see Derek nod and then your feet are moving. He leads you the long way around, through the round table room and along the catwalk around to Hotch’s office, all the while shielding you from the scene below. He closes the door and helps you over to the couch, quickly closing the blinds. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he says, crouching down in front of you.

You haven’t stopped crying, your eyes sting, your ribs and chest hurt from the way Sean had grabbed you and squeezed. You sniffle and wipe at your eyes, letting out a wry, slightly hysterical laugh. “I could use a shot of tequila,” you say, sniffling again. 

“How about some water instead?” Derek says, putting a hand on your knee. 

“Water. Yeah. Water is good.” 

“Good. You just sit here and breathe and I’ll be right back,” he says, standing. You can hear activity outside when he opens the door, but when he closes it again, it is perfectly quiet. You sit on Hotch’s couch, wondering how long it will take your hands to stop shaking.

….

When you wake up, still on Hotch’s couch, you realize that someone has come and put a blanket on you. You’re not sure when you fell asleep, but it was sometime after Derek brought you water. You glance out of the window and realize it must be mid to late afternoon now. You sit up, groggy and confused after the adrenaline crash. You’re only sitting up for a few minutes before Hotch comes in. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, turning one of his chairs around to face you on the couch. 

“Exhausted.” You rub your face. “I can’t believe Sean did all this.”

Hotch takes a deep breath. “We found more photos of you on his computer. It seems he’s been obsessing over you for some time.”

“I had no idea. He rarely speaks – spoke – to me. I’d smile at him in the stacks or if I saw him in the hallway, but not much else. Why did he fixate on you? And what was all of that about you not considering me part of the team?” 

He opens the file folder he’d brought in with him and hands you some folded paper. You recognize it immediately as the internal FBI newsletter. Inside there’s a profile about Hotch after he broke the record for Quantico’s long-distance sniper accuracy. The article has a picture of the BAU team, naming everyone. The photo was taken in the bullpen, and in the background, there is a blurry picture of you pushing your cart and delivering files to the desks. “He had this pinned up in his office,” Hotch says. “We think this is where it all started.”

You start to laugh and it sounds hysterical to your own ears. “How do you deal with this kind of thing every day? The bizarre thinking and the leaps… that something as small as this could precipitate everything we just went through for the last 48 hours.” You shake your head. “I want to go home.” 

Hotch nods. “I’ll drive you.” 

“No, come on. You’ve done enough,” you say softly, reaching out and touching his knee. “I can make it home on my own.”

“I should take all the surveillance down. And you’re exhausted. This is going to hit you. Hard. You shouldn’t be alone.” 

“Arguing isn’t going to get me anywhere is it?” you ask, smirking. 

“No, it isn’t.” 

You nod and stand. Your legs are still shaky though and you stumble a little. Hotch’s hands are right there to steady you, his breath ghosting over your skin as he holds you. “You’re alright,” he murmurs. 

“Thank you,” you reply, matching his tone. 

He walks you to your office so I can gather your things and then down to the garage. Instead of an FBI SUV, you get into his personal vehicle, you sitting up front with him while he drives. The ride is quiet still, but not the scared, tense silence from the other drives. When you get to your apartment, he escorts you inside, his hand on the small of you back instead of the protective circle from earlier. His body is firm and warm next to yours, and even though the danger is over, you still feel safer with him there.

He goes about collecting the cameras and microphones and putting them in cases as you toe off your shoes and head into your kitchen to look for something to eat. You are still staring into the fridge when Hotch pokes his head in. “I got everything, so…”

“Are you hungry?” you ask, looking up at him. “I’m starving and my fridge is in pathetic shape. I could order something.” 

“That’s not –”

“Just – it’s the least I can do, Hotch. And you said I shouldn’t be alone,” you say, cocking your hip.

Hotch smirks and crosses his arms. “Arguing isn’t going to get me anywhere, right?” 

“Exactly. So. You like thai?” 

Laughing softly, Hotch takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over a chair in your small dining room. “I do. Very much.”

“Good,” you say, pulling your phone out of your pocket and starting a delivery order. You hand it to him when you’re done. “Get whatever you want. I’m going to change.”

When you come out of the bedroom in your pajamas, a tank top and knee-length short pants, Hotch is in your kitchen opening a bottle of wine. He turns his head when he hears me approach. You notice that his tie is off, too, and his sleeves are rolled up to show his forearms. Your mouth waters for a moment. 

“I hope you don’t mind. I thought some wine might be helpful.”

“You know your way around a kitchen,” you say, approving. “Thank you.” You accept the glass from him after he pours and go sit on your couch. You drink in comfortable silence for a couple of moments, just sitting there examining his profile. “I meant what I said, by the way,” you say into the quiet. “About you taking great care of me. I appreciate everything you’ve done.” 

“Like I said, we look out for our own,” he says, turning his head and looking at you. His face is soft and affectionate before he lowers his gaze back to his hands. “He was wrong, you know, about me not seeing you, not knowing your worth. When I saw him there with you, that gun pressed into your side…” He shakes his head. “The idea of living without you in my life really scared me.” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, looking suddenly shy.

“Hotch… what are you saying?” Your hands tighten around your glass. It’s no secret that Hotch is attractive, and the way you’ve gotten to know him over the last couple of days has been alluring. 

“I’m saying that I have been trying to maintain my professionalism,” he says, “around you. For some time now.” He licks his lips. “I know a lot about you. How you take your coffee. That you like the burritos from the place 10 blocks away even though there’s a place just around the corner. I know you have a sweet tooth. You get stressed out when there’s a chance of snow in the forecast.”

You laugh at that one. “You have been watching closely.” 

“It is sort of my job.” He gives you a small smile. Then he puts his hand palm up on the couch between you, offering it to you to take. “But I’ll admit that I had additional motivation where you were concerned.”

“Hotch…”

“Aaron. We’re off the clock. You should call me Aaron.” 

You slip you hand into his. “Aaron. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I’m your boss. And I didn’t want the risk of something going bad between us and losing you. You are part of the team. We need you.” 

“Still, I wish you’d said something. We could have been doing this the whole time,” you say, leaning in and pressing your lips to his. The kiss is soft, almost chaste, but his free hand comes up to caress your jaw.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, thumb tracing your jaw line. 

“No,” you say looking him in the eyes. “I’m worried about transference and hero worship and all those kinds of things, but at the moment all I know is that your hand is warm and I want you to touch me.” 

Aaron takes the glass out of your hand and puts it on the coffee table before tugging you closer and over into his lap. He cups your jaw in both hands and pulls you into another kiss. This one is hotter, wetter, his tongue sliding between your lips and exploring your mouth. 

You moan softly, pressing against him as he moves his mouth to your jaw and the side of your neck. You tilt your head back, encouraging him as his hands grip your waist hard. You can feel him as he starts to harden in his dress pants, and you can’t help rubbing your hips into him. “Fuck, Aaron,” you murmur, running your hands all over his chest. His hands slip under your shirt, caressing the small of your back. “Bedroom. Please, Aaron. I need to feel you.” 

“What about dinner?” 

“It can wait,” you murmur, running your fingers into his hair and claiming his lips again.

Aaron helps you onto your feet, then stands and scoops you into his arms. He carries you into your bedroom and lays you across the mattress, covering you with his body. He kisses you over and over, his hands slipping under your shirt and caressing your breast over your sports bra. You hook your leg over his hip, arching up into him.

“Aaron…” you moan. “God, you feel so good.” 

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his already deep voice dropping into something even darker. “So stupid… wasted time. When I could have been –”

“Hey,” you say, putting your hand on his cheek. Then a wicked smile curls your lips. “You’ll find a way to make it up to me,” you tease.

Aaron actually laughs, his whole face relaxing. “Challenge accepted,” he says, licking his lips. His hands are deft and efficient as he removes your pajamas, and together you work on his dress shirt and the belt of his dress pants. You can’t help giggling as you get tangled up in a flurry of limbs and discarded clothing, but finally you’re able to press skin to skin, his mouth fastened on your neck and collarbone.

“God, Aaron…” you arch against him, your breasts dragging through his chest hair. “I need you.”

Pulling back, Aaron smirks at you but also tenderly pushes hair off your face. “I’m right here,” he murmurs. He shifts his kisses to the base of your throat and then over the curve of one breast, sucking your nipple between his teeth and making you gasp. His mouth travels down your body, his tongue seeking out any place that seems enticing to him. When he reaches my ribs, he runs his thumb over the skin and you wince, realizing that you must already be bruised badly. Aaron presses a soft kiss to the spot before he moves on. 

Gently, he pushes your thighs open, and you groan as the cool air hits your hot skin. You arch as his tongue dips inside your folds, grazing your clit. He wraps his arms around your thighs, your knees bent over his shoulders as he licks and sucks on you. His chin and the stubble across his jaw rubs at the sensitive skin. His tongue teases at your entrance and then up to your clit. You reach back and wrap your fingers into the pillow as pleasure races along your spine. You’re breathless and panting, waves and waves of intense need and want running through you. 

“Oh, god… god, Aaron. I’m – I’m gonna…”

Aaron sucks hard on your clit in response, slipping two fingers deep inside you. You arch and cry out as my orgasm swamps you. He licks and caresses you through it, helping you come down. Your heart is racing and you’re blinking fast to try to get your vision back online as he crawls back over you, licking his fingers and wiping his mouth. You grab his face in both hands and draw him to you for a kiss. Your tastes are mixed in his mouth and all you can do is moan. You can feel how hard he is, his tip teasing at your skin. 

“I need you to fuck me,” you murmur, still holding his face and looking into his eyes. 

“Do you –”

“In the nightstand,” you say, gesturing at the drawer. 

Aaron lifts his eyebrow and smirks but says nothing as he shifts to reach over to the nightstand. He locates the condoms easily, and kneels up to show you as he rips the packet open. You can hear him sliding it on, his mouth dropping open as he wraps his hand around himself. “Fuck, what you’ve done to me,” he groans as he drags you closer and pushes inside you. 

You gasp as he fills me up, the tip of his cock rubbing in exactly the right places. One hand is braced on your headboard while the other tenderly caresses your skin as he starts to move. Ecstasy settles across his stern features and you pant and moan together. He makes the most delightful soft sounds as he works inside you, his eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Your pleasure is spiralling up again, the coil tightening in your spine, but you push it down. You want to come with him, you want to crash through the barrier at the same time. 

“Close… fuck, I’m so close,” he groans.

You run your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “Yes. Yes, god. Aaron. Let me feel you.” 

Aaron’s hips fall out of rhythm as he chases his pleasure. He groans, low and long, as he shudders through his orgasm. The feel of him twitching inside you sends you over the edge. You grind your hips against him as you come, your head thrown back in pleasure. 

“Fuck… are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Aaron asks, braced above you. He pushes hair off your face, his eyes laced with concern. 

“Right now, I am feeling zero pain,” you say, giggling as you look up at him. “I am riding the high of two spectacular orgasms. Jesus.” You caress his face and lean up so you can kiss him again. 

Aaron drags his fingers along your jaw as you kiss. He slips out of you and rolls onto his back before efficiently removing and disposing of the condom. When he returns to the bed, he gathers you into his arms, caressing the curve of your shoulder and pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“You’re so incredible,” you murmur, your hand caressing his pecs and abs. “You make me feel so amazing.” 

“You’re amazing,” Aaron counters. He runs his fingers through your hair and caresses the nape of your neck with his thumb. “I didn’t think sexy librarian was one of my types but then I met you.” 

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Isn’t sexy librarian everyone’s type?” you ask, teasing. You tilt your face up and grin when you get another kiss. “So. Does this make us officially a thing?” 

When you look up, Aaron is blushing delightfully as he smiles. “I wouldn’t begin to presume…”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “If you think I’m letting you go easily after all of this, you have another thing coming,” you say. “We’ll figure it all out. But I’m not giving up the chance to maybe have something great.”

Aaron nods, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Neither am I.” 

Your breathing settles and evens out and you can feel yourself starting to drift when both of your stomachs rumble loudly. You giggle. “Our food is probably downstairs in the lobby,” you say. 

“I’ll get it,” he says, sliding out from under you. “We’ll need the fuel for later.” 

“Later?” you ask, lifting your eyebrows and biting your lip. 

“I’m not nearly done making up for lost time with you, yet,” he says, grinning. 

[bots-and-cons]

I’m in the mood for merformers if you don’t mind, if you’re not up to it you don’t have to write it I know it’s not Mermay 😂 but could you do a Soundwave and human reader. Sound wave meets them because they are a marine rescue person and untangled (stingray) Lazerbeak from an old fish net when scuba diving.

A/N: I love the idea of Lazerbeak as a ray of some sort, that's so cute lol. I changed it to manta ray because they're bigger though, so it would work the same way as in canon, as in Lazerbeak can rest on Soundwave's chest. I've always imagined the merformers as even bigger than the robots are in the show. Also, I'm using the word "mermaid" as a more of a general term rather than a gendered one, because I didn't really know what other word to use

You were on one of your dives in a new area, when you saw a manta ray stuck in a discarded fishing net

You of course went to help it, because you can't just leave an animal in distress alone, it could die if you didn't help and you couldn't stand the thought of that

You didn't even notice Soundwave before he was already behind/kinda above you and casting a shadow

He was of course wondering what you were doing, and he was ready to interfere if you seemed like you were going to hurt Lazerbeak

He very quickly realized you were trying to free his friend, so he let you do your thing

You got the manta ray freed quickly and it swam behind you and you turned around to see a gigantic something looming over you

The manta ray is swimming laps around this giants head, and you were just looking at him, eyes wide as saucers

You'd never seen anything like it before, was it a mermaid or something?

If it was, it was an absolutely huge one

You didn't really know what to do, should you try to escape? Was that even necessary?

You didn't get a hostile feeling from this giant creature, so the two of you just stared at each other for a couple of minutes

You were of course very intrigued, because you'd never seen such a creature before, so you swam a bit closer

The giant stayed still and let you approach, but he seemed to be observing you just as keenly as you were observing him

Soundwave was wondering what you might have been thinking, he knew that the existence of his kind wasn't really acknowledged by humans, and it was rare for humans to ever see someone like him, so he was probably more like a myth than anything

You didn't dare touch him, even if you were very tempted, his scales were so shiny and a beautiful deep purple

The manta ray came back to you, it swam around you as if to thank you and then the due swam away slowly

You kind of waved goodbye at them and you noticed the giant glancing back at you for a brief moment

You started seeing him almost every time you dove in that area, often he was pretty far away, and you weren't even sure if you were really seeing him

He eventually started approaching you a bit more, but he still kept his distance even though he swam alongside you

Soundwave was intrigued by you, most humans he'd met harmed marine life or did something else he disliked, but you seemed very respectful and kind

You'd also helped his friend, and you didn't seem to be scared of him either

He lived a pretty nomadic existence, but he decided to stay in the area for a while, just to see if he might see you again

[winchestersisterimaginessss]

request: omg, so i requested the recent vamp story where the sister is taken and what you made was beyond what i was expecting :O it was so good and that you for taking my request!! i have another and was wondering if you’d be open to a part two of some sort? i was thinking maybe one where sister is back hunting again after taking enough time to heal and has a run-in with some vamps on a hunt with sam and dean and they’re just really protective and careful regarding her trauma of the incident. thank you as always, love reading your stuff!! xx

A/N: I’m so glad you enjoyed it!!! That makes me so happy omg. So I added a different story in first and then finished with the story you requested! I thought it would be interesting to see the trauma immediately after and then see how she would react once she got back into hunting and realized it was a vampire just like you said! Hope you love this one too!! Requests are always open please feel free to request anything and everything :))

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/winchestersisterimaginessss/773244669590110208/request-hiii-i-was-wondering-if-youd-do-a-fic

Sam and Dean Winchester x Sister!Reader

The past few days had felt like a blur—moments of calm, but mostly filled with the quiet, relentless hum of recovery. You were still healing physically, though the scars from your vampire attack had left deeper marks than you cared to admit. The wounds on your body weren’t as fresh anymore, but the memories, the trauma, clung to you like a second skin.

Right now, you sat on the couch, tucked under a blanket, with a bowl of popcorn resting on your lap. Dean was sprawled out next to you, his fingers casually flicking through channels on the TV. He hadn’t said much about the attack, but you could tell he was furious about what had happened to you. Still, he knew what you needed tonight—distraction.

Dean, being Dean, was doing his best to keep your mind off the bandages Sam had to change again. Sam had done this for the past few days—cleaning the bites on your neck, chest, and thighs. The sting of antiseptic, the way it burned and tugged at your skin, had started to feel like a trigger every time, sending you spiraling into panic.

So, Dean had put on some ridiculous rom-com. He knew how much you hated them, but that was the point. He was making you focus on something else, something harmless. He made sure the movie had all the clichéd plotlines that he knew would make you roll your eyes and distract you long enough for Sam to get everything ready.

"How is this even a thing?" you muttered, picking at the popcorn, trying to ignore the way your stomach churned at the thought of the next round of bandages. "I mean, seriously. Who falls in love because of a wedding dress? It's just… ridiculous."

Dean chuckled, glancing over at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "That’s the magic of these movies, kiddo. You don’t have to make sense of them."

You snorted, shaking your head as you tried to focus on the screen, but the images of Sam’s hands on your skin, cleaning your wounds, kept sneaking their way into your thoughts. Every time Sam touched the bandages, it felt like the past was clawing its way back, and the panic that followed was almost worse than the physical pain.

Dean must have noticed the change in your expression, because he immediately turned down the volume, his face softening as he looked at you. “You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice low but filled with concern. You didn't even need to see the worry in his eyes to know he was paying attention.

You swallowed hard, forcing a half-smile. “Yeah, just… thinking. I don’t know if I’m ready for Sam to change them again.”

Dean’s lips twitched into a sympathetic frown. He had been through this before with you. He knew what it was like, not just the physical pain of the bites, but the aftermath, the mental toll it took on you. “He’ll go easy on you, I promise. We have to make sure they’re healing properly.”

You didn’t answer, instead shifting awkwardly on the couch, avoiding his gaze. You wanted to believe him, but there was this knot in your stomach that wouldn’t let go. The thought of Sam getting close to those marks again—touching your skin where they’d been—just felt like too much.

Before you could say anything more, the door to the hallway creaked open, and Sam appeared in the doorway, medical kit in hand. He was dressed in a plain gray hoodie and sweats, looking every bit the calm, collected Winchester he always was, but you could see the way his eyes lingered on you, the worry there that made your chest tighten.

“How you feeling?” Sam asked, his voice as gentle as always. He knew the routine by now—he wasn’t going to rush, wasn’t going to force you to do anything, but the time had come. He couldn’t let you keep avoiding it, either. “We should take a look at those wounds again. They need fresh bandages.”

Your stomach dropped at the sight of the kit. You were already shaking slightly, your hands clenching into fists around the blanket. You felt yourself pulling inward, as though shrinking away from the inevitable. Sam’s presence wasn’t a problem—it was the association with the pain and vulnerability you’d been feeling that made everything worse.

Dean must have seen your discomfort because he was quick to push the popcorn aside and scoot closer, pulling you into his side. “Hey, look, Sam’s not gonna do anything you’re not ready for. But we can’t keep putting this off,” he said, his tone firm but warm. “We’ll get through this together, alright?”

You nodded, but the lump in your throat made it hard to breathe. Sam, still standing in the doorway with the medical kit, took a few slow steps toward you, but he didn’t move too fast. He didn’t want to startle you.

“I’ll go slow,” Sam promised, holding up the kit in a gesture that, while well-meaning, only made the anxiety in your chest rise. “I’ll talk you through everything and only do what you’re comfortable with. We can take breaks if you need them.”

Dean, sensing your discomfort, nudged you lightly with his elbow. “Look, I know this is a pain in the ass, kid, but we’re gonna get you through it. Sam’s gonna take care of you, alright?”

Your eyes flicked between Sam and Dean. Sam was trying so hard to be gentle, his face full of quiet understanding.

“Okay,” you whispered, a soft sigh escaping your lips. You didn’t want to say it aloud, but the truth was, you couldn’t avoid this forever. You had to face the pain. You had to face it head-on if you were going to heal.

Sam moved in, sitting across from you with the kit on the table in front of him. He gave you that comforting smile of his, the one that always made you feel a little bit safer, even when your world felt out of control.

He opened the kit, and you immediately tensed, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. Sam glanced up at you, his eyes softening with empathy. “I’m right here. It’s just a bandage change. We’ll be done before you know it.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the rush of dread coursing through your veins. You could feel your heart beginning to race again as Sam prepared the antiseptic. The smell of it hit you first—sharp, sterile, and clinical. It made your stomach twist.

Dean’s hand settled on your shoulder, grounding you. “Just look at me,” he said, his voice steady but light, as if he was trying to keep everything casual. “We’re watching this terrible chick flick together. You’re gonna survive this, trust me.”

You didn’t know if it worked, but you found your eyes trained on the TV, watching the movie unfold in front of you even though you couldn’t focus on a single word. The only thing that mattered was Dean’s hand on your shoulder, and the fact that Sam was there, working slowly, carefully.

Sam moved with deliberate precision, peeling away the old bandages with practiced hands, and you could feel the sting of the antiseptic as it touched your raw skin. It burned like fire, and you bit back a gasp, your nails digging into the blanket in your lap.

Dean, noticing the shift in your expression, leaned down to whisper in your ear. “You’re doing great, kiddo. Just a little more.”

It was the constant pressure of his presence, the steadiness of Sam’s touch, that kept you from completely losing it. Sam cleaned the wounds on your thighs, your neck, and your chest with gentle care, his fingers brushing over the sensitive skin. It was a slow, deliberate process, each movement purposeful, but every moment sent a jolt of panic through you. The pain, the stinging, the vulnerability—it all felt like a flood you couldn’t control. Your breath caught as Sam’s fingers brushed against the tender skin near your collarbone. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to push it all away, but you couldn’t. It felt like you were back there again—tied down, helpless, vulnerable. The memories wrapped themselves around you, tight and suffocating, like those vampires’ hands had once been.

You gasped, the sudden panic gripping your chest. "I’m… I’m scared," you whispered, barely able to say the words. You hadn’t meant to speak aloud. You hadn’t meant to break down in front of them, but it all spilled out before you could stop it.

Dean froze, his head snapping toward you, his face twisting in concern. He hated seeing you like this. Hated it. His hand tightened on your shoulder as he leaned in closer, his voice low and steady. “Hey, hey, you’re okay.”

Sam, too, softened, his movements slowing as he looked up from the antiseptic bottle. His eyes were filled with understanding and concern. “I know it’s hard, bug. It’s okay to be scared. Let me know when you feel comfortable enough for me to continue.” Sam said quietly, setting the antiseptic aside for a moment as he gave you space to breathe.

The room felt heavy. The faint hum of the movie was the only thing that seemed to fill the silence, but it wasn’t enough to push away the tightness in your chest. It felt like the walls were closing in, and the sting of the antiseptic that had once been a minor irritation now felt like a brand on your skin.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force the anxiety back down, but it was impossible. The images, the sounds, the feeling of those vampire hands—the terror—it all crashed over you in waves. The feeling of being completely powerless, unable to stop what was happening to you. Your breath hitched, quick and shallow, as you tried to calm yourself, but it wasn’t working.

“Look at me, please,” Dean’s voice was soft, urging but not pushing. “I need you to focus, just on me, alright?”

You opened your eyes slowly, finding Dean’s face inches from yours, his eyes steady, intense, and full of reassurance. His thumb brushed over your shoulder in slow, comforting strokes. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

You nodded, tears welling up but not falling, a mixture of relief and terror making it hard to breathe. The vulnerability you felt from the scars—inside and out—was overwhelming, but there was something about Dean’s presence, his protective nature, that made you feel like you could breathe again.

Sam, who had been waiting patiently for you to regain some composure, leaned forward, his hands gentle as he began to work again, but this time, slower. His movements were deliberate, taking care to ease the tension you were still holding in your body. He was so quiet, so careful, and it made the process bearable. The burn of the antiseptic was still there, but Sam’s steady presence was grounding.

“I’m here. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Just a little more,” Sam said, his voice calm and soothing.

Your breath steadied as you focused on Dean, still holding your gaze, his thumb now rubbing circles against your skin. The movie was long forgotten, the characters and their ridiculous romantic gestures a distant hum in the background. It was just you, Sam, and Dean. And in that moment, the pressure in your chest eased, just a little.

But then, as Sam’s fingers brushed the edge of the bandage near your collarbone, your body stiffened again, your breath catching in your throat. The pressure of being touched in the same spot—it felt too familiar, too wrong. And before you could stop it, the images flashed back—the vampire’s cold hands, their grip on you, their teeth sinking into your skin. You were back there, trapped, unable to escape.

You gasped again, your eyes flying open wide, and you shot up from the couch, pulling away from Sam’s hands as panic overwhelmed you. Your chest was tight, the air suddenly thick and impossible to breathe.

“No, no, no,” you gasped, backing away quickly, hands trembling. “I can’t… I can’t do this. Not again.”

Dean was immediately on his feet, his arms outstretched toward you, his voice frantic with concern. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’re safe. We’re right here, kid.”

But you couldn’t stop the flood of panic that was choking you, the memories threatening to swallow you whole. You shook your head, backing further into the corner, trying to create space between yourself and everything that was happening.

Sam, too, stood up slowly, watching you carefully, his hands held up in front of him, not wanting to force anything. “It’s okay, bug. You’re okay. We’re not gonna make you do anything you’re not ready for. Just breathe, alright?”

But your breath was ragged, too shallow to fill your lungs, and you couldn’t shake the image of yourself tied down, vulnerable. The fear of it was so raw, so fresh, that it felt like you were living it all over again.

Dean quickly moved to you, his hands gripping your shoulders, his voice low but insistent. “Look at me. You’re okay, kiddo. You’re not back there. You’re right here, with me and Sam. You’re safe.”

You felt him there, his warmth seeping through you, grounding you in a way that only Dean could. His hands were gentle on your arms, but firm enough to remind you that you were real, that this moment was real.

“I’m right here,” he repeated, his voice unwavering. “You’re not going anywhere, and neither are we.”

You nodded, but the tension still hadn’t fully left your body. The tears were right there, but you fought them back, swallowing down the sobs that tried to claw their way out. You wanted to be strong. You didn’t want to break down in front of them, but you couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that kept rising.

Sam took a small step forward, speaking softly. “You know you can trust me, sweetheart. We’ll work through this and take our time, no pressure, no rush.”

You swallowed hard, and as you turned your gaze back to Sam, you saw the unwavering kindness in his eyes, the patience that had always been there for you. And you knew, deep down, that with them, you could find your way back.

Slowly, you took a deep breath. You weren’t sure if you were ready to face it, but you couldn’t hide forever.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m ready… but only if we go slow.”

Dean’s grip tightened slightly, offering you that final reassurance before letting go. “Take all the time you need, kid. We’re with you.” Sam gently started working on you again, his eyes trained on you, seeing if there was a shift in your expression so he could keep you comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice strained.

Sam didn’t stop. He kept working, cleaning the wounds, bandaging you up, never once pushing you faster than you could handle. "No need to apologize," he said softly. "You're safe, and you're doing fine."

You wanted to believe him. You really did. But it was hard to reconcile what you felt inside—how each new bandage felt like a painful reminder—against the gentle, quiet assurances Sam and Dean kept offering. They couldn’t erase the past, but maybe, just maybe, they could help you move forward. One small step at a time.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Sam finished. The antiseptic had burned, but now the bandages were clean, fresh, and the tension in the room slowly ebbed away. You exhaled slowly, your chest still tight, but relieved it was over.

“See?” Dean said with a soft chuckle, pulling you closer. “You did it.”

You leaned into him, the warmth of his presence a balm to the rawness of your nerves. Maybe it wasn’t perfect. Maybe the past would always be there, lurking in the shadows. But with Dean and Sam by your side, you had a fighting chance. One step at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, you could heal.

——————

The weeks that had passed since the vampire attack felt like a disorienting blur. Every day, you were confronted with reminders—physical scars that Sam still gently helped dress every few days, the tender bruises where the vampire had sunk its teeth, and the nightmares that would drag you awake in a cold sweat. Sometimes, you couldn’t remember where the nightmare ended and the real world began. But you fought to push through it. You had to. And yet, the deeper parts of you—those hidden wounds—remained raw and unhealed.

But each time you pushed through. You started getting back into hunting and started to get back to the normal you once knew. That night, you tried to focus. You sat in the diner booth with your brothers, surrounded by the smell of stale coffee and the hum of fluorescent lights. You tried to concentrate on the case files spread in front of you, but it was hard. The tension in the air made everything feel ten times heavier, like you were carrying a weight that no one else could see. Sam and Dean, on the other hand, were in their element, discussing the details of the case in front of them.

At first, it seemed like any other missing persons case. Disappearances that could have been caused by anything—wild animals, maybe. But then you noticed the detail that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up: the bodies had been found drained of blood. No signs of struggle, no other injuries. Just lifeless, empty, drained.

And that’s when you saw the look exchanged between Sam and Dean—a quiet, knowing glance that spoke volumes without a single word. Sam’s jaw tightened, and Dean’s face darkened. Their eyes met again, this time just for a brief second, but it was enough for you to know.

Without a word, Sam spoke, his voice steady but laced with the knowledge of what this could mean. “I think we’re dealing with a vampire.”

The word hit you like a physical blow. Your stomach churned, and the room around you felt suddenly far too small, far too tight. You could feel the blood draining from your face, your heart hammering in your chest. You felt the world go quiet, the pounding in your ears drowning out everything else. The word “vampire” clung to the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating.

You had to swallow. You had to breathe.

“Wait,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hand, shaking, gripped the edge of the table as you scrambled to keep your composure. “No… no, it can’t be… I mean, it could be something else, right? Something we’re missing, maybe? It’s not a… it’s not one of those, right?”

The panic was already clawing at your throat. You could feel it. The fear was rising faster than you could keep up with. Your chest felt tight, and every breath came with a sharp, painful gasp. You tried to force the words out of your mouth, tried to convince yourself that there had to be another explanation, that it wasn’t what you feared, that it couldn’t be.

Dean and Sam exchanged another glance, their eyes locking again, this time softer, full of concern. They were already moving into protective mode, but they were careful. Too careful, and it sent a surge of dread straight to your chest. Dean’s brows furrowed as he leaned forward, his tone softer now but no less firm.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His voice was calm, but you could hear the weight of worry in it. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re here. We’ve got you, alright?”

But the words weren’t enough. You could feel your hands trembling as they gripped the table harder. The world around you felt like it was closing in. The dim lighting of the diner seemed to flicker in and out, and every sound felt distant. All you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears, and that word. Vampire. Vampire.

“No, no, no…,” you gasped, your voice breaking as you tried to force the panic back down. “It can’t be! We… we must be missing something. It can’t be one of them—not again.”

You were panicking now. There was no stopping it. It was like a wave crashing over you, and you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except feel the terror. The memories were flooding back, crashing into your thoughts like jagged glass. The bite. The cold hands. The fangs. The helplessness. The terror.

Dean saw it. He saw the fear in your eyes, the way you were trembling violently now, the way your breath came in shallow, frantic gasps. His face softened with concern, and his hand was immediately on your shoulder, his touch firm but gentle.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” He was right there in front of you, his voice low and soothing. “Breathe. You’re safe, okay? You’re with us. You’re not alone in this.”

Sam was by your side now, his tall frame leaning in close, his hand resting gently on your arm, trying to steady you. “It’s alright,” he said softly, his voice steady. “We’ll take it slow, alright? We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

But the words, as comforting as they were, didn’t reach you. The panic was too much. You couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the fear from clawing up your throat. The memories were too fresh, too close. You could still feel the bite on your neck, the feeling of the vampire’s cold hands digging into your skin, the way you’d almost died that night. It was all too much.

Dean’s grip tightened on your shoulder, his eyes locking with yours. His voice dropped to a softer, more reassuring tone. “Listen to me. We’re not asking you to be brave, not right now. We’re not throwing you into anything you can’t handle. You’re not going through this alone, alright? We’ll be with you every step of the way. Every step.”

You nodded, your breath coming in ragged sobs as you tried to force the panic back down. But it was hard. It felt impossible.

Sam squeezed your hand gently, his voice filled with understanding. “We’ll take it slow. If you don’t want to go out there, that’s okay. We’ll make the call. We’ll figure out a different approach.”

Your eyes flickered between them, the fear still holding you hostage. They weren’t pushing. They weren’t rushing you. They weren’t going to leave you to face this alone, no matter what. It was in the way they looked at you, the way they spoke, the way they moved closer. They were careful, so careful with you, and it made you realize something deep in your chest.

You weren’t alone. And maybe, just maybe, you could find a way to face the terror.

The next few hours felt like an eternity. The night air was heavy, thick with the scent of decay and the sound of your own heartbeat thumping against your ribs. Each step you took toward the dilapidated house felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, the fear coiling tighter in your chest with every breath. You had been through this before—hunted vampires, faced down demons, survived things you never thought possible. But tonight was different. Tonight, you felt like you were walking toward something that might break you, something you couldn’t control.

Dean was in front, steady and sure, his movements swift and fluid, his eyes sharp with focus. Sam was right behind him, tall and calm as always, his brow furrowed with quiet concern. And you? You were somewhere in between—pushing forward but struggling to suppress the deep anxiety gnawing at your insides.

You could see it in their eyes, the way they both kept glancing over their shoulders at you, making sure you were right there. They’d never let you go into this alone, not after everything. They knew you better than anyone. They knew the scars, the fears, and the pieces of you that still hadn’t fully healed from the last encounter with vampires—the one that had nearly broken you.

"Stay close," Dean’s voice was sharp, but it held an underlying tenderness, one that made your chest tighten. He was looking at you now, his eyes softer than they had been when the hunt first began. He could tell you were already on edge, could see the way your hands were shaking slightly as you gripped your weapon.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. You didn’t want to be weak. You didn’t want them to see how scared you were. But no matter how hard you tried, the fear lingered, like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.

The house loomed ahead, dark and menacing. Broken windows, a door hanging off its hinges, the faintest flicker of movement within. A vampire was in there, preying on the town’s innocent. But tonight, the vampire felt different. This one was going to test you, push you past your limits in ways you weren’t sure you were ready for.

The moment Dean pushed the door open, it creaked eerily, sending a jolt of fear through you. You couldn’t help but flinch.

"You good?" Sam’s voice came from behind you, softer than Dean’s, but no less filled with concern. You tried to force a smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

"Yeah," you said, but even to your own ears, it didn’t sound convincing.

"You sure?" Sam pressed. His hand brushed against your shoulder, a quiet gesture of support.

You swallowed hard. You weren’t ready. But you had to be. You couldn’t let them down. You couldn’t let yourself down.

"I'm sure," you lied, the words shaky. But Sam’s eyes didn’t lie either. He wasn’t buying it. He didn’t have to. He knew you well enough to see the cracks in the facade you were desperately trying to hold together.

Dean was already moving ahead, his footsteps confident, his gun drawn. Sam followed close behind, keeping a wary eye on you as he took up the rear. You kept pace with them, the weight of your fear trying to pull you back, but you pushed it down, reminding yourself that you couldn’t break now. Not here. Not with them.

But then you heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the dark, a low hiss. The vampire. It was here.

Your heart skipped a beat, and suddenly, everything felt too fast. Too real. Your breath came in shallow gasps, and you found yourself freezing, unable to move, unable to speak.

Dean was ahead, focused on the approaching figure, his hand steady with his knife. Sam was behind him, ready, but you were still stuck, frozen in place. You could feel the panic clawing up your throat, choking you. No, not again. Don’t freeze. Don’t freeze.

But it was too late.

The vampire shot forward in a blur of motion, and before you could even think, it was on you. Cold, clammy hands wrapped around your throat, lifting you off your feet, slamming you back into the wall with enough force to rattle your bones. You gasped for air, but its grip tightened, cutting off your breath.

Everything around you went hazy—the world narrowing to the choking pressure at your neck. Your head spun, and all you could think was No. Not again.

Dean and Sam were shouting, but their voices were distant. Your vision blurred, the edges growing dark, your mind starting to slip into panic.

Not again. Not like this. I can’t die like this.

But then something inside you snapped. A fierce, desperate instinct you didn’t know you still had. You shoved against the vampire’s chest with all the force you could muster, your body shaking with effort. For a moment, it stumbled, loosening its grip.

This is your chance.

With trembling hands, you reached for the knife, and in a blur of motion, you cute off its head.

You stood there, panting, staring at the empty space where the vampire had been just moments before. Your heart was still pounding in your chest, the adrenaline surging through you, but the shaking had intensified. You couldn’t stop it. Your legs felt weak, your hands trembling as they gripped the knife, your body fighting to stay upright.

And then, through the haze, you heard them—Sam and Dean. Their voices, louder now, breaking through the storm in your mind.

"Are you okay?" Dean’s voice was low but filled with concern, as he rushed to your side. His hand was on your shoulder, steadying you, but it didn’t erase the worry in his eyes. He was trying to keep it together, but you could see how proud he was. Proud, and afraid.

"Yeah," you whispered, but it didn’t feel like you were answering him. Your voice was weak, the words a mere echo of what you wanted to say.

Sam was right behind him, his face full of soft relief. “You did it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved us. You saved yourself.”

Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, but you fought them back, not wanting to show the vulnerability that was already spilling out. You had done it. You had killed the vampire.

But you were shaking uncontrollably now, your body betraying you as the reality of it all hit. The fear was still there, gnawing at your gut, but beneath it all was something else—something you hadn’t felt in a long time. Pride.

Dean’s hand gripped your arm more firmly now, but it was gentle—like he was scared you might fall apart. "Hey, you okay?" he asked again, his voice softer, laced with tenderness. He was watching you closely, searching for any sign that you might break.

You nodded, the motion small, but firm. "I’m okay," you said, your voice a little steadier. But you weren’t okay—not yet. Not mentally. You needed time.

But Dean knew that and didn’t push you. Instead he just pulled you into his chest, his touch gentle with understanding. "You did good. Really good."

Sam stepped in, his hand resting on your back, his expression full of pride. "That was great. You fought back. That’s something."

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breath. "I was scared," you admitted, the words coming out in a whisper. "I didn’t know if I could…"

Dean stepped pulled you in tighter, his eyes softening. "We knew you could. You’ve always been stronger than you think."

They were proud of you. And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long while, you were starting to believe it too.

[m1kawrites]

2000+ 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝖫𝗎𝖼𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝖭𝖲𝖥𝖶 𝖺𝗅𝗉𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗍

2000+ word G/N reader :3 I haven't wrote in ages so sorry if it's not that good AGHH!!!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

This man is a sadist both in and out of bed, but when it comes to aftercare? He’s an entirely different demon. Sex with you is his best stress reliever, a way to loosen up and relax after a long day of his brothers antics alongside the stress of paperwork. But no matter how rough or gentle he was, he’s always attentive afterwards watching you closely to make sure you're okay.

If you need a drink, he won’t hesitate to fetch one while you clean up. If you’re too exhausted, he’ll help, even running a warm bath if you're still sore afterward. if you're the type to drift off to sleep, he’s more than happy to wrap you in his arms, holding you close until you’re settled only then will he quietly return to any unfinished work. B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

For his favourite body part of his own... I’d say his hands. He is the type to take great care of his hands using some hand care products Asmo gifted him to keep them soft and smooth. One of the main reasons he likes his hands is how nicely they look against your body, tracing over your skin as you shiver from his touch.

(A close second would be his hair. Okay hear me out but I can totally see this old man being ridiculously picky about it. If he's having a bad hair day well he'll be in a foul mood all day)

Now, when it comes to his favourite body part of yours, I’d say he would love your neck. The mere thought of marking up your neck just ever so faintly and seeing the marks slightly being visible out from your uniform drives him wild. Seeing the proof of his love on their skin fills him with pride. Oh and when he teases you? he would feel up your neck with his lips just to feel your little human pulse quicken beneath his lips? That’s just the cherry on top and his favourite thing to do! C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) I don’t see Lucifer being the type to play with or eat cum, it’s just not his thing. However, creampies? That’s a different story. The pride of seeing you completely fucked out, oozing his load? Yeah, he loves that.

That said, I do think he’d prefer using protection. Mostly for the convenience of an easier clean up and, if his partner is AFAB, to prevent any risk of pregnancy. So while he mostly sticks to condoms, he might occasionally indulge himself

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Before you and him got together, he has fantasized about you walking in on him at just the right moment of him pleasuring himself. The idea of being caught in the act and seeing your shocked or flustered reaction, was something that crossed his mind more than once.

Now, if you or worse, someone else accidentally walked in on him? That's something else.. He would hate that, His pride would be absolutely shattered. But if he wanted you to catch him? If he planned it, knowing exactly when you’d be doing your usual nightly check-ins? That’s a different story. Just the thought of you walking in, seeing him like that.. would you freeze up? Be shy and embarrassed? Would you get turned on? or... maybe just maybe you would join him? The anticipation alone was enough to drive him wild. E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Lucifer is definitely experienced, but not in the same way as Asmo. He’s not the type to sleep around with every demon or human he meets he has a reputation to uphold! His experience comes from an understanding of pleasure. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Reading your body language, watching every twitch of your expression as he thrusts into you~ he uses it all to push you right to the edge, only to pull back at the last moment hehe.. It’s almost infuriating how well he knows your body… maybe even better than you do yourself. F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

He’d love doggy. being able to grip your hips as he pounds into you, with the perfect view to spank you to his heart’s content as he watches your ass slowly turn red. Doggy makes it so he can easily grab your hair or press your head down into the pillow or desk, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

That said, he’d also enjoy any position that lets him see your face. watching every little expression you make as he drags you closer to the edge, taking in every reaction and lip quiver as he makes you feel way too good. G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Definitely serious but teasing.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) fully clean-shaved and very well-groomed if not fully shaved. He has nothing against body hair and wouldn’t mind if his partner kept things natural down there. However, for himself? He’d definitely prefer to be shaved just something about the clean, smooth feel that he enjoys. I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’s a sadist who enjoys being rough in bed, degrading his little brat but there are still nights when he can be romantic where he is slow and passionate. On those nights, he’ll take his time, moving gently inside you as you’re both perfectly in sync, savouring the feeling of both of your bodies interlinked while He’ll whisper sweet, romantic words into your ears.

But if you decide to act up and be a little brat in bed during it? Well, he won’t tolerate that. He’ll make sure you know who’s in control.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn’t do it often, he’s simply too busy with work. But if he’s had a particularly stressful week, I can see him jerking off to release some tension, most likely in the shower early in the morning so he won’t have to worry about cleaning up.

As I mentioned in my "dirty secret" section, I feel like he’d enjoy the idea of you catching him or even giving you a little “punishment” under his desk. As he spills his load deep in your throat, making sure you’re completely under his control. K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He loves the Dom/Sub dynamic and of course, he’s always the Dom. You can try to make him the sub, but good luck with that he’ll quickly put you back in your pathetic place

Bondage is something he absolutely enjoys. The thought of you completely tied up, at his mercy, with red ropes wrapped tightly around your body, gets him going. The way you look, so helpless and pathetic, only adds to his excitement.

And he’s 100% the type to edge his lover. Watching you come undone, crying and begging for release, especially if you've been stubborn lately, is the perfect form of punishment. He’ll watch you slowly lose control, turning into nothing more than a babbling, desperate little slut. L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

His study is one of his favourites, the thought of you bent over his desk as he pounds into you, being able to spank your ass over the desk, or even you under his desk, choking on his cock? That’s perfect for him.

Another favourite of his is the bedroom, where he can just rut into your body in any position with ease M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

If he sees you acting up in public or around his brothers, he won’t give in easily. He knows exactly what you're doing, trying to rile him up and he won’t let it work. Instead, he’ll ignore you, letting you stew in your frustration of defeat. But once you finally give up, that’s when he’ll come to you.

I can also see you getting touchy with him as a sure fire way to rile him up. He’s a touch starved man, after all. The moment you start being forward, it's bound to make him excited.. he won’t be able to resist~

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

If something upsets you, he wouldn’t do it, he values your feelings and wouldn’t cross that line. I also see him as one who won't like pegging, I don’t think he’d be into it. His pride wouldn’t allow it, and even if he agreed to try, he wouldn’t find himself turned on by it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He definitely has a preference for receiving oral, but that doesn’t mean he dislikes giving it. He’d much rather see you looking up at him as you take him deep into your throat, warming up his cock in your throat while he work. He’ll tell you to be a patient little lamb, and wait for him to finish before you can get what you want. Once he’s done, he’ll guide your head up and down, watching with satisfaction as you choke on him, enjoying the tears in your eyes from the stretch of your jaw. P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It all depends on his mood. If he's had a stressful day and you’ve riled him up, he’ll be fast, hard, and rough, his pace matching his frustration. But if he’s in a good mood and a bit tired from work, he’ll slow things down. His movements will be sensual, as he whispers romantic words in your ear.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He doesn’t mind quickies, but it’s not something he does often. He prefers taking his time with his partner, savouring every moment. After all, how can he turn you into a babbling overstimulated mess just from a quickie? Well he could easily do that if he wanted too but he much likes longer. For him, the thrill is in the control, and that requires more time.. more opportunity to tease and torment, to slowly push you to the edge before pulling back.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s willing to try certain things once, especially if you ask him nicely. He’s not the type to constantly seek out risks, but he won’t play it too safe either. If he's feeling bold, he might send you to R.A.D with a vibrator inside you, turning it on throughout the day just to watch you squirm while you try to stay quiet and composed.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Oh, he could go for multiple rounds, all night if he wanted to. Especially if you’ve riled him up or if he’s been stressed. But you’re human, after all, and the last thing he wants is to hurt you or push you past your limits. He knows exactly when to stop or when to take breaks for your sake. Especially after he’s thoroughly overstimulated you, making you cum more times than you can count. T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He owns toys, but not for himself as they're to be used on you. If you ever wanted to try one or had your eye on something new, he’d oblige without hesitation, making sure you get exactly what you want. After all, it’s going to be used on you~

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves to tease. He’d spend all night tormenting you, whispering about what a desperate little slut you are for riling him up just so he’ll fuck you. He’ll humiliate and degrade you, reminding you that all you had to do was ask if you wanted his cock that badly. But no, you had to be needy, had to push his limits so now? He’s going to make you regret it.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s not loud, but he’s not completely silent either, somewhere in between. You can definitely hear him, but if you moan too loud, you would just drown him out. He’s the type to let out deep grunts and soft gasps with his heavy breaths right against your ear, letting you feel what you’re doing to him.

Though, when he finally cums? You might catch a quiet, breathy moan slipping past his lips.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He enjoys your tears. not from genuine discomfort and fear of him, never that. But the ones that spill when he’s fucking you so good you can’t hold them back. The ones that come from sheer pleasure, from desperation, the pain from his whip, from the overwhelming need to cum. Yeah, those tears? He loves them. X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Lucifer’s got a big cock, though I feel like he might be lacking a bit in width, not that it’s anything to complain about since he still has a nice width just not as girthy as Beel’s. However his length more than makes up for it. 8 inches, His tip is a very light pink, and his cock has a slight curve up rather than to the side.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

I’d say his drive is pretty high (have you seen him in the game? LOL). He can control it, sure, but when he goes too long without relief? He gets pent up and I mean pent up. So well.. the next time he has you beneath him, he’s taking it all out on you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He wouldn’t fall asleep until you do and he didn't have any work to do. He’d make sure you were okay, watching over you until you drifted off before slipping away to his study to finish up any lingering paperwork. Only once everything was in order would he finally allow himself to pull you back in his arms and fall asleep

A/N: I hope you enjoyed!! Haven't written in ages.. I feel rusty so I hope I can get back in my game. I'm planning on doing another one of these so which brother do you want to see next?

[gingerteafairy]

Max Cooperman x yandere!reader? I beg🙏

You can choose the plot, I’m good with or without smut!! Thank you so much🫶

oh how i love writing weird yandere reader

𝕡𝕚𝕔𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦

tags n warnings: college!max, max cooperman x reader, yandere!reader, huge joe goldberg vibes, obsession, stalking, jealousy, brief smut to context. word count: 4.6k masterlist

You held the camera in front of your face, fingers pressed firmly against the shutter button, as dozens of expressions from Max Cooperman were captured in the span of just a few moments. It wasn’t your intention to be a stalker—far from it. You’d always had a passion for photography and physical activities. You were at a party, but not exactly to have fun. Not that your dream was to become a photographer—no, that wasn’t the focus of your life—but there was one dream that lingered. A dream that involved a name.

Max Cooperman.

Another click. You were almost hypnotized by the way he posed, effortlessly shifting between expressions, and, in a brief moment of reflection, you found yourself wondering how he could be so perfect and, at the same time, so... mysterious. It was curious how Max always seemed to photograph everyone around him, yet never appeared in the photos of others. He never allowed himself to be captured on camera, but you... you couldn’t look away. Just look at him—how he smiled, how his eyes sparkled, how he became the center of attention without even trying.

He was the type of person who made your heart race in a disorienting way. You’d look at him, and it felt as though your own heartbeat was reflected in his eyes. And no one shares their heart, right? The heart is a precious secret, something kept deep inside, silent, beating only for you. And that’s exactly how you felt: you needed to keep Max to yourself. You didn’t want to share that feeling. You couldn’t. The love letters you sent him weren’t silly—they were your heart.

And there she was, a girl near him, acting like she had some claim over his smile, over the charming gestures that he should reserve only for you. For a moment, a surge of jealousy washed over you, but you swallowed it down. She made him smile, yes. The most beautiful smile you had ever seen—the smile you had mentally captured, the smile that now lived in your heart and mind.

You watched him stand up with the girl, heading toward the back door. Oh no, this was happening—the very thing you feared. Your only option was to follow, carefully, so you wouldn’t get caught. You scanned the club one last time before slipping out, everyone too absorbed in their own lives or drunk enough to notice. Moving quietly through the hallway, you made your way to the alley behind the club. It was too dark for anyone to see you, and perhaps too dark for Max to see anything either. They started talking, and you remained silent.

“C’mon. Hurry up!” She hissed, the sounds of clothing mixing with the air, Max was taking off his pants at this point, since he was the only one you could see, the girl didn’t matter, she was just a blur.

“Okay, here goes,” he muttered, soon grunting afterward. Damn, that went in and from the sound of it, she was wet, so wet. “Shit, man… That feels so good.”

“Shut up and fuck me, shit,” she grunted, meowing as she felt Max increase his speed, the sound of thrusts camouflaging themselves in that dark alley. Your heart was pounding loudly, your mouth was dry as sand as you listened to all of that.

Your insides began to burn, feeling an immense urge to touch yourself as you watched all of that, thinking that you were that girl. You were the one who should be there, not that brainless idiot. You were so much better, you were perfect for him.

“Fuck, the picture,” you muttered to yourself, but no. That moment shouldn't be recorded, just felt. Your hand went to your panties, which were already terribly soaked, moving them aside to touch yourself, imitating the rhythm of Max's thrusts.

“Shit, shit, I'm going to cum,” Max warned, increasing the pace, squeezing the woman's hips, who was moaning so ridiculously loudly, she sounded like a vulgar porn star. She was so fake, so stuck up.

“Yes, yes. Oh, me too,” she moaned, in one last scream, she came undone, breathing loudly. You felt Todd cum at the same time as you. More proof that you were made for each other.

Soon, the sound of clothes moving returned and you shrank your body again, ears attentive to what would happen next.

“It was good, wasn't it, Alex?” He breathed, throwing the condom in the trash that was next to it and putting his belt back on, fixing the hair that was stuck to his forehead. 

“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll fucking kill you, loser” she growled, finishing organizing her dress. The clicks of high heels were heard and you despaired, going back into the club and looking for the exit to leave that place. If anyone found out, you were in deep trouble.

Your heart was racing, you grabbed a drink before leaving to quench your thirst and position yourself at the exit. It was empty, almost eerie outside, unlike the internal battle inside you. You looked at the camera that was hanging around your neck. Shit, you should have taken a picture of that Alex, you would have had a really good chat with her later. How dare she feel ashamed of having sex with the best man in the world? Bitch.

The next day, the sound of footsteps and conversations echoed through the college hallways, but everything seemed distant as you watched Max walk away with his friends. His locker stood empty, a silent invitation for another letter. Your hands were sweating as you held the decorated envelope, your heart pounding against your ribs. Every move you made was meticulously planned, from the scent you’d sprayed on the paper to the way you folded the edges to make it look casual, yet intimate.

You held your breath as you slipped the letter through the gap in his locker, as if it were a secret whispered into the air. But before you could pull away, you heard familiar footsteps approaching. Max. Your spine tingled as you realized he was coming back, accompanied by Jake. In a quick reflex, you pressed yourself against the nearest wall, your body rigid, your fingers clutching the cold metal of the nearby locker.

"Hey, remember those letters you were sending me?" Max's voice was light, almost playful. You peeked around the corner, your heart racing as you saw him holding the freshly placed envelope.

Jake grabbed the paper, frowning as he unfolded it. A subtle shimmer of glitter escaped the crease, landing on his fingers.

“Your secret admirer?” Jake murmured, reading the impeccable handwriting. The soft perfume you’d chosen seemed to cling to the air around them.

Max, you're so perfect it hurts. I want to eat your heart to always have you with me. I know it sounds weird, but you're the most perfect person in the world. XOXO, your secret admirer.

"Exactly. It seems like it's getting worse," Max laughed, taking the letter back and spinning it between his fingers. "Before, it was just stuff like ‘you’re so handsome’ or ‘so smell good.’ Now, it’s all this glittery stuff and whatnot. Not that I’m complaining, it’s kinda cute."

Jake raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “It’s creepy.”

Max shrugged, folding the letter carefully before tucking it into his backpack. "I have a feeling. You can’t ignore these things."

"Or it could be a two-meter butcher," Jake shot back, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

Heat rushed to your face, your chest constricted by a mix of shame and adrenaline. You had to get out of there before they noticed you. You hurried toward the beginning of the corridor, trying to look casual, your gaze fixed on the floor as though nothing had happened.

"I’d love to have a weirdo to call my own," Max said with a grin, closing his locker.

Jake let out a heavy sigh. “That’s messed up, man.”

And then, out of nowhere—

“Whoa, is that an EOS Rebel?”

The voice came so close that the shock made you freeze mid-step. Your muscles stiffened, your eyes wide before they slowly turned toward the source of the sound.

Max Cooperman.

Talking to you.

The air in your lungs felt heavy, as though they had been emptied and forgotten to refill. He was so close now, you could see the smallest details—the sparkle in his eyes, the nonchalant way he held the strap of his backpack, the half-smile that always seemed a little mischievous.

You pressed the camera against your chest as though it were your only anchor in that moment.

“Ah… yeah,” you managed to murmur, your voice betraying the wave of nervousness spreading through your body.

He smiled, tilting his head slightly in curiosity. “Can I see it?”

Max smiled that little half-smile, as if trying to recall something, his head tilting slightly to the side. “Oh, I knew I’d seen you before,” he said, snapping his fingers as if he’d just connected the dots. “You always sit further back, right?”

You froze. His words felt like a bucket of cold water, making you swallow hard. Your heart raced. He’d seen you somewhere? You’d been so distracted, following him for so long without realizing it—you must have been more obvious than you’d thought. Had he seen you at that ice cream shop? Or at the gym? Did he know how much you watched him?

Your heart skipped a beat. He had noticed. Even if it was just a simple observation, the fact that Max knew where you usually sat sent a wave of heat through your chest.

“Yeah, I like to be somewhere I can observe everything,” you replied, tightening your grip on the camera.

He pointed to the camera with curiosity. “So, you like photography?”

You nodded, trying to steady your breath. “Yeah. I like capturing moments, you know? Things that no one else notices.”

Max tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes glimmering with interest. “That’s pretty cool. Bet you have some insane photos.”

“Ah… a few,” you said, briefly averting your gaze.

His smile widened, full of natural charm. “You know, I’ve always wanted to learn more about photography, but I never had the patience. Maybe you could teach me one day.”

Your legs almost buckled under you at that moment. The idea of spending time with him, being by his side without having to hide in the shadows, made your heart race even faster.

“I… I’d love to,” you responded before your insecurity could stop you.

Max winked at you, amused. “It’s a date, then.”

Before you could reply, Jake called out to him from the other end of the hall. Max gave you one last look before walking away, tossing his backpack over his shoulder.

“See you around, photographer.”

You stood there, holding the camera as if it were a shield against reality. Your face was hot, your heart racing. He had spoken to you. He wanted to learn something from you.

And then, as if he had just remembered something, Max stopped in the middle of the hallway and turned back toward you, his eyes gleaming with recognition.

“Wait,” he said, pointing at you with a smile. “You were in the audience at the fight competition! You posted the photos on the college bulletin board. You have an incredible eye for photography. No one’s ever taken such a good photo of me. In fact, no one’s ever taken a photo of me.”

Your chest tightened with the memory. Max was talking about the photos you took during the competition, the same ones you sent to the college newspaper. That night, you barely took your camera off him. Every movement, every expression of focus and adrenaline, you captured it all, freezing the intensity of that moment.

You smiled, relieved, the weight of the world lifting off your shoulders. “Wow, it’s… thank you so much,” you said, trying to hide your shyness as you tucked the camera away. Even with the compliment, you still felt a bit of anxiety that he might notice some mistake in the photos. “It was just a few photos. A silly hobby, nothing special.”

“Oh, come on,” Max laughed, shaking his head, his mischievous grin making your heart skip. “You’re great. You’re professional, really. I bet if you sold your photos, you’d make some serious cash. Can you give me some tips?”

Your mind went blank. You were so stunned by the request that your body couldn’t react, but your face immediately turned warm. Your brain seemed to short-circuit, and the only thing you managed to do was nod. If you opened your mouth, you’d probably shout and leap into his arms so hard that he’d lose his breath.

“Thanks, then,” Max said, smiling as he held up his hand for a high five. You quickly returned it, his touch burning your skin in a way that made you grin from ear to ear. “You free on Saturday?”

“Saturday?” You repeated, still trying to process what had just happened. The feeling of his touch made your mind spin.

“Yeah, is that good for you to teach me?” He adjusted his voice, focusing entirely on you as if there was no one else in the world. He was speaking just to you.

“Yeah, perfect!” You lit up, your face shining with pure happiness. “How about that ice cream shop that sells pistachio and mint?”

Max’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “I love that place,” he smiled, the surprise mixed with excitement. “I’ll see you there. Be careful on your way home.”

“Thanks… Max...” You waved, watching him walk away with his hands on his backpack. From that moment on, being just a secret admirer wasn’t enough anymore.

On Saturday, the lesson with Max went well, except for a few moments when you found yourself more captivated by his face than the photos he was showing you. Every expression of focus, every laugh when he messed up an adjustment—it all felt too fascinating to look away from. But other than that, everything went smoothly, going wonderfully well.

The lessons started becoming regular—what was once weekly became every three days, until they were daily. The ice cream shop wasn’t always open, so Max’s house became the go-to place. The first time he suggested it, you almost had to hold back from looking too excited. Now, it had become a habit.

While you were organizing some things in the college courtyard, you heard familiar footsteps approaching. Before even looking, a smile was already playing on your lips.

“Hey, Max.”

He returned the smile before pulling you into a hug. You felt the warmth of his body, the firm but relaxed touch, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His face was close enough that you noticed a new detail—the different scent. He had changed soap. It was woodier now, less citrusy, but still perfectly suited to him. You allowed yourself to savor the moment for a second longer than you should have.

“So, how’s it going?” Max asked as he pulled back, still maintaining a close, almost conspiratorial gaze. “Lesson today at my place?”

You nodded, trying not to show too much enthusiasm, even though your mind was racing, imagining the afternoon with him.

“Sounds good. I’ll see you at the usual time.”

“Great, xoxo!” You waved again, holding your backpack and feeling a sparkle in your eyes. As you walked home, your steps felt lighter.

Everything was so perfect. You had truly become friends with him. It was no longer a distant dream, a fantasy fed by secret letters. Now, Max reached out to you, texted you, eagerly awaited the meetups. He even stopped hanging out with other girls, without ever saying anything about it, but the signs were there—his time was spent with you.

He even bought you ice cream from time to time, and that made everything feel even more real, more special. You didn’t even need to change. Max accepted you just as you were, with your quirks, your shyness, your unique way of looking at the world.

It was so perfect. Too perfect.

You rang the doorbell at Max’s house, smiling excitedly. You were wearing your best outfit, your best perfume. You always made an effort when you went to see him, but today you wanted everything to be perfect.

Silence.

You waited a few seconds, but no one answered. You furrowed your brow. He knew you were coming. After all, you weren’t a stranger. With an automatic gesture, you turned the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked. The familiar scent of the place enveloped you as you stepped inside. But before you could call out to him, your eyes caught a sight that made your heart drop. Max was sitting on the couch. 

And he wasn’t alone.

A girl was next to him, terribly close, with his arm draped over her shoulders. The way she fit there made your stomach churn. It was too casual. Too intimate. The sound that echoed through the room didn’t come from the TV or the silly movie playing on the screen. It came from inside you. A silent snap, as if something inside you had broken.

“Max?” Your voice sounded cold, sharp like a gust of wind coming through an open window.

He looked at you with no sign of guilt, no weight in his gaze. He simply smiled, just like he always did. “Hey! Come sit with us.” He lightly patted the empty space beside him, as if nothing was out of place.

The girl adjusted herself, resting her head on his shoulder. As if it was her right. As if that spot belonged to her. Your chest burned. Your blood boiled. Your fingers trembled so much that your camera, your faithful companion, slipped from your hands and hit the floor with a sharp thud.

Your feet began to move. First slow, hesitant. Then, each step became heavier, more determined. You couldn’t tell exactly when your body decided to act on its own, but suddenly, you were standing right next to the couch.

Your fingers gripped in her hair. With a single movement, you threw her to the ground.

“Hey. What the fuck?” Max shouted.

“Let me go, you bitch!” The girl screamed in protest, getting on her knees to get up from the ground, but you pushed her away again.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” You shouted, pulling her hair up, your other hand going to her face so she’d look at you. “Answer me, you motherfucking bitch. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Can someone explain to me what the hell this is?” Max shouted, standing up and seeing that scene that looked more like a horror movie.

“Who are you?” You growled louder, throwing her to the ground so you could climb on top of her, immobilizing her body. “What are you doing with my man?”

“He didn’t say he had a girlfriend!” She defended herself, pushing you and going for you, scratching your arm with her long nails. You managed to turn her back around, your training helped you do it with ease. “Girl?”

Noticing Max’s horror, you got off her, staggering back, catching a glimpse of him hugging the stranger, asking if everything was okay. However, a sharp slap was delivered to Max’s body. The girl hurriedly grabbed her bag and coat, giving one last look of disgust before running out.

“She should’ve told me she had a boyfriend. Asshole.” She hissed, and the door slammed behind her, the sound echoing through the house like thunder.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Max blinked a few times, still trying to process what had just happened. Then, his expression hardened and his voice erupted into the space:

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

He was looking at you as if he was seeing you for the first time—no longer with the familiarity of before, but with something between disbelief and disgust. His eyes scanned your face, then your trembling hands, hugging your own body as if that could stop the tears that were already threatening to spill. “No... why are you crying?”

The question made your chest tighten even more. “Is she your girlfriend?” You sobbed, your lips trembling along with your words. Your voice came out low, fragile, almost inaudible.

Max sighed heavily, rubbing his face before crossing his arms. “No.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing, his expression growing even harder. “And if she was, what does it have to do with you?”

You felt the floor slip from under you. Your body reacted before your mind could process it. Your arms let go of yourself, your hands shot up into the air in a desperate gesture, and your voice finally found strength to explode: “She doesn’t deserve you!” The shout sliced through the air, hitting the walls like thunder.

Max froze, his mouth opening but no words coming out. “I deserve you!” Your voice wavered, filled with raw emotion. Your eyes were blurred with tears, but you didn’t look away from his. “I’m the only one who deserves you!”

Max took a deep breath, his brows furrowing in confusion. He looked more lost than ever. “And what makes you think you deserve me?”

The question felt like a knife stabbing into your chest. The silence lasted a second, maybe two. Then, without hesitation, you said the words that had been burning inside you for so long:

“Because I love you!”

The confession fell into the space between you like an impossible weight to ignore. Max froze. His relaxed posture disappeared completely, his shoulders tensing. His hands, once restless, were now still at his sides. You saw when the air caught in his throat. You saw his expression change from surprise to something undefinable.

You scared him.

The thought hit you like a punch to the stomach.

But there was no stopping now.

Breathing deeply, you took a hesitant step forward. Then another. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of your chest. “I love you, Max.” Your voice came out softer now, more vulnerable. “I really do.”

Your hands found his. Cold as ice.

“I’ve taken the best pictures for you.” Your fingers tightened around his with tenderness, almost pleading for him to feel what you felt. “I helped you with the class. Remember that assignment you couldn’t do, and the professor let you off the hook? I convinced him. None of those girls did that for you. That bitch Alex? I made her apologize to you. I did that!”

Max was still unresponsive, his eyes locked on yours but distant, as if he was trying to understand what was happening.

“Oh my God…” he murmured, almost to himself. You took another step closer, your eyes shining with expectation, your tears wetting your face. Max remained frozen, his cold hands in yours, his eyes wide as if trying to figure out if this was real or some kind of nightmare. The way he looked at you wasn’t the usual playful, carefree look. It was different.

It was fear.

Your chest tightened. This wasn’t how he should be looking at you. He should be happy. Surprised, maybe, but in the end, he would understand that you were the only one who truly loved him.

“My God,” he murmured again, running a hand over his face as if trying to wake up from a trance. “Shit… shit!”

You tightened your grip on his hands, trying to bring him back. “I’ve been sending you letters all year, Max.” Your voice trembled, but not from weakness— from emotion. “I’ve been by your side when no one else was. I’ve done everything for you.”

He pulled his hands back, stepping away a pace. Your heart shattered at the gesture.

“You…” Max took a deep breath, blinking several times as if trying to process your words. “You’re my secret admirer?”

You nodded frantically, a smile forming through the tears. “Yes! It’s always been me! And now I don’t have to hide anymore, Max. Now you know. Now we can—”

“That’s not normal,” he interrupted, his voice tight. “That’s unhealthy.”

Your insides twisted. Unhealthy? Everything you did was for love. His love. How could he say something so cruel?

The tears came back with full force, your chest rising and falling unevenly. “Max…” You took a step forward, but he stepped away again, as if running. “Please… you didn’t mean that… I understand.”

The silence between you two weighed heavily again, like a storm about to break. Max continued to stare at you, his brow furrowed, his breath quickening. You braced yourself for the worst— expecting him to yell, to throw you out, to tell you he never wanted to see you again. But, to your surprise, he only sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking lost.

“You did all of this for me?” His voice was softer now, almost wavering.

You nodded quickly, wiping away your tears with the back of your hand. “Yes, Max. I’d do anything for you.”

He fell silent for a moment, looking at you in a way you couldn’t decipher. Then, something in his eyes softened.

“That’s… kind of crazy.” He gave a nervous laugh, but without any aggression. “But at the same time… I don’t know.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Don’t know what?” You took a step forward, hopeful.

He sighed again, looking away for a moment before meeting your eyes. “I don’t know. You’ve always been around, always helped me. And… I admit, I like having you around.”

Your stomach flipped with anxiety and emotion. Was this a dream?

“I didn’t expect it to be you.” He smiled slightly, almost with amusement. “But I guess I always knew someone was watching out for me. And if someone’s going to like me this way, at least it’s someone who really cares.”

Your eyes shone.

“So… does this mean…?” You held your breath, waiting for the answer that could change everything.

Max hesitated, but then, with a resigned sigh, he gave a small smile. “It means that… maybe we can see where this goes. I’ve always been a weirdo who wanted a stranger to call mine.”

The joy that exploded inside you was uncontrollable. Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, feeling his warmth, his scent, the security of finally being where you’d always wanted to be.

Max stood there, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and uncertainty. Part of him couldn’t fully grasp what was happening—this wasn’t how he expected things to go. But then there was the pull, the warmth between you, something real and undeniable that felt right, even if it didn’t make sense. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to find the answers that were still out of reach. And before he could think any more, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt both inevitable and new, sealing the moment in a way words never could.

Max’s mind was racing, caught between disbelief and a strange sense of exhilaration. He knew he was screwed, but whatever. He liked it anyway. The feelings he couldn’t quite process swirled inside him, but there was something undeniably magnetic about it all—something that made the confusion feel less like a burden and more like an adventure. For the first time, he stopped trying to figure it out and just let himself be swept away by the moment, a quiet thrill settling in his chest. This was chaos, but it was his one and only chaos, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it any other way.

[bunnyinvanilla]

your blog is so cuuute!! hop hop hop!! it makes me think of price absolutely loving to have his hands on you at any given moment you two are together because he is all rough and hard edges so you're like his little bunny stress ball he can squish squish squish <3

ohhh my goshhh yesss his hands are on you all the time, calloused from his heavy labor in the military, used to holding and carrying heavy weapons and rifles — they’re thick, large, heavy and hairy over the wrists, and you love his fingers, rough and warm and often ringed

he’s always groping you though ;(<3 squeezing your chin, pinching your cheek, when you’re sitting on his lap, his hands are always trialing up and down your inner thighs, massaging the skin and squeezing it like his personal stress bunny ball ;( under your skirt, tracing a path from your thigh all the way down to your knee, and then back up again — he does it so casually, a firm, lazy, non sexual reminder of his dominance over you, or to relax with something soft and squishy.

when he walks past you, he always slides his arm around your waist and hip, giving you a gentle squeeze before strolling away to wherever he’s headed to, or when someone calls for him, he puts his large hands on your waist, bending his arms and softly moving you to the side, muttering a “be right back, love”

bunnies love being pet on their cheeks and on their butts. same goes for you. you love when he holds your red, blushing warm cheeks with both his hands, feeling every scar and skin texture of his healed wounds against your face as he squeezes them together, the cold metal of his rings almost leaving his print on your skin “look at my sweet, good girl..”

when you’re working behind the bar and he walks by, he always lands a delicate smack on your butt, making you joint and blush, glaring at him “daddy! hey!”

“what? am i not allowed to touch my bunny?”

you’re his personal squishy toy.

“stop that, a costumer might come in” you quickly try to regain composure, rummaging back with the cups to make sure every glass is neatly placed, your long hair covering the way your cheeks are burning bright and red. “angel, i own this place, i can do whatever i want with my little girl if i want to”

or let’s say you’re reading your lovely books on his lap while he’s working on some military top secret paperwork, one hand is busy writing down and the other one is on your legs, swinging on his sides — he just needs to have his hands on you aaaall the time, brushing your hair, caressing it, squishing your waist, your hips, because he’s so tough and grumpy and rough around the edges and you’re just so malleable and soft like a stuffie :(