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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.

#joe burrow #joe burrow bengals #joe shiesty #joey b #jb9 #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc #nfl fic #nfl players #nfl imagine

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avelera · 2 hours ago

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I get the attempted point here but aside from the artistic symbolism of burying Silco where he almost died the first time at Vander’s hands (and possibly as an attempt by Jinx to revive him, if Silco wasn’t really dead he would have fought here. This is how she knew he was really gone.) I genuinely have to ask, logistically speaking:

Who else besides Jinx would have buried Silco? No one knew where he was!

In his final hours, Jinx kidnapped him, gagged him, and dragged him to her secret lair where she accidentally murdered him!

No one knew he was there. Smeech, one of the Chem-Barons, didn’t even know Jinx murdered Silco until she confessed! And then she helped murder Smeech right after so still no one in Zaun knows! It’s doubtful anyone knew where his body was or could even confirm he died except that he went missing.

Like, I get the overarching Piltover vs. Zaun anger here but let’s be serious for a moment. If we’re going to spend this much time analyzing the text let’s apply the actual text to the analysis.

Silco didn’t get a big state funeral not because of Piltover bigotry, but because he got murdered in a secret location and no one knew where his body was except Jinx.

But even if she’d left his body in his office, Silco ruled by fear, not love. He was a mob boss who terrorized his own associates by gassing them with the Gray (y’know that thing people are constantly giving Caitlyn shit for? That point of no return we never forgive people for using?). Ekko loathed the guy and the Firelights actively fought him. He flooded the Lanes with Shimmer to enrich himself and control people, he brought crushing poverty to the Undercity with Shimmer and it got worse the more power he had.

The only people who loved Silco enough to give him a state burial with flowers were Jinx and Sevika. No one besides them actually liked Silco.

Whereas you can hate Caitlyn’s mom for plenty of wealth inequality reasons, but she was a respected Councilor for years, a loving mother, and a woman who patronized and funded the careers of people like Jayce. She presumably helped set up the ventilation system in the Undercity amongst other charitable works. Yeah there’s some awful glaring inequalities at play between the two cities, and whether Hoskel deserved a damn statue is very much up for debate, but I think it’s fair to say a lot more people in Piltover had reason to mourn Councilor Kiramman than there were people in Zaun who were sad that Silco died.

And ALLL of that is beside the point because even if there tons of people in Zaun who loved Silco, they didn’t have a body to bury because Silco got murdered by Jinx in her super secret hidden serial killer lair!

Cassandra Kiramman is one of many powerful people in Piltover. she is afforded a massive state funeral and memorial. her body is carefully restored and preserved to its most perfect state. she is placed in an expensive high-tech coffin

Silco is THE wealthiest and most powerful person in Zaun. and his corpse is simply sunk to the bottom of the river like any other garbage

#this post keeps coming on my dash and I finally exploded #I’m sorry op it’s not you I get the anger but there’s tons of reasons in the story for why Silco didn’t get a big funeral #arcane #arcane meta #Silco arcane #jinx arcane #cassandra kiramman

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shyamanuensis · 3 days ago

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Showers & Scourers - M.R

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop.” “No.” “Please?” “No.”

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

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

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

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

#harry potter #slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x y/n #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle angst

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revvethasmythh · 1 day ago

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listen, now that everything is said and done i'm going to say something i've been thinking but not outright saying for the past nearly four years. frankly, imogen and laudna's relationship is a pale shadow of caleb and veth's and if you really sit and think about it, it's outright embarrassing for the former party. it's like if you saw a beautiful piece of art and tried to emulate it and then the only thing you managed to jot down that was the same was the basic shape and you never added any color when the color was the most important part. imogen and laudna's relationship is formed out of almost the exact same origins (troubled mage who needs to keep a distance from regular society joins up with monstrous misfit with a traumatic backstory and become each other's most important person while traveling place-to-place because they keep getting into trouble in cities). the difference is, genuinely, how much more colorful and lived in caleb and veth's story feels. they met in a podunk county jail and worked together to break out of the place, stayed together for practical reasons (straight-up survival) and then out of genuine friendship. they were hobos in the woods together. they cuddled on the side of the roads on cold nights together. they were genuinely each other's sole lifeline because they were the type of people no one in the world cared about in a very real, visceral way. they were also con artists, and sam and liam worked together to come up with an entire booklet of different cons they used to survive, which come into play surprisingly often during the campaign (Modern Literature, famously, but also Mother's Love and Money Pot featured).

comparatively, we know next to nothing about what imogen and laudna's lives looked like after leaving gelvaan, and the Incident™️ that sent them running in the first place remains amorphous and random no matter how many times the story is told or whatever extra details get added. the people of gelvaan found laudna to be a generically threatening presence (because of her fun-scary appearance and/or kooky-fun-scary behavior) and picked up their torches and pitchforks to run her out of town. imogen heard her thoughts and found them so beautiful she nearly killed two of the townspeople she grew up with the defend her and then they fled into the night together. and that's it. what did they do for two entire years after that? i don't know! neither do you. they don't appear to have struggled for money like caleb and veth did, there's no reference to hard-living, no real reference to what jobs they took to stay afloat, no mention of the practical realities of living as homeless nomads, no mention of towns and cities they'd visited and how those places impacted them. nothing. empty. no color. how did their relationship develop? also don't know! they seem to have slotted together perfectly as friends with no conflict for years before slotting together perfectly as lovers while batting aside all attempts at conflict later. done and dusted, that's the relationship, and people have the gall to call caleb and veth's successor relationship 'soulmatism' when it doesn't hold a candle to what the original offered.

which was, to be clear, endless complexity. i can't tell you how to define it, and i don't think the character's themselves could define it if they tried. sam went into the campaign intending to lean into a familial relationship and quickly realized that wasn't the vibe, course-corrected into veth having a crush on caleb--something sam has said developed fairly early in the campaign.* liam went into the relationship not intending to care about her nearly as much as he ended up doing, then spent the early campaign eps grappling with just how suddenly important she was to him, to the point that, in the face of her potentially dying in episode 20, liam says to sam, "do you want to make my character turn evil already?"** both were surprised at how tightly their characters clung to each other, and developed a deeply caring, highly insular dynamic where they were suspicious of outsiders and desperately guarded each other. with full retrospect, both went into the relationship intending to use each other (caleb for general usefulness/protection and veth, obviously, hoping caleb could change her back one day), then found such deep and tender care that they became each other's worlds. for a time. until nott became veth and veth had a husband and it sent their relationship into a tailspin because no matter how you frame the relationship, caleb clearly felt his feelings for her and the way they behaved together stepped over the line of how one should act with a married woman. after that, he is terrified of the idea that he might not have a place in her life and works so hard to create opportunities to insinuate himself into her present and future (teleportation spells so she can travel home quickly and still return to the group, making room for her family in the tower so she can stay with him, offering to tutor luc in magic to stay in her life, etc). veth gets her body and her life back but fears returning home will be lackluster compared to what she's experienced with the group, starts falling out of love with her husband, and has intense extra-martial feelings for caleb that are canonical. their relationship morphs and changes constantly throughout the campaign, and the one thing about their dynamic that never changes is how deeply and truly they love each other. you want to talk about soulmatism? them being the two party members with fake names who's real names share aspects of each other ("Bren" and "Brenatto") both from small-town dwendalian empire who's lives have been deeply impacted by meddling of the cerberus assembly (veth's in adulthood, caleb's in childhood) and who's deepest traumas are respectively fire and water does the trick for me.

so why is one so popular and the other, particularly as a romantic ship, very much is not? it would be obtuse of me not to immediately point to the fact that imogen and laudna are two pretty, skinny white women who claim to have deliciously little agency in their own stories and provide a blank enough canvas that the relationship can be whatever you want it to be. there's a reason there's so many AU fics for them, after all. caleb and veth on the other hand would center first a relationship between the handsome white fandom-popular sadboi and *checks notes* a self-described ugly, unfeminine goblin with deep neuroses and later a short, fat brown woman who also happens to be a young mother from a small country town. popular fandom, tragically, will almost always turn away from dealing with complexity of the latter for the empty calories of the former regardless of the quality gap between the two. if anything, watching the popularity of imogen and laudna's relationship has cemented my opinion that if veth had been different (either a man or a generically attractive white woman or someone more conventionally pretty just in general), widobrave would have been a massively popular ship, and i think it would have been regardless of veth's marriage. people can forgive a lot to write about their two generically attractive favorites getting together. they're a lot less forgiving for an ugly goblin or a fat, brown young mother, though.

tldr: reject modernity, embrace tradition. ship widobrave

*Talks Machina for C2E88, VOD no longer available, but a paraphrase of the quote can be found here **(2:09:30 on the YouTube VOD).

#this felt really good to say ngl #i've been holding that in for FOUR YEARS now #and honestly the quality gap only gets more obvious from rewatching early c2 like. holy shit you guys #anyway this is FAR from a complete discussion of the situation/comparisons between the two. i just really needed to say this finally #cr tag #long post

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jiminomenon · 17 hours ago

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model! karina gets sick

pairing: model! karina x assistant! female reader

word count: 926

tag(s): karina being stubborn, y/n is tired she literally needs a break now gang-, sick! karina, princess aka their child makes an appearance, just a really soft moment between these two

from my series: the devil wears prada

if y/n had known jimin was going to be this insufferable when she was sick, she would have never let her step out in the rain yesterday. in fact, she should’ve just grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her under the umbrella instead of letting her prance around like she was immune to basic human conditions. but no, jimin had insisted she was invincible, brushing off y/n’s concerns with that same haughty confidence she wore like a designer coat.

“you’ll catch a cold,” y/n had warned, holding the umbrella over them as jimin strutted toward the car, completely unbothered.

“i don’t get sick,” jimin had scoffed, flipping her damp hair over her shoulder before tossing her equally soaked coat at y/n. “only weak people do.”

fast forward to today—jimin was curled up in bed, nose red, voice hoarse, and shivering beneath a mountain of blankets. weak people, huh?

y/n stood at the bedside with her arms crossed, staring down at the miserable lump that was once the almighty yu jimin. “i told you so.”

jimin peeked at her from beneath the covers, her glassy eyes narrowed into a glare. her voice was raspy, almost pitiful, but her bratty attitude remained intact. “shut up and make yourself useful.”

y/n exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “so bossy even when you’re practically on your deathbed.” she set down a tray on the bedside table, pushing a bowl of steaming porridge toward jimin. “eat this.”

jimin wrinkled her nose, shifting further into her blankets like a petulant child. “no.”

y/n’s eye twitched. “yes.”

“don’t want to.”

“jimin, you’re literally sick.”

“so? i don’t like porridge.”

y/n clenched her jaw, inhaling slowly as if it would give her the patience not to smack the stubbornness out of this woman. after a moment of internal struggle, she scoffed and threw her hands up. “fine. starve, then.”

she spun on her heel, making her way toward the door. she wasn’t going to coddle someone who refused to help themselves—jimin could sit in her self-inflicted misery all she wanted. but just as y/n reached for the doorknob—

“wait.”

y/n paused, glancing over her shoulder. jimin wasn’t looking at her directly, her fingers fiddling weakly with the edge of the blanket. her voice was smaller this time, almost hesitant. “where’s princess?”

of course. leave it to jimin to refuse basic human nourishment but demand to see her cat. y/n sighed, but she left without protest, heading toward the living room. sure enough, princess was curled up on the couch, a tiny bundle of fur nestled into one of jimin’s designer pillows. the kitten barely stirred as y/n scooped her up, her soft little body warm against y/n’s palm.

when y/n returned to the bedroom, jimin was watching her expectantly, her expression softening the moment she saw princess in y/n’s arms.

“here,” y/n muttered, setting the kitten down gently on the bed.

princess blinked sleepily before stretching her tiny paws, letting out a delicate meow as she toddled over to jimin’s side. jimin immediately reached for her, stroking her fur with weak but affectionate fingers.

a small, satisfied smile graced jimin’s lips as princess nuzzled against her chin. “at least someone still loves me.”

y/n rolled her eyes, arms crossing over her chest. “you’re impossible.”

princess purred, rubbing her cheek against jimin before curling up into a tiny ball beside her. jimin let out a contented sigh, her body visibly relaxing as she snuggled into the blankets. but just when y/n thought she could finally leave—

“this is nice,” jimin murmured, peeking up at y/n. “all that’s missing is—”

she patted the empty space beside her, her meaning very clear.

y/n blinked. “oh, no. absolutely not.”

jimin pouted, her bottom lip sticking out in a way that would’ve been cute if y/n wasn’t so tired of her antics. “y/n, i’m cold.”

y/n deadpanned. “you have five blankets.”

“and yet, i’m still freezing.” jimin’s voice was thick with faux suffering, her lashes fluttering dramatically.

“what do you want me to do? magically turn into a human heater?”

jimin didn’t answer—just kept staring at her with those expectant, slightly fevered eyes.

y/n exhaled through her nose, already regretting what she knew was about to happen. “seriously?”

jimin didn’t blink.

there was a long moment of silence, a battle of wills that, to y/n’s dismay, ended in her eventual sigh of defeat. “fine.”

grumbling under her breath, she kicked off her slippers and crawled into bed, slipping beneath the covers with a reluctant sigh. the second she was within reach, jimin latched onto her like a heat-seeking missile, tangling their limbs together as she buried her face into y/n’s collarbone.

“you’re warm,” she hummed, sighing in satisfaction.

“if you get me sick, i swear—”

“shhh,” jimin hushed, her breath tickling y/n’s skin. “let me enjoy this.”

princess let out a tiny yawn, stretching out her paws before snuggling further between them, her warmth adding to the cocoon of coziness surrounding them.

jimin sighed again, a lazy smirk creeping onto her lips. “we should do this every night now.”

y/n scoffed, shifting slightly but making no real effort to pull away. “not happening.”

“we’ll see,” jimin murmured, already halfway to sleep.

y/n rolled her eyes, but as she felt jimin’s breathing even out and princess’s soft purring vibrating between them, she figured… maybe this wasn’t too bad.

#karina x reader #aespa karina #yoo jimin #yu jimin #karina #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #yoo jimin x reader #yu jimin x reader #model! karina #bratty! karina #sick! karina #poor! reader

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always-just-red · 2 days ago

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Oh I forgot to add 😭😭😭 be it fluff like jelly sylus but fluff maybe he trying to make the mc jelly too ? I’m going wild with ideas, I will be quiet

(Part 1 of ask) FINALLY finished this fic oh my goshhh I've loved it so much but writer's block was my constant companion for this one 🫠 Thanks for your patience!! Sy is jealous but I'm still pushing my 'Sylus is the softest man alive and would die before hurting MC' agenda, so I had to get a lil creative! Hope I've pulled it off idk 😭😭

Be Mine

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: Sylus is getting a little tired of sharing you with the other men in your life (and he doesn't mean Luke and Kieran 🙃)

Genre: lil bit of angst, comfort and fluff

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, jealousy, other LIs mentioned, brief allusion to Raf's self-harm tendencies, cheating mentioned, some intimacy & kisses-- more soft than spicy!

| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Sylus has spent centuries waiting for you, so he’s going to give you another minute.

Patience is not a virtue; it’s an old acquaintance he greets with a false smile whenever he’s forced to pass it on the street. Sometimes outside your building, whilst you’re chatting with a neighbour from the apartment above yours. Sometimes when you’re running late from a doctor’s appointment.

Patience has been cropping up a lot these days and gods, he’s sick of its face. Even now, it sits with him at this table for two as he sips at a glass that’s almost empty. There’s poetry in stalling, in savouring what’s left, especially as a waiter hovers anxiously nearby, anticipating the need for yet another refill (it would be the third).

Dregs of blood-red wine swirl with solemnity. Sylus is a patient man, a man who waits, but he doesn’t want to be. He wants the reward of it: the pot of gold at the end of that insipid rainbow. Hasn’t he waited enough?

He lifts his drink to his lips again.

“Sylus!”

They curve as he swallows the final drop.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, flinging yourself into the seat across from him so quickly that he’s cheated of the chance to rise and help you with your chair. “Sit back down,” you usher, because he had made a start on it, “really, Sy, I’m so, so sorry. Things at work just got crazy, and I—”

“You don’t have to explain, sweetie,” he smiles as he signals the waiter. He’ll have that refill, now, and he orders your favourite drink as you shrug off your coat and fumble with your bag, looking for something. “I’m more than familiar with the Association’s… dedication to a cause.”

You glance up with an amused smile. “We’re keeping you on your toes, huh?”

“Mmm. There is one hunter who’s proving to be a real thorn in my side.”

“You on top of that?”

“Most evenings, yes. Some mornings, too.”

You poke your tongue out at him. You’ve retrieved a compact mirror and you use it to study your dishevelled reflection. “Is everything all right at work?” he asks as you fuss over your hair.

“Yeah,” you puff. “Long story.”

“We have time.”

With a warmer smile, you stash your mirror away and sequester your bag by your feet. “You sure?” He gives you a look. “Fine,” you chuckle. “Basically, Xavier forgot to write up some reports. He’s been away on an ultra-secret, special mission or whatever—” you tap your nose conspiratorially— “which I didn’t just tell you, okay? But yeah, the reports weren’t done, and they were due tonight, so…”

Sylus raises an apathetic eyebrow. “He asked you to help?”

“Begged me, more like.”

Of course he did. The waiter arrives with your drinks and Sylus has never been gladder for a distraction. His mouth is full of pettiness, bitterness, so he drowns it with wine. You could have called. Texted. “So kitten’s been playing secretary, hmm?” he goads instead.

“That would imply kitten could keep track of time,” you pout, “so no. And speaking of playing a part—” you poke his nose— “you’re allowed to be mad at me. I should have called you. Texted. So let me have it, yeah? I feel bad enough already without you being all… perfect.”

You’re only teasing, but Sylus doesn’t feel perfect. He’s thinking about you working late with your partner, laughing at his jokes, poking him with your pen to keep him from falling asleep on his paperwork. He smirks, regardless. “What if I want you to feel bad?”

“Oh, gods,” you slump forwards, face-down on the table. “How long were you waiting?”

“Years.”

You fake cry into the tablecloth. “Don’t, Sy. Just tell me the truth. How bad was it?”

“Really, years,” he insists again, folding his arms on the table and sliding forwards, too. His chin is resting on his hands, and he blows at the top of your head. “Look.” Your face lifts so you can peer at him. He pinches his hair. “I’ve even gone grey, see?”

You sit up the tiniest bit more and your noses are almost brushing. “It looks nice,” you whisper.

“You think so?”

“Mmm. Suits you.”

Your eyes are every gem— every jewel in an illicit auction Sylus has to steal away from the rest of the world, because something that pretty just has to be his; it will find no worthier home than his hands. His devotion fills vaults. Aren’t they spilling with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds— those reckless imitations of your gaze? No-one else could deserve them, adore them like he does.

And they’ve nothing on the real thing.

Someone clears their throat and Sylus tracks the noise begrudgingly. The anxious waiter is back, clutching menus this time. You sit up fully, laughing to break the tension, and sure enough, Sylus feels less like hurling the man through the nearest window.

He’s still thinking about it though. He tells the waiter as much with a smile, and the menus are passed over with shaking hands. When Sylus says, “thank you,” it sounds like a bomb, ticking.

“Play nice,” you tut, once the waiter’s cleared the blast radius.

“Sweetie, when do I ever not play nice?”

You blink back at him disbelievingly. This should be good. “How about the time that you—?”

A familiar ringtone interrupts you, and your eyes widen in apology as you grab at your bag, rifling around for your phone. You find it— check the call and decline it— but relief is hiding, refusing to set foot on stage. Not yet, it confers to Sylus darkly, because it knows what comes next.

“Do you need to…?” he asks anyway.

“Nah, it was just Rafayel. Thanks, though.” You set the phone down. “Where was I?”

“You were about to tell me what a terribly bad man I am, sweetie.”

“Right!” you giggle. No, not yet. “So how about the time that you…” The phone rings again. You check it. Decline it. “How about the time that you—ugh!” It’s ringing again.

Sylus taps a finger on the table, impatiently patient. You can’t mute the wretched thing: the next call you miss would be a Wanderer, tearing through an orphanage or the like. It’s the reason you check, even when there’re no orphans at stake— just a pest of an artist with too much time on his hands.

Except… “Oh,” you say, glancing downwards, “it’s Zayne. I should probably—” Sylus gives a half-smile of blessing, but you weren’t waiting around for it— “hey, Zayne! I can’t talk right now, unless— Raf? What the hell? How did you get Zayne’s phone?”

You pull yours away from your ear as a string of whines come through:

“— ignore my calls, don’t even text me to ask what’s up, and then pick up his call right away? You hate me, right? Just say that you hate me, cutie.”

“I don’t hate you, Raf.” The phone is back to your ear. “I’m busy. Now seriously, how did you get— oh, hi, Zayne. Why is Raf…?” Sylus can hear a deeper voice answering your questions. “He’s at the—? Shit, is he okay? Ugh, tell him I can hear him. Tell him I know he’s not dying.”

You meet Sylus’s eyes as conflict erupts on the other end of the call. Sorry, you mouth as static filters through, interspersed with broken words and curses. The doctor’s voice prevails. “Yeah, Zayne,” you speak back to it. “I’ll call Thomas, get him to pick him up. Mmhmm? Oh!” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I forgot, he’s at that stupid art thing. Look, maybe later, I can…”

The artist’s shrill tone is protesting.

“I know it’s my job, Raf!” you counter. “But gimme a break, please. If it was any other night, you know I’d be there. Of course I wanna be there! But I can’t—”

It’s just a slip of the tongue— words you don’t even realise you’re saying— but Sylus still feels his heart sink. He hates it. A heart is so difficult to argue with: it’s long gone before you can talk any sense into it. He stands from the table, those priceless eyes of yours pursuing him. When you tilt your head, he musters a smile, then a weak excuse: “I’m just stepping outside for a moment.”

You nod, a follow-up question on the tip of your tongue, but then there’s a voice in your ear again— two voices— and you’re you, so of course you listen.

…

Sylus waits on a bench outside the restaurant, closing his eyes as he waits for his heart to come back.

It’s only been a few minutes. He’s thinking about your eyes, your nose and lips— an inch from his— and how he should have closed that gap before it grew treacherous. Shouldn’t he be done with this? This… longing? You’re his. You’ve told him you’re his, over and over again, but he finds himself needing to hear it once more; the ghost of your voice is starting to lack persuasion.

He is yours without exception, but you? There’s always a caveat. I’m yours, Sylus. But only so long as the city is quiet. I’m yours, Sylus. Until someone else calls. The door to the restaurant opens— he can hear it— but he doesn’t open his eyes. He wants to pretend.

I’m yours, Sylus. No caveats. No exceptions.

“Sylus.”

He swallows the dread in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” you entreat softly. His eyes open, and you’re wearing your coat, holding your bag. “I have to run to the hospital— it’s this whole thing. Raf, like, passed out or something. He’s not been eating again. Zayne said when something like this keeps happening, it’s a sign that… yeah. He just… needs someone. And he hasn’t got anyone else, you know?”

“I understand.” You’re worried about your friend. That’s all it is.

Why can’t he believe that’s all it is?

You come over and sink down on the bench beside him, looping your arm through his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Don’t you know that he’s afraid? That a selfish, spiteful part of him wants to hide you— with the rest of his treasures— away from the light, so he can love you in the dark?

There’s a sigh as you lean against him, savouring his touch like the wine one swirls in a glass when their thoughts are elsewhere. It’s gone in a mouthful; you check your watch, and he hopes it’s bitter.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

No, he would rather be sweet for you, but look at you— making him lie. “I’m okay,” he says, and it doesn’t have a drop of conviction. He’s tired of philanthropy.

…

“What are you gonna do? Come on, tell us. Tell us! What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know, Luke. Give me a second, okay? Jeez.”

You literally just got here. Your pace is brisk and the night air still clings to you— you shed a layer of it by peeling your arms out of your coat. Luke and Kieran are close behind, keeping to your heels like terriers hoping you’ll trip with a plateful of food. They’ll take even a crumb at this point.

“You gonna fight him?” Kieran nudges, but your lips stay tight.

“Oh, you’re so gonna fight him,” Luke takes away from the silence.

You don’t know what you’re going to do. You’ve reached a decadent lounge, lavished with black and gold, and you throw your coat over the arm of a chair before starting to wrestle off your combat boots. You’ve been off work for hours, but it doesn’t feel like it. One call-to-duty after another; first the hospital, now this.

Mephisto caws in greeting from a nearby perch. “I’m not gonna fight him,” you say as your second boot drops with a clunk. “I just need to—”

“Say no more,” Luke cuts you off. “We want in.”

With a tired sigh, you gaze up at the twins at last. Kieran is readying a fist: punching his hand softly, the beak of his mask low and threatening. Beside him, Luke swings a baseball bat over his shoulder. He didn’t have it a second ago. Where did he even—?

You put your hands on your hips. “You guys got a death wish or something?”

“Yes!” they enthuse together, nodding excitedly.

You haven’t got time to ask. Your focus drifts to Sylus’s bedroom door, where music is leaking with honeylike light. You can’t count the number of times you’ve fallen over that threshold, exhausted— always slightly broken. You want to crawl into cool silk sheets and a warmer embrace, but there’s one small problem.

The text that had brought you here, anxious and out of breath:

Boss is with someone.

“What’re you thinking?”

You’re closer to the door, now, and Luke’s whisper makes you jump. You spin, twisting the bat from his fingers and pushing him back until the tip is pressed to his throat. “Get back,” you hiss, before levelling the weapon at an encroaching Kieran, “both of you.”

Luke leaps behind his brother— swinging him between you for protection. The baseball bat stays hovering, and Luke peeks over Kieran’s shoulder, swatting at it like an indignant kitten.

“Stop it,” you scold, poking back at his hand and his masked face. “Begone!”

“Yes, boss!” Kieran goes to move, but Luke is holding him in place. He’s dragged backwards: a human shield until they can both scurry around the turn of a corridor.

You smile fondly. You forget, for just a moment, that you’re alone and full of uncertainty. The song in the next room lulls, at its inevitable end, and then you can’t forget. You’re stood in silence, staring at a door you’ve never had to knock before. Another song starts up.

Whatever this is, you can handle it.

You use the baseball bat to tap against the dark wood. “Sylus?” you call.

He makes you wait. You can hear him, moving around— unmistakably taking his time— but you don’t mind. You’re running scenarios through your head. Is he in on this, too? Or…?

He opens the door and oh, he definitely is. His silk robe hangs haphazardly over his figure, one side threatening to slip from his shoulder and the belt dangerously loose at the middle. A flush is tinting his face, spreading down through his neck, past his collarbone and lower, you think, but you’re trying not to look.

“Sweetie,” he purrs in the way that tells you he’s up to no good, “what a pleasant surprise.” His eyes flit downwards. “And you’re armed, too.”

There’s a breathlessness to the observation, and your ability to breathe briefly eludes you as well. His hair is damp and unkempt, his skin warm, his gaze hot. Is this a test? It feels like a test.

“Are you alone?” you snap, because he’s clearly put some thought into whatever it is, and you’re a good sport, so you’ll play along.

“No,” he says, but then: “You know you’re always with me in spirit, kitten. Even if not in—” another downwards glance— “body.”

“Sylus.”

“Mmm?”

“I’m going to ask you one more time.” You catch his chin with your free hand, forcing his gaze back to your face. “And I want a real answer.” He swallows thickly. “Are you alone?”

His submission is fragile. He lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around your wrist like a reminder of the fact. “Careful, sweetie.” His grip tightens as his voice drops. “Think about what you’re asking.”

“I know what I’m asking.” You snatch your hand free and step closer. “Get out of my way.”

Sylus narrows his eyes, but soon relaxes. He sweeps a hand through his hair, chuckling as he obeys— moving aside to let you past. You storm through, looking over every visible inch of his room. There’s nothing to see, of course. No clothes that aren’t yours pooled over the floor. No lover wrapped up in his bedsheets.

“Just what exactly are you looking for?” he asks smugly behind you.

“Save it, Sylus.” Your pretend patience is gone. “The twins told me everything.”

So you start searching more strenuously. You make your way over to his bed, baseball bat slung over your shoulder as you check behind the far side— even stooping to peek under it. You open the wardrobe. Nothing. Use the baseball bat to push back the curtains, letting in more blood-red moonlight. Nothing. You huff in frustration.

“You know, don’t you?” Sylus says quietly.

He’s leant against the doorway, arms crossed, and you spare him a glance. “Know what?”

“That there’s no-one here.”

It sounds like defeat. “I’m taking this very seriously, actually,” you dismiss as you roll open the drawer of his bedside table, where no-one is hiding. You move on to even more absurd places: lifting flowers out of their vase to glance about inside it, peering into the horn of his vintage gramophone.

You’d hoped your antics would elicit at least a short laugh, or a scoff of amusement. There’s nothing, though, so you plonk onto the bed— defeated, yourself— and look to the man as you set your weapon down.

He looks back with an insincere smile. “How did you know?”

“That you weren’t really with someone? Because you’re you, Sylus. The key to a good prank?” Your fingers twinkle in the air beside your head. “Believability. Besides—” now a forefinger taps at your temple— “nothing gets past this.”

“Your ego?” he guesses with a smirk that is sincere, if nothing else.

“My brain, Sy.”

“Ah.”

Your ego— tsk. Your feet are dangling from the bed, playing with a slipper they’ve fished out from underneath it, and you have half a mind to launch it at him. This doesn’t feel like one of your usual games, though, and you’ve had a whole ride through the N109 Zone to figure out why.

“I really hurt you, didn’t I?” you speak like a confession, staring down at the floor so you don’t have to meet his eyes. “That’s what all this is about, right? You wanted to get back at me for dinner?”

“No, I—”

“I get it.” Your feet find the second slipper. “I do. I mean, it was a really shitty thing to do— walking out on you like that. Especially after you waited for me. You went to all that effort, and I— ah.” You’ve toed one of the slippers out of reach.

“Allow me,” comes a voice that’s suddenly close. Sylus’s figure looms over you before he’s crouching, kneeling by your feet. He still looks like a mess of sin, but he’s gentle as he retrieves the slipper for you. Removes your socks for you. Slides a slipper onto each of your cold feet. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he mutters.

You let out a sigh. “Sylus.” You’re scolding him, and he gazes up at you, his eyes garnets of adoration only you could afford. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“So why won’t you tell me how you feel?”

He sits back on his knees, his thumb drawing circles on the inside of your ankle. The ministrations are mindless, and so are his words: “How I feel is not important.”

“Of course it is!” You pull away from him. “Don’t say things like that.”

“But I thought I could tell you anything, kitten.”

It’s a nick from a blade that could do much worse; he wants you to feel how sharp it is. His smile is a warning and he’s waiting for the hunter in you to strike back, because violence is what you’re good at. What you’re both good at. It hurts, but it’s easy.

You shift forward on the bed. “Sylus… you don’t need to protect me. Not from you. Not from anything you feel. I want you to be happy, to tell me if you’re unhappy. I don’t need you to—” your fingers skirt over his chest and you falter inexplicably— “to sacrifice yourself for me.”

Sylus looks down to where you’re tracing the shape of his heart on his skin. He lets out a long, beleaguered breath, then leans closer to you, his head turning away as he settles it on your lap. Your hands find his hair instinctually, threading through it in slow, meandering motions.

“I want you to be mine,” he admits on another sigh.

He can’t see you smile, but he’ll hear it in your voice: “I am yours, Sy—”

“No— just mine.”

He won’t make it a demand. Even asking you nicely has him breathless and still, like the drawn-out pause of a finished symphony. Your hands stop moving, out of respect for the quiet. You’re remembering the times you’ve been late out of your building because you’d stumbled into Xavier in the lobby. The doctor’s appointments that always overrun, and Rafayel’s ‘emergency’ phone calls.

“Come and sit with me,” you mumble, patting the bed beside you.

When Sylus does, it’s with the same reluctance a cat surrenders a sliver of sun. Lazy and listless— still warm from the light. The bed sinks under his weight and you turn to face him. His robe’s collar has fallen further, so you hook a finger under it to draw it back up to his neck. Then you straighten the lapels, smoothing them over distractedly.

He’s watching your face, not the movements of your hands. Your cheeks feel warm. “I was speaking to Rafayel earlier, and we—”

A groan, and Sylus is no longer at your fingertips; he’s flopped down backwards on the bed, his hand over his face. You can’t help giggling— you’ve broken the big, bad boss of Onychinus, it seems. Is that all it takes? You grin as you lie down with him, settling on your side, propped up on an elbow. He doesn’t stir when you fix a few stray strands of his hair.

“We talked about boundaries,” you continue. “How I can’t be on call twenty-four seven, and how he’s going to take better care of himself, so I don’t have to be.”

Sylus has moved his hand, ever so slightly.

There’s more: “I’m gonna call in sick to work tomorrow. I made a deal with Xavier, that’s why I stayed late today. He’ll cover for me.” You shift closer. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I know I can’t always be with you, but I am always thinking of you, I promise. You’re always with me in spirit, Sy, even if not in—” you press a quick kiss to his chest— “body.”

He chuckles at the words, or maybe the touch tickled.

You grin down at him. “I’m yours. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“No! Ugh, just—” Smart-ass! You flick his forehead as he laughs quietly. “Not the words ‘I’m yours’, say that I’m—”

His hand is at your face, pulling you in so he can kiss you. It’s slow and it’s patient; he’s taking his time, and you won’t slip away. You can feel his smile. “You’re mine,” he murmurs when he finally withdraws. One more kiss, lighter, on the tip of your nose. “Just mine.”

Always. You let him pull you into an embrace, snuggling into his warmth like you’ve been wanting to from the moment you last left it. You can hear his heartbeat beneath the lullaby of his breath. “Sy?” you whisper.

“Hmm?”

“You look really hot when you’re pretending to cheat on me.”

He scoffs, but a yawn comes before his response. “Don’t get any ideas, kitten.”

Your quiet is pensive. “I have this lunch with Zayne later this week. I really should text him to find out—”

The grip around you constricts, and a voice is in your ear, soft and possessive:

“What did I just say?”

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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sturnslutz · 1 day ago

Text

berry goes to matt's house for a little "tutoring session."

warnings: weed smoking, shotgunning, making out, grinding/dry humping, no actual p in v, basically sub matt, use of “mama”

the drive to matt's house didn't take very long. he insisted earlier in class that he could come pick you up in his brand new family van they recently got, but you denied politely as you had to do a couple errands for your aunt before seeing matt.

a couple textbooks and your laptop filled your passenger seat alongside your purse and whatever you needed. you didn't know if matt smoked or not, chris did, but you didn't really expect matt to. you brought a couple blunts just in case.

you sent matt a small message stating you got to his house as you knocked the door three times softly. he hearted it before shortly arriving after to the door. his face flushed a soft red as he smiled at you softly, muttering a small "hi."

"hey, matt. just you home?"

matt opened the door wider for you to come in, which you did. looking around, it looked a lot more normal then your house did which was filled with bright colors and aesthetics that you and your aunt love.

"yeah, my parents are at work and chris and nick are out somewhere, i'on really know." he said softly as he shut the door. he trailed behind you as you started exploring and walking around, which he made no effort to stop you, but was rather intrigued.

"sorry it's not much. our house is kinda boring." he said as he scratched the back of his neck, a bit worried you were going to judge him. did he really think you were like that? he couldn't help himself but inhale the trail of strawberry perfume filling the air around the both of you.

you stopped your movements abruptly, which almost made matt bump into you. "matt, do you think i'm a horrible person or something? i love your house, no matter what. i'm actually quite fascinated with it. i've never been in a house which wasn't maximalist to the max, or filled with a range of every color. i like this simple look."

he searched your face for any hint you were lying, but your big eyes just looked up at him with the most genuine honesty. he smiled softly, looking away and running a hand through his hair. "thank you. i really appreciate it. do you wanna head up to my room now? i think you'll like it a lot."

you face brightened even more at the thought, eliciting a big smile across your face. "yes, of course! lead the way.” he nodded and turned, beginning to walk to the staircase as you followed after him.

his room was the complete opposite of what you thought it was. it was filled to the brim with comic posters, action figures, legos of every universe, so many stuffed animals, and everything matt couldn't express in words, but rather filled his thoughts.

"sorry, it's a lot. it's really nerdy too." he said softly, his voice shaking a bit. you looked around the room in awe, genuinely surprised he's embarrassed by this. you would love to have a room like this.

"it's not, at all. i actually love it so much. its so you. i like being able to see what you're interests are." he smiled again softly, his blue eyes scrunching up in his glasses as he ran a hand through his hair, again.

"thank you, berry. i really appreciate that. so, do you wanna start studying?" he sits down on his bed, sitting in a criss-cross position as he looked up at you through those damn glasses that you adored. he looked so hot like this.

"yep. i brought some papers i need to finish." you sat down, tossing your shoes off and sitting in the same position as him, but across him as you grabbed your bag, dumping it. his eyes skimmed through the papers, but noticed something he didn't expect.

two blunts sitting right next to each other.

you saw him look at them, and you chuckled softly. "didn't know if you smoked or not, but they help me relax and study better. thought i could smoke one here, if you're cool with it."

he looked up at you again, nodding a bit. "y-yeah sure, i don't mind. do you think it'll make my room smell?" he asked a bit nervously. his parents knew that chris smoked to help with his adhd, but he didn't want them to think he did it also.

you nodded, picking them up and looking for the lighter through your papers. "yeah, probably because it's a blunt and not a cart, those don't smell as much. but don't worry i got some perfume that makes the weed smell basically disappear."

his face seemed to understand but also didn't. "a cart- whats that?"

you laughed a bit again, rubbing his knee. "nothing you need to worry about." he nodded again, now directing his attention to a couple of your papers, trying to understand what he actually needed to help you on.

what he didn't notice though, was you holding one of the blunts up to your mouth and lighting it, and when he did, it was when you blew the smoke towards him causing him to cough a bit. "shit- sorry baby. are you okay?" he nodded, his coughing wearing down. what caught him again off guard was the name you called him. baby.

"yeah, i'm okay." you took another hit, now redirecting it to the door area before looking down at the papers. he seemed to notice your calmer demeanor and wondered if the weed actually did make you focus better.

he didn't notice himself staring at the blunt that was fiddling in between your fingers, but you did. "wanna hit?" his attention came back to you as his eyes opened a bit wide. "what? no-no. well maybe? i don't know how to!" he panicked a bit, making you laugh.

"you don't have to hit it. i'll help. you ever heard of shotgunning?" you take another hit, a smaller one now to help preserve it. "like the chugging beer thing?"

"well, yes. that's also shotgunning, but there's another kind. it's where i take a hit, but blow it into your mouth then you inhale and let it out. it'll get you high also."

knowledge of smoking was not something matt ever thought he would be learning, but he wasn't really complaining.

"oh-okay. yeah, we can do it." he said, waiting for the rest of your instruction. you smiled, moving the papers off the bed as you handed him the blunt to hold, so you wouldn't burn yourself. you sat back up right, taking the blunt back into your hand.

"okay, just relax, lemme do what i need to do. also, can i straddle you? it helps me actually do it right." he was taken aback a bit at the thought of you actually getting on top of him, but nodded. "y-yeah. sure. go ahead." he leaned back into the bed more as he stretched out his legs and you climbed on top of him, right above his cock.

he was praying that he wouldn't get a boner as he knew you would feel it, so tried to look elsewhere, now fairly interested in his poster of pokemon he got when he was 11.

you chuckled a bit, grabbing his face in your left hand, redirecting his face towards you. "it's not gonna work if you're not actually looking at me, matt." he muttered a small "sorry" as you lifted the blunt to your lips, taking a big hit before leaning down.

your lips touched his as he let out a soft gasp, allowing you to blow the smoke into his mouth. once you blew most of it in, you leaned back up, watching his face. "inhale, good, now exhale." he did exactly as you said, but letting out harsh coughs in result.

you smiled at him as he finally regained his breath, looking up at you. his face was flushed as a cherry, but he laughed a bit. "that was my first kiss." he softly admitted, but this time not taking his eyes off you.

"really? wanna have another?" you smirked as you leaned back down, putting the blunt back in between your lips as you let out a puff of smoke, filling the air once around you both again. you finally had finished it, burying it's end into the table next to his bed as he nodded.

you leaned back all the way down, reconnecting your lips with his. he was very patient with it and being gentle. he let his hands fall to your hips as the kisses deepened, a very noticeable poke in between your thighs now.

your tongue made it's way into his mouth, matt happily accepting it. for what was his first kiss, he sure was good at it. you couldn't help but notice the ache in between your thighs, right where matt was. you started absentmindedly grinding against him, causing matt to moan into your mouth as you smirked and pulled away, a string of saliva connecting the both of you still. his flushed face and lopsided glasses made you even wetter than before.

"y'ever had a girl do this to you before, baby?" you tease him a bit, obviously knowing his answer. he shakes his head softly, burying his forehead in your neck. "n-no." "feel good, huh?" he whined softly as your hand reached to his head, gently pulling his hair. "mm-mhm."

"need words, matt." you tug a bit harder on his strands, causing a even louder whine to come from his throat. "yes, feels good." you nodded, grabbing his head out of your neck and softly pushing it back down on the pillow as you kiss him again.

this time, he was more hungry. his kisses were intense, like he was trying to kiss you deeper despite the minimal space between the both of you.

grinding against him was easy, his boner was very evident through his sweatpants, and you grinding against him gave him pleasure he never knew could erupt in him.

“fuck- mama, i’m close” he whimpered a bit softly as his hands gripped your ass through your pants, his hands roaming every inch he could. “yeah? cum for me, matt. i’m right here behind you.” you moaned softly as your head fell against his chest.

you pushed your hips closer to his, your movements minimal but rather putting pressure on his covered cock and your covered ache.

“fuck! berry!” he whimpered loudly as a warm spot filled the space between you two. you looked down as the dark grey spot grew larger with every twitch of his cock in his pants.

“i’m almost there, matty. can you cum again?” his fucked-out look without actually being in you, was so hot. you don’t know when, but he took off his glasses and set them aside, now allowing you to see his slightly red, dilated big blue eyes perfectly.

you don’t know if it’s the high, but just looking at him made you cum faster against him than you expected. your orgasm came as a surprise for you, loud moans coming from your mouth as your head falls against his chest.

he came for the 2nd time right after. moans and strangled whimpers fall from his mouth, filling the room with even more pretty sounds. as you both caught your breath, you rested against his chest, as his fingers played with your hair a bit.

your clothes sticking to you because of the sweat made you ick and he could tell you felt like this from your movements, almost trying to take it off.

“do you want me to get you some new clothes? i need to change anyways.” he whispers to you softly. a nod comes from you as you roll off him, flopping to the other side. his pants had a very evident dark grey area from the combination of your liquids flowing through your clothing.

a small chuckle falls from him as he looks down. he stands up, but his legs are wobbly, causing him to fall back on the bed. “what the hell?” he mutters a bit as his legs become a bit tingly.

“just relax a bit more, this was probably the first orgasm you had that actually made your body feel different, right?” you whisper a bit as you rub his arm a bit.

he hums a bit and nods, taking your advice. once he finally felt like he could stand properly, he walked carefully to his dresser. he pulled out 2 of his shirts, and 2 new pairs of sweats, and 2 new pairs of boxers.

“i don’t have any underwear so are boxers okay?” he walks over and hands the clothing to you as you hand him his glasses, immediately bringing back his vision.

“yeah, thank you matt.” he nods a bit as he walks out of his room, changing in the bathroom. you stood up and changed into his slightly oversized clothing, but extremely comfortable.

he knocks a couple times against the door as you allow him to come in. you were already laying back down in his bed, and his heart swoons seeing you in his clothing. he lays down next to you, fiddling with his fingers a bit.

“do you want to study a bit more?” he asks randomly, causing you to laugh loudly.

“didn’t we learn enough? we’ll just do it later.” he nods, understanding. both of your thoughts are interrupted at the sound of the front door opening, and chris and nick’s voices flowing through the house.

matt looks at you with worry in his eyes, but you rub his arm, helping him relax. “don’t worry, just relax. can i stay over? it’ll help me give them a better reasoning as to why im in your clothes.”

he nods immediately. “sure. of course. i’m sure my parents won’t mind. what about yours?”

“nah, my aunt won’t care. i live with her right now. sometimes i go to my parents’ house in upstate.” you explain to him as a knock comes through the door. “hey matt? you home, man?”

chris’s voice is heard as matt stiffens up once again. “just chill.” he lets out a breath as he talks. “yeah, i’m here.” and that lets chris in. his eyes immediately fall to matt, but then look to you as he gasps a bit.

“matt’s here, and berry’s here… in matt’s room? what the hell…?” it was clear chris was a bit high just like you and matt. the scent of weed also hits chris’s nose as he lets out another question. “were you guys smoking?”

“hey, chris. i came because he was tutoring me, and i smoked a bit because you know how it helps me study better. it’s getting late so matt told me i can stay here, and he allowed me to be in his clothes.”

chris nods slowly, but seemingly understands. “ight. mom and dad are staying at aunt cathy’s house tonight, so it’s just the 4 of us tonight, okay?”

his sight goes between you and matt as both you and matt nod. “okay, i got another blunt for later if you and nick wanna smoke it with us.” chris nodded at you, glancing out matt’s window. “hell yeah, but when it gets a bit darker out. so like 10? it’s saturday tomorrow so we’re good.”

you look at matt for a confirmation to which he nods, once again. “yeah, okay.” he says softly. chris walks out, and you plop back down next to matt, rubbing his shoulder. “you okay?” he smiles and hums. “yeah, i’m good. that felt really good.”

“i’m glad. dry humping is good, but actual sex is amazing. we aren’t there yet though.” his eyes widen a bit at the thought of actually having sex, but relaxed a bit at your reassurance.

“mhm- okay.” you smile again, rubbing his cheek a bit. “let’s take a nap before you we have to spend the whole night with energetic nick and chris.”

he laughs, nodding. he dips his head into your neck, wrapping his arm around your waist, holding you tight. he knew you two weren’t official and didn’t know if you’d actually ever be, but he knew he trusted you.

#alexis talks #alexis shut up #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo fic #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturnslutz #=nerd!matt #=strawberry!reader #chris sturniolo fic #nick sturniolo fic

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dcxdpdabbles · 2 days ago

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#holiday request Hi, I love your writing! Could you please update either "Danny's grill", "Congratulations! It's Triplets!" or "Phantom's number 1 fan"? Please and thank you

Jason is once again reviewing the map of potential areas Alvin could have been operating in when his burner phone rings. He snatches it up before it can pass the fourth ring, pressing it gently against his ear.

He offers no greeting. It's a tactic he uses to ensure that whoever is calling him has permission to do so. If someone attempts to conform his informants' and allies connection with him, Jason is not about to give them away by speaking first.

"Hey Boss," Honeycomb's voice filters through, edged by that familiar overdramatic southern draw she did when working. Apparently, the clients like listening to her use her accent. "I got eyes on that doll you've been searching for."

Jason sits up straighter. "Where and when?"

Honeycomb is one of the working girls who's been with him since his return to Gotham. She was the first to sign up for his protection, long before he did the whole heads in a duffle bag thing, and was one of his best eyes and ears on the street in exchange.

He didn't know her real name or age- but he was sure she wasn't underage. He made it clear he wouldn't allow it. All Jason knew about Honeycomb was that she had run away from her home in the southern states with nothing but her pretty face, blond curls, hazel eyes, and the clothes on her back.

She was feisty and could charm her way out of most problems with her silver tongue. Her manipulation of her clients was almost an art form, and she could get any information out of anyone with a well-placed hand on the air and a sweet little "darling" on her grubby lips. He often thought she would have been a lawyer if life had been fair to her.

"Just now, on Ruby Street. He was with a man in his late teenage to early twenties. About six feet five inches, black hair, blue eyes, and Caucasian. Alvin was wearing black tights and a red hoodie. The man is in jeans and a white zip-up." Honeycomb rattles in one smooth report, the huskiness of her accent making her articulation more pleasant to the ear. "Seems they were doing a photo shoot."

Jason is already moving towards his bike, switching her call to his helmet. His stomach turns slightly as he grunts, "What kind of photoshoot?"

"Not that kind, Darling. Seemed more like a scavenger hunt, according to Alvin. They are finding specific landscapes and making posses that are answers to some riddles." Honeycomb responds. Distantly, her heels clicking against the concrete echo a little louder, letting Jason know she has wandered into an alley. "I approached Alvin when the man with him went up a fire escape to take a picture with a gargoyle. I offered him my service to him as a cover. Once he confirmed his name was Alvin and he was already with a client, I left before he could get the idea I was attempting to steal his work."

"Good job." Jason boots up his bike, flying out of his hideout without hesitation. He was still twenty minutes away from Ruby Street, but if the pair was going to be a moment, he could close the distance between them and find a trail to follow once on scene.

He questions as he flies through two lanes, ignoring the honking of angry divers. "How did Alvin look? He's supposed to be with one of my contacts, so if he's with someone, it might be a John roughing him up."

I'll deal with Victorian later. He mentally swears How dare he not tell me, Alvin went back to the field after hiding out for so long without a ounce of protection.

"The sweetheart doesn't seem hurt, but I can tell his client is one of those problematic kinds." Honeycombs sighs, the edges of unease slipping into her voice. "He looks at Alvin like he's in love."

Shit. It's never suitable for working folks to meet someone who "loves" them. Nine out of ten times, it was just a wacko who became violent the moment the prostitute so much as hinted that this was only a job to them. Jason had pulled out three women's bodies from the Brown River the last time one of those clients fell in love.

Jason pressed harder on the accelerator. "Are they still there?"

Honeycomb hums "The John is on the roof now, but Alvin is waiting for him under the street pole-Oh shit!"

Jason nearly slams into a nearby car at her sudden yell. "What happened?"

She doesn't answer, but he can pick up the sound of her running and her fast breathing. He knows she is getting out of danger because if there is one thing Honeycomb is as a person, she's a survivor. He wants answers but would rather she focus on getting herself safe first.

He meanwhile, concentrates on the phone calls and the vehicles he's flying between.

It's a few minutes before she gasps. "Sorry, Darling, I had to run. Batman was on the roof with the John."

What.

"Batman just appeared out of nowhere and threw a bucket of mud at the john. Alvin didn't seem to notice, but I did. Batman made eye contact with me, so I ran." She concludes, pushing through her uneven breathing. "I have to go, Darling. Hideout before the Bats lock me up."

"That's alright. Stay safe." Jason tells her, taking a turn sharply as she hangs up the call without another word. The second she does, he double-taps his helmet to connect to the Bat communications.

"Barbie. I need to know what B is up to now."

_________________________________________________________

Bruce watches the Fae shake the mud out of his face after he has scrambled down the fire escape. Tim was at his side in a second, using a handkerchief to gently clean up the Fae's face.

There were a lot of whispered words, but based on what Bruce could pick up from lip reading, Tim had no idea he was up here. He just assumed the Fae got caught up in a juvenile prank.

Oddly enough, that was primarily due to the Fae covering for Bruce.

It was rather disappointing the repealing spell hadn't worked, but the Justice League Dark the mixture of John's Wort, primroses, and marsh marigolds mushed together with water socked in iron during the full moon should have made it possible to force the contact with Tim to break down.

Of course, this had been a desperate attempt, seeing as all the JL Dark had been unsure which method was best when he asked how to get a Fae to leave a human alone.

A lot of debate went into finding a solution, but in the end, Bruce had chosen a mixture repellent. He had even decided to use some holy water and trough in blessed soil and blessed iron just to make it extra powerful.

The magic users had all assured him it would work as long as it touched the Fae skin while Bruce chanted Tim's full legal name. It had felt rather ridiculous dragging a bucket half the size of himself through the city, trying to spot where Tim and his companion were, and even more so when he had sprinted across the rooftop screaming.

"Timothy Jackson Drake! Timothy Jackson Drake! Timothy Jackson Drake!"

The Fae had been in the middle of taking a photo. He set up his camera on a little tripod and, after pressing the time, had run to face the city- back facing Bruce- raising his arms to form a triangle above his head. Based on fact the camera was slightly lower then the Fae's torso, Bruce could deduct her was attempting to capture himself making the triangle top of one of the most iconic buildings in Gotham.

Spear tower.

He waited only long enough for the flash to go off, so by the time the Fae turned around, he had a face full of mud.

It splat all over his front, covering every inch of what should have set Tim free. The silence followed was louder than anything Bruce had ever heard, even as the Fae calmly picked up his camera and scurried to the ground.

Bruce let him go, wondering why he had failed. Thankfully, it seemed Tim and the Fae were getting back in their car- not the food truck for some reason- and were driving away.

Tonight, Bruce would find its lair and get his son home because letting him take a relaxing vacation was alarming to the rest of his children.

He rushed to the Batmobile, climbing into the driver seat and taking off after the pair. As he was driving, he could have sworn Jason just passed by him, moving like the devil was after him.

Bruce wondered briefly if he should check in on his third oldest but thought better of it when he noticed Cass, Dick, and Duke driving right behind Jason on their own bikes. His children had each other backs.

A few hours later, Bruce stood before a large empty field. He had watched the Fae drive into it and vanish from sight. None of his machines could pick up any hint on where they might have gone, but he was reasonably sure there wasn't any teleportation involved.

Sometimes teleportation left some traces in the airwaves. It's how Bruce could track people using the boom tub or find the Flash whenever Barry went on a craze.

Bruce was thinking that this was the Fae's court and his magical home was being protected by supernatural means. He just had to figure out how to get in and Tim out.

As he was considering the field, a soft, distant roar made him reach for his weapons. He turns one hand poise for a throw, his trusted batarangs in between his fingers, only to become surprised when he recognizes the vehicles driving towards him.

It was his spare Batmobile and four bird-themed motorbikes. His children.

"B?" Dick questions after spinning to a stop and sliding right in front of Bruce. He lowers his window, looking at him with apparent confusion despite the Nightwing mask blocking his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Following a lead on the Fae. What are you doing here?" Bruce asks, lowering his arm but keeping his weapon. He could never be too sure this isn't a trick.

"Following a lead on Tim." Dick responds, stepping out of his car. Two other doors open, and out steps Steph and Damian, both looking posed for a fight. Of all his children, those two tend to be the most territorial and have not taken to Tim being a semi-held hostage well. "Oracle was able to track him through the city cameras after he popped up taking photos."

"hmm"

Jason jogged over to them with Cass not far behind. "Wait,, you got a lead on your cases too? We would check in on Victorian and see if he knew anything about Alvin."

He gestures to those behind him, indicating Cass and Duke, but the daytime hero is not paying attention. Duke was staring at the field, mouth slightly open as if in awe. Bruce straightens once he realizes Duke can probably see or at least detect the magical castle.

"Victorian?" Damian asks, crossing his arms. "Who is that?"

"The owner of the giant mansion we're standing in front of. He's one of my contacts."

"Ugh, not to make you feel crazy, Hoodie," Steph speaks up, placing a hand on the crook of her hip and waving her hand to the field. "But there is literally nothing there

"What are you talking about. This place is bigger than Wayne Manor."

Bruce heard about this. Guests who have been here before or have permission to enter can see glimpses of the Otherworld that Fae deals in. However, it is surprising to know Jason has already been in contact with the Fae before and has not been kept.

Did that throw a wrench in his theory of Tim and Alvin being the same person? Why would the Fae ask Jason to find Tim if he was in the creature's home?

Before anyone could say anything else, a giant gate entrance suddenly manifested mere feet from where Bruce stood. A soft creek was heard as it was thrown open, and a glowing woman in an old mail outfit floated just a foot off the ground on the other side. She eyed them all in an eerie, emotionless face before bending her own into a low bow. "Welcome. My King wishes to invite you in."

Well, that's not ominous at all.

His children shared a look between them, silently letting each other know to be cautious as they followed the floating woman. She led them down an impressive driveway that slowly gave way to a massive mansion.

Bruce fought to keep the surprise off his face. Jason was right. This place was more prominent and grander than his manor. It didn't just scream wealth. It screamed nobility; it screamed royalty.

The group walked into the main hall, some muttering thanks to the bowing woman who opened the doors. "Of course. The King stated that his home would always be open to Master Alvin's kin."

She vanished from sight like mist fading away as soon as they crossed the doorway.

Bruce's eyes instantly landed on the figure standing atop the grand stairs. Tim was gawking at them, wearing nothing but a long, seductive black robe with fluffy collars and wrists. The front of the rob was open, displaying a large amount of chest and thigh, but keeping the significant bits out of sight.

Thankfully.

His skin was glowing, his hair tussled stylishly, and a dozen red roses were in his hands. Tim looked like he was planning a romantic evening in his get-up.

"Oh," He said dumbly. "You're not Danny."

"What the fuck is going on" Jason demanded after a long period of silence.

"Um...I was planning on seducing my friend. What are you all doing?"

"Regretting waking up this morning," Damian demands, pressing a hand over his eyes. "Please get decent. My nightmares are horrid enough."

Bruce nods. "You were Alvin Draper and are romantically involved with the Fae. He seems to be treating you well. That's good."

All of his children stared at him for a long moment before the hall erupted with displeased noises. Bruce was taken aback.

Did none of them know any of this? It seemed obvious to him.

#dcxdpdabbles #dpxdc crossover #Danny's Grill #Part 5 #Dead tired #Tim was planning a seductive tatic for Danny #The Bats close in on Alvin/Tim #They found him!#Danny has a open inventation for Tim's family.#Bruce is the only one with a clue of what's happening and he is still somehow confused #Imagine going on a date and your dad throwing mud at said date

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cryptidbear · 3 days ago

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YES! YOU GET IT!!!

The angst of it all is just perfect, honestly.

the back and forth between his kids ending up as robins or vigilantes in general.

the fear of finding them dead like he did Bruce.

the fear of not returning alive to his kids like Bruce did.

But seeing younger him in them when they fight to be robin or anything else-

the same way he used to fight Bruce.

and he knows he can't keep doing it alone, knows Gotham needs a light he can't give to them now that he's Batman, something that only Robin could give.

but that fear is so deeply rooted that he feels stuck in place, unsure of what to even do.

I have some notes i wrote down back when i was brainstorming the au-

Jason wants to be a hero- he wants to fight alongside Dick. He wants to help Crime Alley- his home, and better it.

Dick's heart seizes in fear and he absolutely forbids it, a hard no. His foot is down. "I can't lose you too, Jason. I can't lose another family member, I can't watch someone I love die to crime another time. Just... grow up a normal kid. Please."

Jason is angry at this answer, his hands clutching into his hoodie as he shouts with tears in his eyes, asking Dick how he thinks he feels watching Dick go out all alone as Batman and coming back looking like a damned corpse? If Dick dies... then Jason is all alone again. He's afraid of another parental figure dying.

Dick is left reeling as the young boy storms off, his heart dropping into his stomach, stuck between a rock and a hard place, feeling like the weight of everything was finally crushing him.

But he doesn't take back what he says. It hurts, but he doesn't want to see Jason ever get hurt. He doesn't think he can handle it. He doesn't think he could survive it.

He's lost enough already, hasn't he?

And then one night, Jason steals Dick's old Robin costume from his early days from the display case, wrinkling his nose as he dawns the pixie boots. Because pixie boots, really Dick?

And he's sneaking out once Dick has left for patrol, long after the young boy was supposed to be asleep.

the suit is ill fitting but he feels light as air as he stumbles his way across rooftops, using his skills he'd learned while living on the streets to prowl unseen by Batman.

Or, at least he thinks he's being sneaky, until Dick is snatching him up by the bright yellow cape, and in a loud angry voice he's never had directed at him from Dick, the older male lets his anger gets the best of him. Yells at him on some random rooftop, all the emotions and fears he's kept bottled up for so long spilling out as he sees Jason in his old Robin suit.

He says things he doesn't mean, things he immediately regrets as he see's Jason's heart break and tears bead up in Jason's eyes.

watches with dread as the young boy just breaks down in a way he never has before right there on the rooftop, and before Dick can even apologize, the boy has run off, quick as lightning.

It takes two excruciating hours before he finds Jason hidden somewhere in Crime Alley, still sobbing and curled up, tucked away in some hidden corner, soaked from the rain.

Dick collapses in front of the boy and just draws him tight to his chest, covering the shivering boy with his cape and warming him up, his back against a wall and the tiny boy cradled in his lap, his head tucked beneath his chin.

they don't speak for a long while, silent as they both try to process their own emotions, as Dick tries to navigate something he never thought he'd have to.

"I'm afraid of losing you like I lost him." he admits, quiet in the wind as he holds the boy closer, almost desperately like he's afraid he'll disappear if he doesn't. "I just finally started living again... and i can't lose the one light I have."

its silent for a while once more, Dick weighing his options on what he should do,

Jason speaks up next, speaking of the way crime alley needed help, help that Batman couldn't give on his own. Things that he just couldn't understand without growing up there.

Dick listens to his son, listens to the passionate way he speaks, listens to how Jason opens up about Catherine, and about the gangs and how its barely livable there anymore.

Dick can't deny him anymore after that.

He breaks and gives in, a small, wet laugh leaving his lips. "There's no one else I'd rather be my robin." he whispers.

They don't discuss it anymore that night, Dick carrying the boy back to the manor.

They both end up with bad colds and Alfred scolds the both of them, but he doesn't leave the boy's side the whole time, trying to make up for his mistakes. for all the hurt he caused.

Once they're better, Dick lays out the rules, trying to find solutions to make them both happy.

School will be Jason's number one priority, and Jason can only do short patrols on weekdays, longer on weekends.

He would not go out until he had a few months of training, except to keep watch for Batman.

Dick would take him on patrol through crime alley, and they would work together to figure out what they needed to do to help.

He was not allowed on missions or to fight any super dangerous fights- no matter how much he wanted to. not until he was on the field for a long time, thank you very much.

Jason hates some of the rules, but he finally relents after a long time debating over it, knowing that Dick had some good points, even though he's never tell the man that.

Dick lets Jason redesign the robin costume to suit him better, and the first thing Jason does is add pants. he was really fucking cold in Dick's outfit and he didn't like it.

Jason becomes crime alley's Robin, recognized as one of their own. It starts to slowly blossom under his guidance, bit by bit over the years.

(one day I'll actually write this fully fleshed out as a fic and not just 3 am rambles, lol)

(and one day i'll write about the other kids too, i just haven't written past like, Jason and Tim meeting for the first time bc i'm brainstorming chapter by chapter oops.)

Lying awake at 5 am thinking of the au I planned out where Batman dies before Dick ever becomes Nightwing, so Dick becomes Batman and he ends up adopting all his siblings instead.

19/20 year old Dick Grayson staring down at a like 10-13 year old Jason Todd trying to steal his tires and understanding why Bruce took him home that day at the circus.

Dick Grayson staring at Jason who brought home a young Tim and feeling like he can never let Tim go, or maybe him finding the young boy taking photos one late night.

Dick finding out about (baby!) Damian and stealing him. That's *his* son now.

Him finding Cass and just accepting he has a daughter too. Doesn't even fight it anymore.

Duke? He just sighs and wraps the kid up in a blanket. Alfred's already got a room set up for him by the time they're back at the manor.

Eventually, Tim and Steph date and break up (she gets to finally have a good time as Robin PLEASE) but Dick gets said when she stops coming to family dinner. She starts coming again bc she can't stand the puppy dog eyes. She's his unofficial daughter.

Barbara and Alfred just watching all this go down and staring to place bets on when they think another shows up.

Dick but he just inherits his father's adoption problems.

Ft uncle Clark and aunt Lois with (baby!!!) Kon and eventually a baby Jon.

Ft an unholy amount of angst almost every damned chapter.

#batman #dick grayson #dick grayson as batman #dc #dc fanfic #rambles #cryptidbear writing #dc jason todd #jason todd #batman fanfiction #batfam #dc au #canon divergence #single dad!Dick au

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svtswhorehouse · 6 hours ago

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SVT : the daddy kink line — nsfw

Seungcheol: pls tell us something we don’t know, isn’t this one obvious. this man radiates so much power and authority, his aura practically SCREAMS daddy. you would call it straight off the bat before you two even started dating that he had the kink. the way he presented himself let you know it, but curiosity kills the cat right ??? (the cat being your pussy.) he wouldn’t even have to tell you. the word would just casually slip out of your mouth in a whine mid-fuck and he would stop for a beat before thrusting into you at lightning speed. ever since then, it became a name you would use every time y’all had sex and even if you wanted to let it go and quit using it, you just wouldn’t be able to help yourself from calling him daddy. not when he towers over you and makes you feel so damn good that you’re seeing stars.

Jeonghan: a flipping fucking tease. he would force it out of you for sure. leading up to it he would make jokes and subtle hints about calling him daddy, but you’d never think he would be serious about it. fast forward to you at his mercy laying on the bed completely bare and spread open for him. he would’ve been edging you for hours, his favorite past time — a sly smirk on his face as he holds off on letting you cum undone until he hears the very word escape from your mouth. you would refuse at first. not because you didn’t want to, but rather because you were far too stubborn to give in to him. jeonghan however has no problem with ruining your orgasm over and over again until you reach your breaking point and practically yell out the name with incoherent begs following it. that fucker would smile wide and big before faking sympathy and telling you that’s all you had to say if you really wanted to cum that badly. he would ruin your orgasm a few more times after that, just to remind you that one: he always gets what he wants, and two: to hear you call him daddy a few more times before he finally gives in to your desperation.

Soonyoung: hear me out — this man didn’t even know he had a daddy kink. soonyoung has definitely thought about it before, but pushed it to the back of his mind as he claimed it to be silly. it wasn’t until you were playfully teasing him one day in which the switch just flipped and he was like “damn, maybe i do have a daddy kink.” he would bring it up in the middle of eating you out. you were almost there, just needed a little push over the edge to bring you to an orgasm when he drops what he’s doing entirely. any other day you might’ve laughed in his face when insisted you call him daddy, but that night — the way he said it, he didn’t even ask for it. no, he demanded it. voice rough and stern, you just found the name slipping from your lips so easily in a desperate plea for him to continue his relentlessness on your sopping wet cunt.

Wonwoo: the thought of calling wonwoo daddy would cross your mind occasionally, however he has a sir kink and has never seemed to care about being called anything but. yes sir this and please sir that — but, you just can’t help but wonder if he would mind you calling him daddy. the opportunity arises when you found yourself on your knees infront of him one day, completely bare and ready to be good for him. he would ask you a question and you would answer with a lack of manners that he would remind you about. that was when you would strike. “yes daddy.” he was toast. you could tell he had to hold back a groan too as he was quick to skip everything else he would normally go through and instead get inside of you as fast as he could. “daddy huh?” he would ask, thrusting at an almost inhumane speed, bringing you to your orgasm much too quickly. you wouldn’t be able to do anything, but moan the word over and over again, only pushing him to fuck you harder. from that day on he ditched the sir kink. you awakened something inside of him he wished he heard from you a lot sooner. he was missing out all this time.

Mingyu: hear me out again — he can cook, he can clean, he can take care of you in more ways than one, he’s HUGE. yupppp, that’s a daddy right there. when he cages you in with his big muscular arms and overstimulates you to the point in which you’re teetering on the edge of subspace is when you find yourself calling him by the name. it leaves your mouth in a whine and it doesn’t faze him at all as he hums in acknowledgment and continues to nip at your neck. he becomes so attentive when you call him it, but still refuses to let up, the word fueling his need to bring you to another orgasm even if it would leave your brain even more empty than it already is. it’s not something he genuinely needs to hear whenever you two have sex but my god does it make his cock twitch and fuel his sex drive. once you use it for the night, you can sure as hell bet that you would be calling him daddy for the rest of the time you two spend fucking because when he hears it he won’t allow you to call him anything else.

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obae-me · 2 days ago

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The Devil's Desire

Nothing like trying to come back from a long hiatus with more Luci content. It's always him, I can't escape.

Warning: This fic contains a makeout scene but nothing explicit, so 16+.

Disclaimer: I am NOT bashing religion, nor am I calling out any specific faith, denomination, etc. It's written to be mostly generic on purpose, and is simply based on a real life experience I have had before. Don't take this seriously, please.

Word Count: 2.3k

With that out of the way, please enjoy some Luci romance!:

To lie with the devil is to wake up in hell. Tender lips stained with debauchery embrace nothing but lies. Tainted is the temporary vice. Lost is the lamb who leaves the flock. Damned is the devoured; the ones drowned in their own sins, plunged into the fires, entombed in brimstone. The cries of pleasure now ones of wailing. Of gnashing their own teeth. Made to suffer an eternity of eternities for shunning the light.

At least, that’s what they say.

And by they, right now you meant the very adamant woman standing in front of you, brandishing pamphlets like they were her very own Ten Commandments. If only 'Thou Shall Not Harass Unsuspecting People on the Street' were one of them. If you had your own rules, that would make it into the top five for sure.

Unfortunately, the lady slowly singling you out from the rest of the passers-by did not share your same sentiments. She was on a mission. Her mission? You. The goal? To wear you down and pester you long enough to join whatever group she was promoting. You’d seen these things enough before to see the danger signs in advance. A clipboard so they could take your name and number. A promotion selling tickets that you’d inevitably have to use your email to register for. All in an attempt to get your information so they could track you down in a less stalker-y sort of way.

“Oh, hello, dear. How are you today?” The hunter was closing in, two teens carrying signs at her side working on sequestering you- the weaker link- away from the pack.

“I’m good, how are you?” Damn your polite force of habit! Curse you, customer service default settings!

She grinned, knowing that if she played her cards right, she could probably keep you trapped here for a while longer. She spoke, and due to the survival instinct in your brain, you were capable of tuning her out for the most part. Something something, for the greater good, something something, special soul. They never meant what they said, or even if they believed their own words, it was undermined by their intentions. You’d been in this boat before. You kept waving your hand and nodding your head, explaining to her that you were busy and had someone you were meeting.

As you stepped backwards, she approached again. “Just one minute of your time! One minute could save your soul from Lucifer’s clutches!”

Without entirely meaning to, the drop of that name made you pause. Every once and a while, you forgot that the person you had come to know so well was such a prominent- albeit infamous- figure in the human world. Although, the way he tended to be described made him seem more like a boogeyman rather than a demon capable of Armageddon, scaring children across different nations and cultures into behaving. Perhaps you should be insulted on his behalf. Perhaps you should share some of the stuff you had seen. Tales of ivory wings and the blinding glow of a fallen angel whose twisted voice now told beings to Be Afraid. With a haunting beauty so enveloping, you openly fell further into the nightmare. That being said, you almost laughed in her face, wanting to tell her that the man she was so afraid of had been fretting over what kind of coat to wear this morning. Black was classy. But blue made his eyes pop more. But red was his color. Thirty minutes he pondered over this. “I’m not all that worried about it.”

Maybe you hadn’t contained your amusement as well as you thought you did, because for some reason, a righteous fire had lit under her sandy open-toed wedges. “You should be! Whatever promises the devil gives you, it will only bring you misery in the end! He cares nothing for you! Only HE can give you the joy you seek.” Her pointer finger raised up while she gazed to the clouds like she could peer into Heaven from down here. It was hard to tell if the dramatics were more for you or her. When she glanced at you again, she appeared spooked, clutching pearl hands at the ready.

An arm snaked around your waist, a hand settling on your hip. If the touch wasn’t so familiar, you would’ve jumped. “I don’t know. I think I bring plenty of joy, wouldn’t you say, love?”

Speak of the devil, in a quite literal sense.

Relief flooded your body, the tension you’d unknowingly built in your shoulders loosening. Even posing as a human, Lucifer was intimidating. At the very least, no one bothered to approach him out of the blue. This party buff seemed to extend to you as well. This lady seemed much less interested in trying to convince you of anything now. She cleared her throat and thought about potentially leaving you one last message of warning, but the man in your company wasn’t having it. He scoffed under his breath before he gestured to some of the other sign bearers in the group, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Strange weather today, isn’t it? You might want to help retrieve your things,” Lucifer announced. Eyebrows raised. The weather was quite nice today, albeit a little cold. Curiosity got the better of her. Just as the woman turned around, a heavy gust of wind blew over you all, making pamphlets and signs fly upwards and into the streets. Subtle. People scrambled. The lady hiked up her skirt and ran to the edge of the sidewalk. Cars screeched to a halt and honked, people stopped to gawk at the calamity, all the while, you felt yourself being tugged away.

Lucifer’s hand remained on your waist for a few minutes until he was certain the annoyance was far behind you. How much of a mess was the scene now? You turned your head to look over your shoulder, but only saw darkness as a gloved hand covered your eyes. A slight huff sounded off to your side.

“Leave it. This hesitancy of yours is what got you caught in the first place.” The hand moved from your eyes to the top of your head, making you look up at him with a twist of his fingers. “I leave you be for a few moments, and you once again find yourself tangled up in nonsense.” His narrowed eyes flitted over your form as if checking for signs of distress or injury, like the woman was a master of combat with pamphlets as her weapon of choice. Always the worrier that one. He’d have still a similar reaction if you found yourself lost in a grocery store…

A frown crossed over your face. “I did try to leave. How many times do I have to say ‘no thank you’ before someone leaves me alone?”

He tisked, his posture straightening as he fixed the scarf around your neck. The plush fabric was rubbed against your jaws. “There’s your first issue. Manners are all well and good until someone takes advantage of it. At some point, you have to drop the politeness and just say ‘no’. With your entire chest.” All of a sudden, he took two pointer fingers and manipulated your cheeks and lips to mouth some words. “N. O. Just like that. Can you say it with me? Nnnn…ooo…”

You narrowed your eyes a bit at his teasing, batting his hands away. “Knock it off, Luce…”

“Hmm. Maybe I should go get one of those eccentrics and tell them we changed our minds and—“

“No!”

“Ah, see, you are capable of it.” Someone was mighty pleased with himself. Anytime he found himself in a place where he was free from his responsibilities, he always got shockingly more playful. It would be cute if it weren’t so frustrating right now. His hand started running over your head. “Good job.”

“That’s not funny. You heard how they were talking about you… I hate listening to it.”

At your words, his teasing smile faded. Rolling his eyes, he lowered his hands. “I would much rather you save that vexation for yourself and how they treated you. All the humans in the world could despise me and I would not bat an eye.” Suddenly, his finger tapped your chin, trying to regain your full attention. “I only care what one of them thinks about me.”

Something about the sudden sappiness in public snapped you out of things. You turned a bit on your feet and started walking. “Did you check us in already?”

“I took care of it. Did you want to head in now or wander around the town a while?” His partial pout at ignoring his romanticism could almost be felt physically as he matched his pace with yours.

“I think I’ve had my fun for now.”

A hum, and his hand found your own. Clasping it, guiding you to the hotel as you both walked. It was astonishing how such a move cast a level of camouflage over you two. Suddenly, it was as if you both were a normal couple following the regular flow of foot-traffic, keeping each other warm in the crisp air with the heat of each others close proximity.

If the devil was so callous, why were his hands so tender?…

The rest of the walk was a bit of a blur. The people, buildings, spoken words, all unimportant compared to the sensation of having him near. The elevator ride jostled, giving you some more awareness to your surroundings. A short walk, a brandished key card, and he opened the door for you, the very picture of a perfect gentleman.

If the devil cared not for you, why would he bother with chivalry?

The “room” was huge, with an entire kitchen, walled off bathroom, closed off bedroom, and separate living area. This was more an apartment than a simple hotel room. The luggage was already brought inside, Lucifer’s portion already opened and put away. “Leave it to Diavolo to save you the biggest, fanciest suite in the hotel. If the tub has jets, I’m never leaving.”

“Do you expect the Avatar of Pride, the right hand to royalty, to expect anything less?”

“You’re funny if you think Diavolo wouldn’t give you something like this regardless of your gilded titles. Careful, your sin is showing.” You rolled your eyes and gave him a playful nudge.

He swiveled on his feet and poked your ribs. “You dare push me?” His voice rumbled in amusement deep in his chest. “Rather bold to do to such a dangerous demon.”

“Oh? Is that a threat? Going to take my soul? Well, you’re going to have to get through me first.” Fake punches flew through the air, striking at his chest and face with no force. Although you knew real punches would have the same utterly useless, painless outcome for him.

The world tilted, some of the air leaving your lungs in a giggling gasp as he scooped you up over his shoulder. He twisted, spinning around occasionally to leave you somewhat disoriented until you were plopped down on top of the bed, the whole mattress bobbing. Lucifer hovered over you. “You cannot hope to win, human. You’re mine now.”

Something in your chest fluttered at that. “So you win then, is it? How would you like my soul? Grilled? Blended? Braised?”

One of his hands worked on removing the scarf from around your neck, the back of his index finger tracing the outline of your chin. Just a breath away from being in contact. “Let me see…” Adjusting, rubbing his nose against yours, he waited for that tell-tale sign of permission, of you closing some of the distance. Temptation struck you, flooding in your heart. The plunge was too alluring. You bit of the fruit, and the devil wrapped his clutches around you.

Watch out for the schemes of the devil, who prowls like a beast, waiting for the moment to strike and devour- lips whispering inner desires. Raise up your guard to save yourself from being pulled into darkness, into his embrace, limbs aching and craving. For his claws shall tear and shred in eagerness, unable to contain themselves as they remove the body of protective vestments. He will take the very breath from your lungs. Crush the bones with a heaving chest. Partake of your flesh.

Lucifer raised his head for a moment, letting you both catch your breath. Your thumb traced his bottom lip, puffy and scarlet where you’d nipped it. Red was always a good color for him. That’s why you picked the crimson coat for him today. It matched his cheeks, the end of his ears, his longing eyes.

“Authentically,” he said, answering your question you felt you asked two lifetimes ago. His mouth covered yours as his broad hands squeezed your shoulders. “Slowly…” You could almost feel his hum in the back of your throat as he spoke between kisses. “Bit by bit…” His teeth grazed you top lip. “Over the course of a lifetime…” His affection moved on, venturing out and exploring your cheeks and gently over your eyelids. “So you’ll be right here with me… exactly like this… for a very-“ a searing mark was placed right under your earlobe, against a tingling part of your neck, “…very long time.”

To lie with the devil is to wake up wrapped up in braids of limb and cloth. Tender lips stained with last night’s embrace whisper saccharine words. Cherished is the temporary stillness. Beloved is the lamb who measures the meter of the heartbeat of the wolf. Blessed is the enamored; the ones drowned in their own affection, plunged into the fires of passion, entombed in each other’s chests. The cries of pleasure echoed with ones of mirth. Of declarations and vows held tight between their own teeth. Made to persist an eternity of eternities for existing as the other’s light.

For it's his desire.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x mc #obey me lucifer x reader

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vampiresbloodx · 2 days ago

Text

I wonder how good your hands feel around my neck.

pairings: Vi x reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings/contains(18+ ONLY): smut, Vi loves her some tits, clubbing, tattoo artist!vi, innocent!reader, porn without plot/plot what plot, top!vi, dirty talk, flirting, daddy vi, fingering

You have the absolute filthiest thoughts that come to mind while getting tattooed. Some you really can’t control, they just appear and you end up fixated on them for hours, before you know it, your session has ended.

Vi, short for Violet, is the first artist who’s ever tattooed you ever. With her pink hair, to her muscles that are covered in ink. You can’t help but wonder how strong she is, you know she’s talked about how she did boxing one time, she even tried karate, many forms where she gets to fight and use her hands.

You know she’s good with her hands.

When you first got your tattoo done by her, you focused on the way her fingers moved the entire time and how the art came alive on your skin, the needle not even bothering you. She was impressed at how long you can stay still.

You were slightly surprised yourself. You didn’t mind the pain, the pain had slowly turned into pleasure meeting halfway. That’s what made it all worth it.

You’d work more hours just to save more money so you could see her again, you thought at first you loved her style, how she worked, all that. But then you realised it was more than that.

Almost you wanted to stop going to her, and you did for a while, focusing on other things in your personal life. Actually trying to hang out with your friends and go outside instead of only going to work and the few shops and stores you went to. It was nice for a while, you did miss her, which felt stupid when she didn’t know you at all. She was just a girl that gave you a few tattoos, some of your best.

And then you saw her again.

You went out with a couple of friends on a saturday night, you couldn’t describe the shock you were in when you saw a familiar pink haired girl who was at the same bar as you. Even in a big city, it's strange how you can see the same faces again.

She was actually here.

You couldn’t contain how much your heart was racing, you weren’t even paying attention to anything your friend was saying, she grinned when she saw who you were staring at.

“Hey, is that-”

“That’s no one,” you interrupted quickly, looking away.

She smiled more.

“Just go and talk to her, it won’t be as weird since you two already know each other.”

You shook your head, “that would still be fucking weird and you know it.”

She shrugged, “maybe a little. But what if I told you she’s coming your way right now?”

Wait, what?

Before you could ask any more questions as you thought she was messing with you, it turns out she wasn’t. Just as you turned around to look where Vi was, she was really walking towards you, in your direction, maybe she might just walk past, not even notice you, maybe she saw someone else instead.

And of course your friend ditched you.

You heard your name being called.

It never sounded so much nicer coming from her mouth.

“Vi? Hey” you tried to act smoothly, as if you didn’t know she was already here.

“I have to say, you look good, like really good.”

Did she just?...

Were you actually dreaming right now?

“You look great yourself” you decided to say back, it didn’t seem like it would hurt if you flirted back a little.

She really did though. She wore black ripped jeans, loose tank top that showed a bit of her abs that you couldn’t help but look at shamelessly. God you were obsessed with her. You had an issue. But right now all you could think about was how her hands would feel around your neck as she fucked you silly.

You didn’t see how much closer she got to stand next to you, until your hands brushed against one another. You couldn’t focus. With the loud music blasting in your ears, the lingering touches. What did she want?

“Where are your friends?” she asks, her eyes never leaving yours, as you bite down on your bottom lip.

“She left, of course.”

“She left a pretty girl like you all by yourself?” she hummed, tilting her head to the side. “Can I keep you company for a lil while? I can make it worth your time.”

How could you ever deny her?

You followed her back to her place, you haven’t gone home with someone in a while, you’re happier it was with her than any other stranger.

She held your hand with a strong grip, leading you the way, making sure you were always with her. The silence between you both wasn't even uncomfortable, you actually enjoyed it.

It was the thrill of her that was exciting to you, you craved more.

You laughed with her as her hands roamed your body, touching you wherever she pleases and where you wanted her to be. You let her. And then you found yourself begging for more, it wasn’t long until she had you where she wanted you to be, on top of you as she teased you, slowly taking your clothes off.

“I hate to take these pretty clothes off, but I think i’d be more happy to see your naked body” she licked her lips, you made a noise as she raised an eyebrow at you. “Someones getting needy.”

“Please, just touch me” you whimpered.

She spread your thighs apart, keeping one hand a tight grip on them to make sure you don’t move as much. You liked it. The way she stared at you had you squirming.

“But i'm already touching you?” she teased, and so easily, she slipped a finger inside your wet pussy, moaning at how well you fit her, she wanted to fill you up.

“God baby, you’re soaking” she groaned, thrusting her finger in and out slowly on purpose, hearing you whine louder, she loved how vocal you got the harder and faster she fucked you.

Her other hand played with your tits, as she groped you and fondled with them, you were on cloud nine, why didn’t you do this sooner? You both wondered. She really wanted to taste you badly. She wanted to make you cum on her face, make you ride her, hear just how loud you can get.

She added another finger in and another, stretching you out as she imagined how fucking sexy you’ll look riding her thick strap on, as you cried sweetly.

“Who knew you were such a slut, behind how innocent you showed yourself to others” she chuckled. She felt herself getting more turned on, getting off on how wet you are for her. “You gonna come for me, baby? Make a mess on my fingers? I want you to come.”

You let out a sweet release of a beautiful cry, she wanted more. Your heart thumped loudly in your ears as your body shook. Still you craved her touch. You didn’t just want it to be over, and she didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

“I hope you’re not thinking of leaving me.”

“No, I need you.”

“Good girl, now come use me as a seat, would you?.”

#vi x reader #vi x you #vi x y/n #vi smut #vi imagines #vi fanfic #vi arcane #vi #arcane x reader #arcane smut #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane x female reader

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rhiannonsknife · 2 days ago

Note

I’ve never seen someone write Jackie and Rhiannon like you do! They’re such complex characters and you do an amazing job capturing that, even in just a one shot. Just wanted to tell you that I love your blog!

If you’re still taking requests, would you mind writing a Jackie one where her and the reader come out as a couple at Doomcoming like Tai and Van did? Maybe they’ve been together for awhile but Jackie wasn’t ready to come out until then? I think a plane crash would really put things into perspective lol!

-🦈

── MEET ME IN THE WOODS TONIGHT

— summary: doomcoming with jackie taylor.

— warnings: fluff. implied internalized homophobia. secret relationship. fem!reader. nsfw content. mdni.

the makeshift decorations sway in the breeze, the clearing glows with warm lantern light and, despite everything, despite the crash, the wilderness, and the gnawing hunger, there’s laughter.

for the first time in weeks, the mood is light, almost joyful in a way that’s more genuine than anything any of you have experienced since the plane went down.

you stand near jackie, your shoulder brushing hers just so as you watch the others dance. she looks beautiful tonight, as she always does: her crown of wildflowers slightly askew, her cheeks flushed from the drinks misty’s been passing around. she’s smiling, but you know her too well to think she’s as carefree as she looks: jackie has always been good at pretending.

you’ve been together for months now, sneaking touches and stealing kisses when no one is looking your way. she had made one thing clear from the start: no one could know. she’d framed it as self-preservation. “it’s not that i don’t care about you,” jackie had said one night, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “i just…i don’t want to make things harder for us out here”

so, you learned to love the mask she wears just as much as the girl jackie is beneath all her pretense.

you’d understood, or tried to; her fears weren’t all baseless. she was used to control, to the certainty of her old world where she’d been whs’ golden girl, the one everyone admired. out here, though, her carefully constructed image had been crumbling from the start. the others had turned on her in subtle ways; side glances, muttered comments, the slow loss of respect. she couldn’t risk giving them more fuel.

now, as you’re watching taissa and van kiss in front of everyone, something seems to shift.

it’s not a grand declaration; they just kiss, laughing against each other’s lips like they’re the only two people in the world. the group doesn’t stop them. some cheer, but no one judges. it’s all…normal. contrary to the events of the past weeks, but normal.

you glance sideways at jackie, expecting her to look away or maybe make a comment to cover her discomfort. but she’s watching them, just as everyone else is, her eyes wide, her expression both soft and unreadable. there’s no jealousy there, either, no scorn. just a quiet longing that makes your chest ache.

“jackie?” you ask gently, leaning closer so only she can hear.

she blinks, pulling herself back to reality, and gives you a shaky smile. “it’s nothing,” she assures quickly.

“are you sure?” you press, keeping your voice soft. “you can talk to me, you know?”

jackie’s smile falters. for a split second, she looks like she might say something. but then she shakes her head, looking away. “come on! let’s dance!”

you follow her to the makeshift dance floor, letting her spin you around with surprising enthusiasm. the two of you laugh, swaying surrounded by the other girls. for this short while, it’s easy to forget everything that comes with the looming uncertainty these days. but then jackie slows, her movements faltering as her gaze locks on yours.

“what?” you ask, unable to brush it off this time.

she hesitates, her hand tightening around yours. “i just…” she glances over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the crowd. no one’s looking at you, their attention scattered all across the clearing. jackie takes a shaky breath. “i don’t want to hide anymore,”

“jackie, you don’t have to-“

she cuts you off by cupping your face and pressing her lips to yours, as easy as it would only ever come to her behind closed doors and the comfort of knowing you’re unseen. the kiss starts tentative, like the very first time jackie had kissed you, with her hands trembling against your cheeks. when you don’t pull away, when you lean into her, your own hands finding her waist, she deepens it. it’s soft and warm and open, jackie’s lips moving with a kind of desperation that you feel all the way to your core.

the entire world around you fades, you don’t hear the murmured conversations and laughter that surround you. all you can feel is jackie, her hands moving to your shoulders, her thumbs brushing your jawline. when she finally pulls back, her cheeks are tinted in the softest shade of pink.

“jackie,” you whisper, breathless, your forehead resting against hers still, hesitant to withdraw.

“i mean it,” she murmurs, the side of her nose nudging yours. “i don’t want to hide anymore. not with you!”

her gaze flickers shyly to the other yellowjackets around you.

there’s a moment of quiet as the others catch on, realizing what they’ve just seen. it’s van’s loud whoop that breaks the silence. when jackie looks back at you, there’s something new in her eyes. relief, maybe, or pride.

you smile at her, your fingers squeezing her waist through the fabric of her dress. “i guess the plane crash really did put things into perspective, huh?”

jackie laughs softly. “yeah. something like that.”

she doesn’t step back. if anything, she moves closer, her hands sliding down to rest on your hips as you rest your chin atop her head and pull her into your embrace.

“come with me,” she murmurs eventually.

your heart skips. “where?”

jackie’s smile turns coy. she doesn’t answer, instead she takes your hand and leads you away from the group. the warmth of the fire gives way to the cool darkness of the woods, and then, once you reach it, the cabin door creaks behind you.

inside, the room is dim, for once completely empty with the team still celebrating outside. jackie turns to face you, her eyes catching yours in the low light. she doesn’t say anything, but the way she steps closer, her free hand reaching for the back of your neck, speaks volumes.

when her mouth finds yours this time, it’s slower, deeper, her movements no longer tentative. it’s not just about showing something to the others now. it’s about you, and her, and everything that had been unspoken until now.

jackie steps closer then, backing you up until you hit the wall. her hands move to your neck, fingers sliding into your hair. the full length of her body presses against yours, caging you in as the kiss deepens.

for months, she had to hide her desire for you. now that it’s all out in the open, it’s like a dam has broken. jackie kisses you desperately, all the pent-up longing of the last poured into the collision of your mouths.

you can’t help but gasp, struggling to keep up with the demanding motion of jackie‘s lips. they trail from your mouth, down the side of your neck, nipping and kissing hungrily as her hands tug impatiently on the fabric of your clothes.

“jackie” you pant with your head tossed back against the wall. “we- we’re still-”

she pins you harder to the door, one of her legs slipping between yours. for a moment you allow yourself to get lost in the friction against your center, your hips rutting back and forth instinctively.

then, finally, you repeat, “jackie!”, breathless when she breaks away from you. her hazel eyes are dark, her chest heaving with the force of breath.

“did i do something wrong?” she asks, her voice quieter now, a hint of insecurity threading through the haze that’s come over you both. “i’m sorry, we don’t have to-“

you cut her off before jackie can overthink it.

your hand finds hers, squeezing just enough to ground her. the others could come in at any second, loud and stumbling, forcing you back to your new ‘normality’. you don’t want to forget this, don’t want to let the moment pass.

“attic. now”

you’re on top of her. chest to chest with a bare body that arches up against yours to meet you halfway.

jackie’s arms are draped over your neck, her ankles locked around your waist, pulling you in close. impossibly close, because you don’t think it’s possible to be any nearer unless you merged into her completely, lost yourself in the press of her skin, the curves of her body against yours. maybe that’s exactly what she wants. maybe that’s what you both need.

to forget where one ends and the other begins.

your clothes are scattered all around the makeshift bed you’re sharing. her dress, neat and beautiful, crumpled up on the dusty attic floor alongside your own.

it’s the most intimate you’ve ever been together: in all the months you’ve spent dating in secrecy, you never got jackie like this. you’ve imagined it, sure, pictured her at the absolute crack of dawn after making sure the other girls were definitely asleep, with a hand shoved down your pants. but even your poor attempts at masturbation in this absolute hellscape could never compare to having her underneath you.

you know, from the occasional stories she’d tell you -secrets, exchanged in hushed whispers- that jeff hasn’t either. that she was never quite ready to go all the way with him, never felt comfortable enough to.

with you, that has changed. jackie seems very comfortable now. she’s reassured you at every shy check-in between layers of clothing slipping away: “are you sure?” you’d asked when your fingers pushed up the hem of her dress. “is this still okay?” as you struggled with the clasps of her bra.

now, with the restrictive clothes gone, her lips are everywhere; against your own, the side of your neck, wandering as low as they’ll go in your current position, never getting past the swell of your breasts. jackie pulls you in absentmindedly and traces soft lines up your naked spine as her lips move down your throat. one of her hands finds yours, threading your fingers together.

this is different from all the stolen moments and careful touches you’ve shared so far. there’s no fear of being heard, no risk of being interrupted. jackie is different, every soft sound raw in a way she’s never been capable of before.

her hands roam with purpose, memorizing every single inch of your skin. her mouth traces a path from your collarbones to your shoulder as she whispers “i need you” with both her eyes closed. you can’t stop your hips from grinding into her all over again, bare skin sliding together.

you break away, blinking down at where jackie is sprawled out. “are you sure?” you manage. she bites her lip, but nods determinedly.

for months, she’s been so focused on what she should need -the validation, the approval, the status- that she’s almost forgotten how the simple act of being wanted feels like.

“okay...okay”

jackie strokes over your bare shoulders, her thumbs digging into the skin there. “can i-“ she begins, blushing under your attentive gaze. “can i touch you?”

when you nod, she brings both of her hands up to your chest. you exhale shakily. this is all so new, so sweet, even in the mess that you’re in. it’s a blur of shy touches and breathy murmurs of approval, and, for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re happy. truly, undeniably happy. happy that it’s jackie. happy that she’s the one you get to share this with.

her thumb brushes over your nipple and you arch your back forward, a quiet moan drawn from your lips. the floorboard creaks under the weight shift and you laugh into each other’s mouths.

“you like that?”

your eyes flutter shut and you manage another nod. as if to test it, jackie repeats the motion, applying just the right amount of pressure.

“oh-“ you gasp, your full body shuddering.

jackie smiles, satisfied. she leans up again, her hips jerking against your leg as she moves to press kisses to the hollow of your throat while simultaneously playing with your nipples. only when she lets out a soft noise of her own, do you realize that your thigh is pressing right between hers with the way your bodies have moved together.

momentarily caught off guard, you breathe out and jackie opens her eyes to look up at you. eager to get a similar reaction out of her, you experimentally flex the muscles against jackie’s cunt, grinding carefully. her hands grasp the thin sheets beneath her body instantly, her fingers curling up in the fabric tightly. her head falls back as she gasps: “oh my god”

“does that feel good?” you drop one hand to hold her hip.

jackie nods, her jaw slack when she gives her hips a couple of gentle rolls, dragging her wetness over the length of your leg. you watch in awe when the first actual moans spill from her lips, her voice unusually high-pitched.

you press your forehead against jackie's again, anchoring yourself to her like you're afraid of losing this moment the second there's space between you. her breath is warm but uneven, ghosting over your lips as she tilts her head, her fingers threading through your hair to pull you closer.

her open mouth brushes yours, barely, just enough to make you dizzy and press your lips to hers.

the temperature around you is rising steadily as jackie moves against your body, your breathing tangling together.

this is better than anything you’ve ever imagined already, but it is not enough.

“jackie,” you whisper. immediately, she stops the movements altogether, her brows raising in concern.

“are you okay?”

her attentiveness makes you smile. “more than okay, i just-“ you bite your lip. “i want more,”

“oh”

“is that okay?”

jackie smiles in response, shifting backwards and maneuvering you both into a new position. after some more rustling movement on the blankets, you find yourself kneeling face to face with her. the way jackie’s eyes fall to your bare chest doesn’t go unnoticed: they widen as if she’s still struggling to believe that any of this is really happening.

she takes your hand in hers, gently pressing it against the valley between l own breasts so you feel the racing of her heart against your palm.

“touch me,” jackie instructs. “and let me touch you too?”

suddenly, your position makes a lot more sense. you don’t have to be told twice. instead, you bite your lip and nod. “please”

both of you reposition your knees so your legs are spread wider, and jackie’s delicate fingers trace down your front. when they reach the hemline of your underwear, you watch her, catch the way her mouth falls open as her fingers brush over the wet patch on the fabric.

“you’re so wet” jackie murmurs in awe.

hearing those words from her is enough to set you into motion too. first, your jaw drops and you feel yourself clenching around nothing, painfully aware of the emptiness where you want to feel jackie the most. then, after a soft cry of “touch me,” you drop a hand between her thighs. jackie’s arousal is damp, soaking through the lace of her panties as you cup her carefully.

she moans your name, and her head falls against your shoulder while she simultaneously fumbles with your underwear and pushes it aside. you copy jackie’s motions, panting as you look down the little space that’s left between your bodies.

you don’t even have it in you to feel embarrassed about the moan that falls from your lips when she finds your clit and starts circling it with her index finger.

“god, jackie-“

“it’s okay,” jackie promises, her free hand cradling the back of your head. “you- oh!”

whatever she was going to say is cut short when you press your fingertips against her clit, rubbing it the same way you know you like. judging by the sharp intake of breath through her nose, it seems to be working for jackie too.

she’s the one to pick up the pace first, rubbing quicker circles. you can feel your thighs trembling already, struggling to support the weight of your body as you try to focus on touching jackie too. her wetness glides against your fingertips, practically dripping from her. occasionally, you dip lower, where her arousal pools, so you can gather it and bring it up to jackie’s stiff clit.

when she feels you there, she leans back, her pupils dilated as she looks at you in the dim light of the attic. her fingers press against your entrance. “can i?” she breathes, sounding surprisingly pleading for someone who’s just asking to touch rather than be touched. in response, you do the same for her: a singular finger toying at her throbbing hole.

when jackie pushes two of her own into you, you immediately follow suit, shuddering as she slides in with ease. your moans mingle together in the thick air, only half aware that, if any of the others come back inside now, they will definitely hear you through the floorboards.

“more,” you whine.

jackie pulls her fingers out slowly at your request, until only their tips are still inside, then pushes them back as far as they’ll go, tearing a soft cry from the back of your throat. “oh, jackie!”

her own walls throb around your still finger -which you have almost forgotten about until you feel her squeeze it. weakly, you curl it forward against jackie’s g-spot, trying to make up for your lack of movement. her eyes roll back in her head instantly.

"oh-“ she whines softly. “oh my god-“

you manage some gentle thrusts into her before you slide in a second one. jackie easily takes it.

regardless of your efforts, she doesn’t stop moving and her thrusts don’t falter. jackie, unlike you, keeps up with ease, her fingers reaching deeper than your own ever did. when she curls them in a come hither motion, you reach for her and jackie pulls you in closer, pressing her lips against yours to stifle your sounds.

it doesn’t take long at all until you feel a knot forming in your abdomen, tightening with every press and thrust.

when you part from her to catch her eyes, there's a string of spit connecting your mouths. the sight, the sensations, the knowledge that you’re hers in a way not even the wilderness can undo is all so much, and enough to have you on the edge of the first orgasm in months.

you know exactly what it’ll take for her to finally make you cum. and, even though her touch feels too good for you to string together coherent sentences, you manage a quiet: “jackie, god, i’m close!”

jackie, bless her, seems to understand: she finds your clit with her thumb while still pumping her other two fingers into you, and rubs it just like she did before, studying your face for a reaction.

"right there!“ your head lulls back, each breath coming high-pitched and every muscle tense. your hips rock against her hand and she starts circling your clit faster, adding just the right amount of pressure.

that, and her other hand sneaking up your body to roll your nipple between two of her fingers, is all it takes.

“jackie-“ you never get to finish what you were going to say. instead, you feel your orgasm washing over you in pulsing waves. a breathless moan dies in your throat when the world around you shifts out of focus and your thighs shake violently around her wrist.

just like that, you come, coating her fingers in your release as your legs give out beneath you. somewhere through the sensations, you hear jackie’s whine when your fingers slip from her, but you’re still too caught in the pleasure to really care.

finally, when it fades, you open your eyes to look up at her. jackie is panting and removes her hand from between your legs. she’s still kneeling over you but is quick to settle down in your lap now that you’re no longer holding your weight on your knees.

“here,” she pants, wrapping one arm around your shoulders as the other guides you back between her thighs. you know what to do without any more instructions: you give yourself to her, letting her use your fingers to get herself off too.

jackie slides down onto you, jaw going slack as you slip into her with ease. you hold her by the waist to support the gentle rocking motions that make the floorboards creak.

her nails dig into your skin, leaving half-moon shapes on your shoulder blades, and she cries out quietly. you watch the scene through heavy-lidded eyes while jackie rides your fingers, getting closer and closer to the sounds of skin slapping against skin. she picks up her pace until she’s practically bouncing on top of you, her chest heaving erratically.

jackie is beautiful, you knew this about her already, but -as you watch her cum- you doubt anything else could ever compare to this sight: she pulls you closer so that her mouth is right by your ear and her face is buried in the crook of your neck, repeating your name like a prayer, not stopping even as her body tenses.

her fingers clutch at you desperately, as if you're the only thing that's keeping her grounded, but she doesn't stop. doesn't let up until she's all spent and collapses into your arms. you hold jackie through it, pressing your lips to her temple, your hands steady where she needs them most.

it takes long until you’ve both fully recovered. neither of you recalls how you ended up lying in the messy sheets, with jackie’s head resting on your chest and your fingers combing through her hair. she has her arm draped over your waist, gently stroking across your side. you don’t speak.

eventually, she shifts, pressing her face further into your chest. “we should probably go back down,” jackie murmurs, though she makes no effort to move.

you hum. “do you want to?”

she’s quiet for a moment before shaking her head. “not yet,”

you smile, letting your hand settle on her back. “then we won’t,”

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