#i do not think this is that time and place. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goldfades · 2 days ago

Text

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

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 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

770 notes · View notes

jobean12-blog · 3 days ago

Text

Don't Be a Tease

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: You and Bucky are texting back and forth while he's on a mission and you decide to tease him a little...

Author's Note: The new Thunderbolts trailer has me so excited to see Bucky! I can't wait! And this idea is nothing new but I love getting him riled up! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! PS Italics are text messages :)

Warnings: fun flirty tension and mostly smut, fingering, oral (f rec), edging, orgasm denial, choking, p in v (wrap it up kids), Bucky is soft in between it all

‘It’s really unfair that you’re walking around like that and I’m not with you…how many women have approached you so far?’

You stare at your phone screen, watching the three dots until his text pops up.

‘The only woman paying any attention to me right now is Yelena and it’s only because she has to. Ha.’

‘Nice try. You look hot. I want to come to the party…’

‘Don’t you dare leave the apartment doll face. You know it’s not safe and besides, I can’t concentrate with you around…you’re very distracting.’

‘HEY!’

'❤️😘I love you.'

‘Love you too. Be careful and come home soon.’

‘Always doll. I can’t wait. Miss you.’

‘Miss you more.’

~picture~

Bucky stares at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen as the muscles in his jaw tighten and shift. He let’s out a low growl, startling an older woman that happens to be walking by.

His hand grips the phone tighter and he licks his lips with a strained exhale.

“Barnes. We must go. It’s time,” Yelena says, surprising him.

He makes a slight jump and her lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“What?” he grunts.

“Nothing,” she responds her smile widening. “Let us get this over with so you can get home to your girl. Da?”

He nods and glances at his phone one more time before he slips it into his pocket.

You don’t bother waiting for an answer after sending the picture and place your phone down on the bed to reach for your book. It’s hard to concentrate when all you can think about is him, but you do your best, letting the words on the page whisk you away for now.

By the time Bucky arrives back home you’re half asleep, your eyes heavy and the words on the page blurring together.

He barely makes any sound as he unlocks the door, his footsteps the only indication he’s headed toward the bedroom.

The light from the hallway filters into the room but his broad frame blocks most of it, hiding him in shadow.

“Bucky,” you whisper and sit up, now fully awake.

He moves toward you with purposeful steps and stands at the edge of the bed, his eyes raking over every inch of you.

“Doll,” he murmurs, remaining motionless, taking in every hint of lace, every tiny bow, and every curve of your body.

You sit up and kneel on the bed in front of him, sliding your hands up and down his chest. His fingers twitch at his sides and you lean closer, brushing the hair from his face.

He grabs your hips and drags you into him, the hardness in his pants digging into your stomach. You let out a surprised gasp that turns into a moan he swallows with his kiss.

When he breaks away from your lips, it’s only so he can whisper in your ear. “Do you like teasing me doll?”

You nod with a shiver, clutching onto his shoulders.

“I..” You struggle to get the words out as his lips trail down your neck.

His long finger hooks under the strap of your lingerie and he traces the calloused pad along the curve of your shoulder.

“Mm,” he hums, sliding his hand down your stomach and between your thighs, pressing the thin fabric of your panties against your wetness. “So wet for me and I’ve barely touched you.”

Your hips jerk into his hand and he circles your clit with a featherlight touch.

“I’m gonna return the favor doll.”

“Bucky,” you whine, barely registering his threat.

His mouth curves up as his gaze darkens, satisfaction mingling with the heat of desire. You tug futilely on his bow tie, desperate for more of his skin but he stops you with a firm hand to your wrist.

“Keep your hands to yourself for now.”

Your mouth falls open with a defiant protest, but he interrupts you. “Or I’ll bind you and stuff my cock in your mouth to keep you quiet.”

A small gasp is all that escapes your parted lips before he covers them with his, carefully and deliberately unhooking your bra and pulling it off your body. Your stiff nipples brush against the soft material of his tux, building the tension about to snap in your body.

His finger continues to tease between your legs before he drags your panties down to your knees. They stop there, the bed preventing him from pulling them off any more so instead he gives them a sharp tug and rips the fabric from your legs.

“You could have just…”

His kiss silences you again and he bites your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

At the same time, his finger slides inside you, slowly pumping in and out before he adds another. You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as he pushes you down onto the bed and settles between your legs.

Like a man starved, his tongue moves against you, his fingers still buried deep, and a cry of his name tears from your throat.

Your legs try to close reflexively, but his grip keeps them wide open. He isn’t slow and easy and when you look down at him, still fully dressed, head buried between your thighs, you feel your release build.

His tongue finds your clit and you urge him on with a gasped, “more.”

“Who said you could make any demands doll face?” he murmurs into your skin.

“But…”

He dips his head again and you lose all train of thought, legs shaking, pressure building. You rock your hips toward his face and feel his smile. You’re so close, your stomach clenching and he pulls away.

“No! Bucky please! Let me come!”

“Doll,” he warns. “You’ll come when I tell you to.”

He slides up your body, his lips and chin wet with your arousal, brushing them across your mouth and letting you taste yourself. You kiss him back, raking your fingers through his hair and then down his back.

His fingers are back between your legs, two sliding inside you as he swallows your moans with this mouth. You buck into his hand and when he presses his thumb against your clit you pull away from his lips and arch your back.

“Bucky!” you cry out.

He pushes a third finger inside you and your legs tremble at the pleasure and sensation of being stretched. You can’t catch your breath, his thumb still working over your clit as his fingers fuck you.

Your body locks up and you clutch at anything you can, his back, the sheets, his ass and then his fingers are gone.

“No,” you beg with a whimper.

“I told you…I’m going to tease you back.”

“This isn’t teasing…it’s torture!”

His touch is gentle as he traces the line of your jaw, passing his fingertips over your swollen lips before kissing them.

“Should I stop then? I can go get changed and we can go to bed if you like.”

“Bucky…” you groan with impatience.

“That’s what I thought doll face.”

Your breath comes out unevenly as you watch him sit up, take off his jacket, and undo his pants. His cock springs free against his abs and he wraps his fist around it, pumping slowly as he lowers himself over you.

He teases your entrance, sliding himself through your wetness and bumping your clit with every roll of his hips. You squirm beneath him, trying to line yourself up so he can get inside you.

“So needy,” he whispers into your neck.

With an incoherent whine you wrap your legs around him, and he finally starts to push inside you. You struggle to breathe through the stretch but he pushes in more, making you take him deeper, and your eyes flutter closed.

“Open your eyes. Look at me doll.”

You obey and snap them open, his hips thrusting to bury the last of him deep inside you.

“You feel incredible. I can’t get enough,” he murmurs.

He keeps his pace steady, each languid movement setting your nerves ablaze with an unhurried and unrelenting build up.

His eyes focus on your face, and he smooths his metal hand up to your throat, circling it with little pressure. You clench around him with anticipation, and he groans, his grip tightening.

Everything fades around you as he squeezes harder, restricting your air flow. All your other senses dull, leaving you with just the heady sensation of his hand around your throat and the rapture of him driving into you.

Your mouth opens to get air, only letting the barest amounts in as your heart hammers against your chest. His blue eyes are fixed on yours, entranced with your every reaction. His thumb caresses your neck, the gesture so tender it makes your whole-body shiver.

He releases you just as his warm breath fans your skin and he shifts to kiss the spots on your neck where his fingers left a light print. You suck in a large gasp of air, your back arching.

He swears, his hips now snapping forward in rough, uncontrolled thrusts. His metal hand moves between your legs, working over the spot you need him most.

“Come for me doll.”

That’s all it takes for you to let go, spiraling into bliss, your entire body shaking beneath him with the force of your orgasm.

He doesn’t stop driving into you, his lips parted with his heavy breathing and needy moans rumbling out.

“Fuck doll,” he grunts, and you feel him pulse and spill inside you.

He drops forward, his hands on either side of your head as he kisses you softly.

“Should I make you come again?” he breathes, hips still rocking slowly.

You sigh out his name, wrapping your arms around his neck and sinking into the mattress. After a moment, he shifts his weight, pulling out of you to lie down and curl you into his chest. Your head falls to the crook of his neck and silence settles as he skates his fingertips along the curve of your spine.

“Are you okay?” he asks, softly pressing his lips to your forehead.

“Mm hm,” you mumble out and nuzzle closer.

“Maybe you’ll think twice about teasing me when I’m on a mission.”

Your lips meet his neck. “I can’t wait to do it again.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #thunderbolts #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes smut

628 notes · View notes

prael · 2 days ago

Text

Day 12: Three Shades of Sin

Le Sserafim Kazuha & Yunjin & TripleS Xinyu

words: 11,736 12 Days of Praelmas Masterlist

Look, you know this story starts with the way Xinyu has her fingers threaded beneath Kazuha's jaw, her lipstick smeared off in bits and pieces, but that’s not actually how it ends. It’s a slow descent; watching your girlfriend kiss someone new is a beautiful disaster that never really loses its lustre, and the truth is, there’s no moral at the end of this tale - the closest you’ll get to something cathartic is this:

Yunjin grinning at you, sunshine-bright and wickedly gorgeous. “You gonna invite us in, or what?”

First things first: the bar is packed - oh, it's always packed - but especially so on the nights when Kazuha performs. It's not a burlesque club, not really; in theory, it's not all that much more than an upscale lounge for yuppies with more money than they need, trying to pretend they're living sophisticated lives with a splash of debauchery on the side.

It's packed, obviously, because they're getting a little more debauchery than expected tonight - but all the familiar faces are there: the grad-school crowd who treat this club like the neighbourhood dive bar; the pretentious A-list types who claim to hate this kind of thing but always seem to show up anyway; the trust-fund kids and their vices and habits; the semi-locals, like you. They’re the mainstay: you know their drink orders, what they’re into, whether you’ve gone home with them before. You know who is dating who. Who's got a looser distinction between romance and just fooling around. Who got fired. Who's always fucked up beyond all help. You know the girl sitting at the end of the bar nursing a cosmo and waiting for you, alone.

She'd come to see Kazuha perform like everyone else.

"You missed my boyfriend," Xinyu says to you, just shy of winking. She looks beautiful - she always does, of course, but this time: she's wearing black leggings and a crop top that shows off the cut of her waist, her toned abs. The skirt is so small it's basically an accessory to how she's got her dark hair pinned up into something half-bedroom, half-backstage-chic, hoop earrings that dangle just above the slope of her neck.

"Did I?" you reply, coy. It's not flirting - or maybe it is, you're not sure.

She tips her head, cheek resting delicately on her knuckles. You end up staring at her mouth; the words coquettish and prurient and absolutely, unquestionably fuckable are swirling around your brain. "Yep," she says, and her lips curve beautifully. "You did."

Xinyu turning up the dial until she's impossible to resist is pretty much standard-operating-procedure here- it's sort of like this place runs through her blood. She's claimed ownership of it for herself.

"It's too bad," she says, drumming acrylics on the countertop. She shoots you a look that's all bedroom eyes: that drowsy, liquid-lidded kind of want that tells you she'd have her head tilted back against your pillows in less than a few minutes if you asked. "I think you would've really gotten along."

"Guess I'll just have to settle for his girlfriend." You lean closer to her, conspiratorial. "This is fun. What else are we doing tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, you know." She stretches long and languid, satisfied. "Same as usual." That means dancing - some partying, probably lots of drinking, flirting. You're going to take her home and pin her wrists to the pillow above her head. You don't mind any of that - it's become your life, these last months, too. You know the routine here like you've known it for years.

"Want something to drink?" you ask her, and Xinyu considers you. Like she's going to pounce.

"Not really," she says, and then her chin fits into the dip between her thumb and pointer finger. You get closer. "Think I'm thirsty for something else." There's nothing left of the distance between you, and you're not kissing her yet, not yet - but the tension is making a point of shuddering and cracking.

All that promise of something more.

"Don't let this go to your head, but." Xinyu reaches out a hand. You play into the script; you take it and bring her knuckles to your lips. Her wrist smells like the perfume you bought her a Christmas ago. You kiss there, too - for a split second. "I love my boyfriend. He's great." Your eyes dart to hers again - she's always watching, waiting for the attention to come back her way. "But sometimes girls just hit differently, right?"

"See anyone in particular?" you say, still nonchalant, while Xinyu hooks a fingertip onto the neckline of your shirt.

"Oh," says Xinyu. Her grin is devilish, dangerous: like she'd carve right through your throat. "That's cute of you. Like, you really wanna know, hm? I have a list."

"How long is it?" You raise an eyebrow, feign boredom. She likes the challenge.

"Depends on the night."

"But I'm at the top," you continue, unabashed - your usual brand of charming. "Right?"

Xinyu laughs; it's a delight, musical and precious. You'd listen to it for hours if you could.

"You already know, honey." Her nails skim your neck; they catch in your hair. The strands fall over the silver around her fingers. "Top of my list, and everyone else's, too."

"Nope." You lean even further over the bar, stealing the inches, taking them for your own. "Not tonight."

"I don't share." Xinyu taps your nose, prim, smirking. Her eyes are shining, brimming with energy - you can't look away from her. She's intoxicating. She's beautiful. "He wouldn't like that anyway."

"Oh, come on. That sounds like a 'him' problem. Right?"

There's a raucous chorus of laughter from across the floor: people coming in from the cold, wanting to see the show, see a gorgeous girl in next-to-nothing strut her stuff up onstage. You watch as Xinyu's eyelashes flutter, delighted - she's waiting for something to begin; this is a ritual that repeats, the fervour starting low and ending high.

And it starts, and it ends, always, with you looking at her.

"We'll see," sings Xinyu, and she twirls on her stool, one leg neatly hooked over the other. The bar erupts into thunderous applause - the lights dim, and Kazuha emerges onstage.

See, the club isn't normally about stripteases - sure, some girls dance - but this is still a place with bottle service and $18 cocktails, not one where dancers make a show of stripping out of their lingerie. And it's not like you care much for how people try to make themselves seem better than they are, really: if you wanna be trashy, fine. If you want to keep up appearances, put on some kind of show like you're worth a dime more than anyone else out there, great, fine, do that. This place may be the latter, but in the end, it's all the same; everything falls apart once the night sets in. Everything stays messy, no matter which box you paint yourself into.

That's a long preface to say: you're just not expecting her in the slightest.

To be honest, most nights aren't all that exciting - there are people to remember, drinks to mix up, tabs to close and mouths to kiss, sometimes - but mostly, there's not a lot worth mentioning. When people come into the bar - the people who are new, the people who think that this is an opportunity for the night to turn interesting - you look up, size them up, wonder who they're going home with, if you're interested at all. More often than not, it's none of the above.

"Hi," says the new face as she slides up to you on the stool. Well, okay, so this part is different.

Xinyu stepped out earlier - said she had someone else to find, said you'd probably like who she had in mind, but whatever. You'll see when you see. You're not picky. You were ready to dick around on your phone until your girlfriend figured out which plaything you were both in the mood for tonight - you're not opposed to another addition, not at all - but then-

Then the girl sits at the bar, leans on her elbows over the polished surface. Rakes her fingers through the wisps of dark hair at her forehead, pushes it back, and -

And meets your gaze dead on, and doesn't break it. Not even a bit.

Okay - so, she's blindingly, impossibly stunning. A textbook fucking ten.

"Hi," she says again, firmer, like she knows what you're thinking. "Do they serve anything here that isn't blue or tastes like putting your tongue to a nine-volt?"

It's such a shockingly mild opener that you immediately laugh at her. It just spills right out of you.

"Yeah," you say, leaning against the bar, mildly amused. You call over the bartender, order in duplicate - you're pretty sure that's how this works, you have to get the drink in front of her, not even mention it, just let her know that you're calling the shots here - and then fix her with another look, eyebrows quirked. "New in town?" you ask. Small talk. Sure.

"No," she replies, "just new in here." She tosses her silky red hair over her shoulder. Reveals the halter-neck of her blouse and the deepness of the dip. Her collarbones are out. You barely even notice. "Also," she continues, "this place is a fucking zoo."

There's no patience to her. She's harsh, no filter. Your drinks arrive, and she hardly reacts when they do.

"It's a bit crowded." You're trying somewhat to stay diplomatic. "It's the girl on stage," you offer, and you gesture vaguely towards Kazuha's figure: long legs and curves in all the right places, raven-black hair falling to her waist. Everyone looks at her like she's a gift sent down from heaven. She's dressed in something gold, sequin, and she knows that they're pretty much right.

"Well, I guess that explains it."

"Everyone's hoping she'll take off more clothes." You shrug your shoulders at your new companion. "But she never does, so I'm not quite sure why everyone thinks tonight will be the exception."

"No shit," the girl drawls, her tone entirely blasé - she's so painfully disaffected, the disinterested, entitled type; your heart skips a beat. "No offence to you, man, but I think most of the guys here are either idiots or creeps." The redhead wrinkles her nose. "Or both."

"A fair assessment, honestly," you muse. Sip your drink. It's bitter. She hasn't touched hers. "You think I'm any different?"

The corner of her mouth ticks up. "No," she says.

The room seems to tilt sideways, and everything gets fuzzy: it feels like you're supposed to be talking in code or perhaps just reading between lines - there's a whole secret conversation happening beneath this surface-level, meaningless banter. You're making contact, making plans. She knows where this is going. You're right there with her.

"The girl up there is cute," the redhead says after a while, thoughtful. "What's your deal with her? How come you haven't turned into one of the animals in the horde yet?"

It's an obvious line of questioning.

"She's nice," you admit, "but I've already got something good going with someone. No need to push my luck with anyone else."

At this, she raises an eyebrow, curious, cautious, wary. "Nice, how?"

"I mean, she's beautiful," you say, "very pretty." Easy things. Surface things. These things anyone could list off. "Cute voice."

"Nothing in particular, though, huh." Her eyes flick back to the performer onstage - Kazuha's walking the catwalk, kicking her heel out at the men closest to her; her skirt rides up, and everyone goes absolutely wild for it - and then returns her focus to you. "Not your type?"

You've been in this seat - or one just like it, at least - watching Kazuha's ass onstage for countless nights. You're well aware of her appeal, but you can't figure out a harmless way to say your mind is giving you three images of a palm-print burning across the same expanse of skin at any given moment.

You shrug, ambivalence feigned. "I guess not."

"It's funny." She props her chin on her palm, her nail polish glittering against her jawline. She's barely touched her drink. "The girl's normally such a doll, right? Kind of girlish. Could barely hold a conversation with a boy when I met her. And now she's all that. On stage."

"Hmm," you reply, like you can't imagine it. "Is that right?"

"Oh yeah," she tells you, half-smiling. Her lipstick leaves marks on the glass as she takes her first sip. "Years of ballet school will do that to a girl. Though maybe something about performing just became second nature."

"Explains the legs," you mutter, feeling the look she levels with you; dangerous. "And the gracefulness," you amend quickly. She raises an eyebrow at you, and you raise one right back; it's a power struggle, and when her fingers curl across her chin, you almost choke on nothing.

"Legs and grace," she says. "That's about it for her, huh?"

You nod, your voice quiet, soft.

"How do you know her?" you ask gently.

"Oh, honey," she croons. Her face is halfway to laughter, mirth perched like a threat in her voice. She puts a palm flat on the counter and slides it forward so her manicure scrapes at the varnish. Leans into you over the edge of the bar and presses her lips to your ear. "I'm fucking her."

Everything in your brain stops, and starts; everything crashes down around you; everything rearranges.

"You know," the girl continues like she's explaining something casual, something innocent, "she's real fun on her hands and knees. Can't get enough of me." She tilts her head, contemplative. "I suppose she is beautiful," she adds, almost thoughtfully, and then reaches out her fingers. Tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "And graceful."

All you can picture are those gorgeous, creamy thighs marked up by nails like razors: bruises shaped like fingertips, angry scratches that would leave scars if pushed hard enough. Things for her to return to.

You swallow. You blink.

"She's very lovely," you say, careful, careful.

"Listen." The girl leans away, sweeps her red hair back over her shoulder, fixes you with her heavy-lidded eyes again. "We don't have to pretend we're in love or anything." Her voice is velvet, husky; the words catch at your eardrum and melt there, dripping down the bones of your skull like liquid seduction. "She's busy, clearly. So, I'm looking for a little company tonight, and I think I've found it."

"And your girlfriend?"

"Can't make it." She smiles, wolfish. "Which, if you don't mind me saying, is very lucky for you."

"Girlfriend, who you fuck into the mattress," you clarify. "She'd have no problem sharing?"

"With a pretty thing like you?" Her eyelashes flutter - the way they sweep low makes shadows across her cheeks, delicate. "No chance she'd object."

Your mouth twists to the side. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," she purrs. "Just: I'm going to go to the bathroom, and I think you could follow me there in five minutes, tops. Sound like a plan, handsome?"

Oh.

Okay. You think vaguely that Xinyu's probably got a hand in this, somehow. Doing this on purpose, leaving you here to fend for yourself - and it's a very Xinyu kind of move, really: setting you up with some stranger, letting her proposition you, and waiting for it to escalate past the point of return. Sending you right up to a pretty pair of vices, telling you to chew them down to size. Maybe if you do good - you already know how she wants you to perform - you'll get an actual reward later. Another girl for you to fuck, or maybe Xinyu herself. Or both. Your brain is spinning in circles. You really, really can't think straight with her breathing right onto your pulse.

"What, you've got something better to do than fuck two girls tonight? The girl seems to weigh something out in her mind; watches you through a side-long glance. "You really can't drop everything to play around for a little bit?"

So maybe it's not Xinyu's handiwork - this is a little too far-fetched, even for her - but you can't lie. When she goes ahead, drags her fingers on your shoulder as she glides by and doesn't bother looking back, the way your cock throbs makes it easy to decide that it doesn't matter.

You get lost a bit on the logistics. (That'll actually be a recurring theme.)

There's a pair of single-occupancy toilets in the back of the bar, ostensibly family washrooms; for mothers with children, wheelchairs, sloppy bathroom sex with god-blessedly gorgeous strangers, that sort of thing - but they're occupied. Both the handles spun up; red tags flipped up to indicate engagement, a motif, and symbolism in spades. Something heavy-handed and easily ignored.

"Maybe I should just get on my knees right here," she suggests eventually - like a joke, but she'd do it. You're pretty sure.

"Absolutely not," you counter, only a little bit scandalized. She grins and presses a palm flat to your abdomen.

"Just problem-solving." She's totally blasé. "Critical thinking."

"Careful with that," you warn her, sorta unreasonably given where your fingers are on the cut of her hips.

She pretends to think about it, fingers tapping thoughtfully on her lip, a comical exaggeration, and you just roll your eyes. You think about getting her name, maybe a number - you could just leave it at that, save her contact info under tall, great ass, (fuckable) lips and pray to hell it never comes up as recommended when someone else texts you.

Yeah, right. It's better to just bury yourself in this until it all dissolves - stick to the immediacy of it. Get your mouth on every part of her body and lick her clean, and then be gone before the sun rises. Right?

She pulls you down by your neck and slots your lips together again, slow, agonizing, her lips slipping over yours like they're made to be there. She kisses like it's an art form - something you can perfect, practice - and her tongue darts along the seam of your mouth like she wants to coax you open. There's the bite of cherry lipstick, sweet and candied; her fingertips into your belt loops, then yanks you toward her with her nose scrunched and a wicked smile.

"I can't believe you'd let me fuck you with your back against the wall like this." Her hips bump forward into yours - she's playing at bashful, coy and innocent. She's failing miserably. "What if someone sees?"

"I think you'd like that," you answer.

"Mmm," she agrees. She's tipping her head back, sliding her tongue across her upper lip, baring her neck to you. Her eyes flick back up, dragging like a blade. "Letting someone walk by, seeing you pushing into me, knowing I was about to make you lose control...yeah. Sounds hot, honestly."

"Shut up," you murmur, leaning closer.

"Make me," she kisses back, eyes flashing; oh, if you didn't feel it before, this is definitely how you know you'll see her again: you recognize the power in her stance, the firecracker-red blaze in her glare - it's like looking in a mirror, that domineering aggression. It's the promise of a rivalry; something you'll want to tame.

A wayward thought lingers: oh, hell - your mind is rapid on the recall, an endless, eager, addicting memory loop - how she kisses, too. The silky sweetness, the enthusiasm - the way her hands bury in your shirt and her pitched, muffled sounds of appreciation spill right into your throat. How she's such an obscene daydream, and the filthy, filthy things she tells you with her hands in your hair - the shock of that, her bold, pretty mouth telling you what she's fantasizing about right now and the fact that those fantasies line up with yours in nearly every sense. Her very presence is a contradiction, her mismatched gestures: tender kisses and wandering hands; how, for every inch given, she'll take five more.

You get your fingers under her skirt, pull her legs up to your waist; she wraps her palm over your cock; smiles against your lips, almost smitten but too arrogant for it: a villainous grin. You hitch one of her thighs over your hip, her panties damp against your slacks. Oh, how good she is - how perfect the feeling, how beautifully her teeth sink into the soft underside of your lower lip like you belong to her: a piece of property.

"That's it, sweetheart," you groan, kissing the apple of her cheek, letting the blush seep right under your tongue. Your hand hovers near her inner thigh. "God, you're so fucking sexy."

"Touch me," she hisses into the skin of your cheek.

"So demanding," you hum.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," she moans, arching into your chest - but her eyelashes flutter as your thumb ghosts across the fabric of her underwear, teasing. "Ah-ha..."

You'll justify it later, somehow: a cheat night, maybe - Xinyu's so used to getting other girls all to herself, you should have a few all to your own - and this one doesn't count as one, really; she belongs to someone else anyway, the raven-haired girl with the siren voice, long legs in silk stockings and pearls across her neck and high-heeled boots clicking across the pavement. And Kazuha doesn't even have to know: she's busy, probably; off with another guy or two or three. No reason to tell her what happens - you certainly won't complain. One orgasm and the redhead will be out of your hair.

There's a side door, some stairs. Nobody stops to ask who you are or where you're going, or even so much as bat an eye as you spill out into the alley - where people go to smoke or fight or vomit; she kisses you outside in the cold air, sliding her hands into your pockets and pushing up to the tips of her toes. There's a smile on her face like you're her best idea ever. It's cold out; she doesn't appear to care.

"God, I'm wet," she breathes, and you don't have to believe her.

"I bet I can help with that." Your jacket slides across your shoulders, off onto the concrete. You're leading her around a corner and against a brick wall. It's dark here. Dark enough for mistakes. Dark enough that you can press her spine to the bricks, slide your hands to her sides and lift her up, taste the lipstick across her jawline-

"Oh my god," comes a voice - softer, sweeter, a total siren lilt. "Please, fuck, that feels so-"

Both your heads swivel.

One streetlight illuminates Kazuha with her back pressed to the bricks and her hand curled tightly in all this black hair, panting, pleading: a perfect fucking masterpiece. She's got her eyes screwed shut, her lips parted; she's absolutely lost.

"Huh," says the redhead, dispassionate - and her fingers curl loosely over your forearm, drumming rhythmically. "Looks like she got distracted after all."

The hand between her legs is fucking her up and doing it fast, snapping sharp wrist motions accompanied by these rhythmic, throaty gasps from Kazuha as she holds onto the edge of a dumpster lid, clawing at metal. There's a muffled string of curses as the woman crouches, leaning forward - shoving her tongue inside. "Fu-uck," Kazuha manages, two distinct syllables - and her grip tightens around her waist, her spine. You catch the light shining off her gold earrings like a flash-warning, and you fall short of a breath.

“Xinyu?” you sputter. “What’re you-”

Xinyu extracts her hand from Kazuha’s cunt, licks her fingers clean and turns to you, not at all guilty - but she isn’t sorry, either. You blink hard.

“Oh, hey,” says Xinyu, cheery as anything. She brushes off her dress. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

“Neither did we,” you choke, dry-mouthed. “Are you…”

“We’re making use of some downtime,” offers Kazuha, smoothing down her hair, wiping off her smudged lipstick. The makeup is so precise that it doesn’t look smudged at all - or maybe that’s just how used she is to covering it up. “Is there a problem?”

“No, none-” Your mouth snaps shut as Xinyu meets your stare and gives you an impish little shrug, biting back a smile. She saunters over to where you stand, keeping a respectable distance.

“Look at this, babe," Xinyu says. She gestures to the girl you were making out two seconds ago, casual. "I found him first. Isn’t he handsome?”

“You’ve got weird taste,” replies the redhead, not unkindly, tilting her head back against the wall and exposing all that gorgeous skin. You can see her chest rise and fall in ragged breaths. Xinyu walks a hand up your torso, palms your collarbone with a suggestive smile - it's a little possessive, but then again, you realize you’ve forgotten to let go of the other girl's hand.

“You would be into him,” retorts Kazuha. She laughs softly. “Hi, Jen,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Hey,” Yunjin says, wiggling her fingers, lazy. “Loved the performance."

"Shut the fuck up," snipes Kazuha, rolling her eyes, but she's flushed, halfway to an orgasm that's not gonna happen because everyone is apparently choosing now to puzzle this one out. "Could see you flirting with him the entire time, idiot."

"He's super fucking hot," says Yunjin. "Oh, speaking of which-" She tugs you closer by your wrist - you're stuck, standing still, trapped between three gorgeous women ready to argue over who saw who first.

“Wait,” you manage, breaking free. Yunjin huffs. Xinyu frowns, blinking. Kazuha leans back against the wall.

“We didn’t plan this or anything,” explains Kazuha. “Xinyu just likes what she sees sometimes.” There’s a practised ease in the way she says this - like this has all been rehearsed before between the two of them. "Or, well-" Kazuha lifts a shoulder, delicate, polished. "A lot of the time, I guess."

"Yeah," Xinyu says, not defensive. "So?"

"Well," you say, after a long moment - your mind working furiously to process, reconcile, synthesize - this scene where you're being pulled in six directions at once, trying to put this story together before any more pages flip.

"That's your girlfriend," you say to Yunjin, finally - and point a finger towards Kazuha.

"And yours," says Kazuha, one hand on Xinyu's hip. “Hi,” she adds.

"Yep," says Xinyu. "How about that."

She steps up close to you and bats those dark lashes. Behind her, Kazuha’s gaze catches your glance; it takes you a solid ten seconds to realize she’s trying to place where she’s seen you before - it clicks for her all at once, though it's a lot quicker for you - and then it all slots neatly into place, every cog and screw lining up in an easy motion.

“So.” Yunjin chews idly at the pad of her thumb. "What, you guys met once at the mall or something?"

"Yeah," you reply, realizing exactly how you and yours have come to fall for two of the same type. "We met at the mall."

If you'd like to imagine that this goes smoothly after that - it doesn't. Not really. It's more accurate to say that Yunjin looks at you, your blank stare, the panic - and the three girls just dissolve into laughter, giddy and conspiratorial like they've just pulled off the world's greatest coup.

"C'mon," says Yunjin. She's so good at reading social cues - like, oh, you being totally stunned-silent by the sheer amount of sexual energy suddenly coursing through this alleyway. "You said it yourself," Yunjin reminds you, gesturing at Kazuha, "beautiful, very pretty, nice legs." She brings her lips to your cheek. "You didn't lie about that."

"What?" says Kazuha.

Yunjin just smiles, brushes a lock of red hair behind her ear. "We have taste," she tells Kazuha, confident and poised - and then to you, hushed under her breath, "I'd watch you rail her," she murmurs. Her tongue darts out, pressing wet and warm into the shell of your ear. "Would you like that?"

"That's-" you start. You stop. Xinyu looks over at you, a devious flicker lighting up her eyes - oh, god; if that doesn't spell disaster, nothing does -and the grin she gives you is so downright evil you wonder why you ever dared dream you stood a chance. She looks back over at Kazuha, reaches out a hand to clasp gently at that impossible waist, pulling her in close.

"Sweetheart," Xinyu drawls, tracing a thumb over her jawline. "Doll," she continues, letting the nickname linger. She leans up, pecks a kiss against Kazuha's mouth - but her eyes don't leave yours for a second. She bites down gently on Kazuha's lower lip, tugging lightly at the skin before letting it snap back.

"You know I wouldn't ever get jealous over sharing something with you," Xinyu murmurs. She says it like a proclamation; something binding, solemn - a pact signed in ink, wax-sealed and pressed into the skin of Kazuha's collarbone. They're practically the same height. It makes your throat run dry. "You get me," she says.

Yunjin laughs, but not meanly. "It's cute how you pretend you aren't selfish," she says to Xinyu, rolling her eyes. Her lips curve upwards. "Tell me something I don't know." And then - you feel her fingertips trail delicately over your waistband, slipping her thumb below the hem of your jeans. "Hey, Kazuha?"

Kazuha drags her focus off Xinyu with visible effort, snapping back into the conversation.

"Wanna ride his face?"

Xinyu is grinning like a lunatic, gorgeous and predatory.

Kazuha gathers her hair off her neck. “He seems like the type who would want to eat pussy for hours."

"I wouldn't complain," you croak out - and Yunjin laughs. It’s genuine, unpracticed, the sort of thing that shakes her shoulders; it fills you up.

"Why don't you sit back down against that wall," she tells you, nudging at your ribs. Her touch feels electric. "Relax."

Oh. She says it like an order, and you realize that she knows full well what it'll do to you. She's still smiling, though it's sharper now, sharper, hungrier - like the glint of fangs that'll tear you apart. It's really no wonder you ended up exactly where she wanted you - but then you realize Kazuha's looking at you, and you realize that you're not entirely sure whose team you're on or if there even are any teams here. It's not like you can complain. The most you can manage is a grunt of acknowledgement, sitting down slowly, trying not to trip over your own feet and ruin everything.

"Good boy," Yunjin quips, quiet enough to feel private, intimate. You blink up at her, still holding her hand in your lap as you sit down, staring like she holds the key to all seven wonders of the world in her palm. "Kazuha," Yunjin calls over her shoulder, patting your arm. "Get over here. Come meet my new friend."

And that's sorta how you wind up in some kind of...what-the-fuck situation? Some otherworldly thing you shouldn't even hope to explain - some alternate dimension shit with two beautiful women pressing you back against some dirty-ass brick wall in the alley behind your usual haunt, a third one laughing hysterically at all four of you. You feel like the dumbest motherfucker alive, especially when Xinyu whispers something in Yunjin's ear, and it earns a resounding laugh, but mostly just because your girlfriend's hands are everywhere and Yunjin's sitting back and watching like it's prime-time television.

That - and also because Kazuha's decided she needs your face buried in her cunt ASAP, and frankly, you can't even muster up the energy to disagree.

First things first: the bar is packed - oh, wait, no: it's always packed. But especially so on the nights where you're trying to navigate this stupid situation, you got yourself into where three fucking goddesses have you on rotation, like clockwork.

You're collecting coats and closing tabs, doing your absolute best not to bring any more attention to how Kazuha's wobbling on both legs because she can't quite walk straight anymore.

Yunjin - your current distraction, clad in the most perfect shade of red lipstick, clinging onto your favourite girl like a lifeline - keeps leaning over to Xinyu, whispering frantically in her ear, and it's like the more they talk, the more amused Xinyu gets.

"I told Yunjin your apartment's the closest," Xinyu says to you, eventually, a small smirk forming on her face. "Think she wants you alone for a while. Sounds like she thinks you could really, uh-" She nods toward you, gesturing pointedly towards your belt. "Blow her back out, is how she phrased it."

Oh. Well, then. Yeah, no, you'd be perfectly okay with that.

When you glance back over at the rest of your - you don't have a word for it - entourage, all three pairs of eyes are locked on you, expectant and eager. Jesus fucking Christ. You make brief eye contact with Yunjin; her smile grows impossibly wider. This was meant to be a casual night, wasn't it? A nice outing at the lounge bar where you down drinks and enjoy the scenery - that was how it started, right? Then Yunjin had shown up, demanding all your attention like you owed it to her just for existing (and honestly? You kinda do). It'd been an excuse to look at Kazuha's tits, and then another to press your mouth all over Xinyu's - but the way your girlfriend's looking at you makes it abundantly clear that that ship's already sailed.

Kazuha raises a water bottle to her lips, looking cool and confident as ever (oh, you know better).

"Didn't mean to invite everyone over, but." Xinyu preens, adjusting the hem of her skirt and checking for signs of wear. She knows exactly what she's saying, exactly what you're thinking - there's an intentness to her words. "You wouldn't mind, right, baby?"

"Yeah, sure," you agree, glancing up at all of them with a nod. You've never moved faster in your life; your coat's over your arm, keys in your pocket, the whole ensemble. They're watching you, waiting patiently. Xinyu raises an eyebrow. "Lead the way?"

She beams. She turns, slips her purse strap over her shoulder. "Alright," she chirps - and the four of you take off into the night.

It's funny, you think: Xinyu's also had a weak spot for Kazuha, probably since the first time she saw her perform. (That's the part that sticks out in your brain.) But then again, maybe Kazuha knew about Xinyu too; they seem pretty damn cosy for this being their first interaction with each other, though you suppose you can't judge - you were practically aching for Yunjin within an hour of meeting her, weren't you?

But whatever. Your cock is in Yunjin's hand, and your mind is very much not present right now. That's the important thing.

By the time you finally unlocked your front door, all four of you stumbling in - everyone tipsy, aroused, dying to get their hands on someone's skin - Yunjin immediately glued herself to you, pushing your coat off your shoulders. She'd gotten your zipper undone in record time. It's not the first time, obviously: she's got this ghost of a grip around your cock already, a knowing stroke, this way of handling your arousal that feels almost proprietary in its control.

There's an island in the kitchen; you're washed up on its shore. Fingers spread across the marble sand as the edge presses against your lower back. "Drinks are in the—"

"You can skip the fanfare." Yunjin is stroking you, her other hand at the nape of your neck to pull you down, kiss her; your mouth meets hers, hot, messy, too hard. Pick up where you left off sort of thing. Some unheard conversation must have planned this, on the street or in the hallway or the elevator—they'd figured out some secret plot, who got what, how they would split up, and it starts here.

It's in your periphery that you see them cross, hand in hand, watching you come undone by the vixen in red. Xinyu is taking the lead, and you can see her mind working overtime to figure out what would drive you the most insane right now. She stops at the couch, centre-view, perching herself on the back of it to pull the other girl against her. Kazuha giggles in the high pitch, something that sounds too sweet to come from someone whose job it is to get men going—and maybe she does that on purpose: the look over her shoulder accompanies a feigned innocence.

Xinyu looks past her, gaze falling over Yunjin first: red dress, blood red lips, hair like a hearth-fire, and the hand moving on your cock in your unbuckled jeans. "A head start? How unfair." She rolls her eyes with all the mocking derision she can muster, but her smirk betrays her. She's pushing Kazuha by the shoulder, putting the dancer down on her knees. Even in the most compromising position possible, she looks immaculate: she sinks, legs together, ass perched on her heels. There's not a strand of hair out of place, and even in her lust, Xinyu strives to maintain the fact, so she takes care in the way she pulls Kazuha between her thighs. A gentle, fingertip hold, as she spreads her knees to frame her.

You watch with rapt attention; you can hardly look away. The whole thing is artfully posed.

Yunjin says your name, the first word you've heard from her, and you've only missed it a little. Your gaze moves to her. You expect another comment, snide, but her mouth parts, like the words have been stolen right out of it.

"You good?" You're trying to be a gentleman, if not an asshole—and it works, too; it spurs her back. She bites the corner of her lip and hums.

"Yeah, you know." A half-shrug accompanies her words as she lets you slide a strap from her shoulder. "Still waiting for you to blow my back out."

Oh. You laugh, hoarse. Yeah, that's—that's on the agenda, for sure.

It's just—the show, right across from you, has started.

Kazuha, in her performance, has Xinyu's skirt pushed up around her waist, face against her thigh, breath hot on her skin, fingers splayed over her knee to press her legs even wider. The most natural seduction; the effortless allure that laces every part of her. Her lips against skin are soft and pink, moving against the curve of the muscle, mouthing up higher. You know how that feels—travelling the vast expanse of Xinyu's long legs in search of something to bury your face in.

"She's in for a treat," Yunjin whispers.

"So am I," you return, placing a hand on Yunjin's now strapless shoulder and putting just enough weight into your hand that she knows she's going down.

"Can't promise I won't bite," she warns, in the tone that makes your throat dry, in the way you think she just might. But you've also had the image of Yunjin's head bobbing in your lap the whole cab ride home.

If there's a heaven, you'll find it in a mouth like this one: soft-lipped, warm and wet, tongue on you. You reach for the back of her neck, feel the silk of her hair under your palm as she sucks hard enough to make your hips jerk. Then there's the gentlest of grazes—her teeth on your shaft, and it makes your jaw tighten. She's all smirk and smoulder, eyes coming up to see what kind of face she's making you pull.

"Oops," she laughs.

"Fuck," Xinyu gasps, the loudest sound in the room. There's the slightest shift of Kazuha's shoulders, the way her back bows when her tongue drags from slit to clit; nose pushed up tight.

Xinyu, still leaning over the back of the couch, turns her gaze toward you, then, heavy, desperate, and dark: an intensity that hits right in the base of your stomach and twists like a dull knife.

Xinyu trades pleasured gasps for a coy remark. "Look at her go. Eats pussy like she'll starve to death without it." It's like she needs to comment on it, all casual, as if there weren't someone between her legs, making her thighs tense.

Yunjin pulls back just long enough to say, "Tell me about it." Then she goes deep enough that you see your cock hit the back of her throat. No warning. You cough out an obscenity. It's good, and it's better because of what you're looking at.

"Yeah?" Xinyu says. "Be pretty easy to cum like this, you know?" The implication hangs in the air, unaddressed.

Just like Yunjin before you, you agree. "Tell me about it."

Your girl, on the couch, her body twists again. Kazuha is making her work to keep the upper hand in all this, if there's such a thing, and she has to put conscious effort into keeping her words steady. Her focus is on you, on your face, on how your mouth opens every time Yunjin sinks her mouth to the hilt.

"Do you wanna cum like this?" Yunjin says to the underside of your dick, her hot breath against your length.

You look to Xinyu for a final answer: her head's back and her chin tilted high in a groan that fills the room, an arcing note in a rising song that starts between her thighs. Her hands grip the cushions.

"She's close," You say off-handedly. An easy observation. It doesn't answer her question.

"Could finish you so easily," Yunjin hums. You feel her words against the crown. She swirls her tongue, and you clench your fists.

"Faster than Kazuha?"

"Much faster." Yunjin grins like she's just thrown down a challenge. And you get why it works: competitive to a fault.

"No chance," Xinyu manages. There's sweat on the skin that shimmers with highlight, her chest heaving with every laboured breath, "absolutely—" Kazuha presses forward, and the rest comes out a curse. She grits out the words. "Impossible."

"Bet?" says Yunjin, her nails dug deep enough into your skin that it leaves little crescent moons.

Xinyu's head lifts. There's a smile on her face that's just shy of wicked, "I'd say winner takes all."

There are very few bets that Xinyu won't take and fewer stakes that she won't gamble with, but she's got confidence in Kazuha's ability, and time is a-ticking. Even with how wound up Yunjin's got you, watching them, it's still an even race at this point. Kazuha has a lot to prove: this is a test to see if her pretty lips and clever tongue can get her girl to the finish line faster than anyone else.

And, oh—she can taste it, can't she: Xinyu dripping wetness to her chin, her folds spread and cunt eager. The dancer's a performer of many skills: her fingers slide inside, her mouth locked in place and sucking hard until Xinyu is fucking her mouth with the back and forth of her hips. In a moment of indulgence, she presses Kazuha's face deeper, harder. It's rougher, meaner: she pushes her up tight enough that her air might just get cut off, if it weren't for the moans that slip from the singer's mouth. "God—" You think she says, and then nothing but sharp inhale and the jolt of her hips that has Kazuha's nails in the flesh of her inner thighs.

Yunjin's picking up the slack on you. Maybe to wipe the smirk from your girlfriend's face, or maybe she just really wants your cum down her throat. That's fine. You're not opposed.

Mouth briefly replaced by hand, strokes hard and tight, so she can talk and please. "Better cum in me soon. You'll lose." She winks. She's not wrong, and she sucks in her next breath like she knows it. That mouth on you again.

Let's be real. Let's not get it twisted. You win. You always win.

Xinyu will cum first. It's one of those facts in life. Death, taxes and Xinyu's climaxes.

It starts in her chest—a hitch that becomes a heavy rise and fall, a moan from deep in her throat. Her body follows it: every limb taut like strings in a bow. Tension: her head back to the sky and the arch in her back like a crescent. Her legs start to shake. It's there that you feel your blood thrumming, the adrenaline that starts that climb before your fall, and Yunjin takes her cue to speed things up on her end as Xinyu tumbles over on hers. Her thighs tense, tight, trembling.

"Oh—oh fuck—Kazuha." Xinyu moaning another woman's name always has a certain kind of kick to it, even more so with you down Yunjin's throat. She's never shy about this. Never timid. Always, unabashedly, the way it is with you and how she'll scream and cry for it, for the orgasm that wracks her like an electric current.

Kazuha has no interest in easing her down: the pads of her fingertips work her open, pumping inside, tongue flat to lap against the pulsing heat, riding her through each wave and crest, drawing them longer, higher. Xinyu's shaking with the overstimulation, hands in hair, but not pulling back.

"God. Fuck, Kazuha—" This time, there's the edge of desperation to it, so close to pleading for it to stop.

There's a moment when you lock your eyes. Xinyu looking through the strands of her dark hair that stick to her cheeks, and the sweat that glosses her forehead, the flush on her skin, her lipstick smeared in places. And that smile, her wicked grin in full bloom. Her breath coming in shallow heaving puffs. Kazuha is slowing. Stilling.

You've been teetering close to that razor's edge, the precipice of it, but there was only ever going to be one winner. Yunjin pulls her mouth from you and she has no idea just how close you were, just how cruel the denial, as she stands.

You say her name as a question: why would she ever fucking stop?

Her mouth to your ear, and you feel her smirking again, her teeth against the shell: "You lost," she murmurs.

"You lost," Xinyu echoes from across the room. She pushes Kazuha away, legs still unsteady, as she slides from the couch to her feet and straightens out the fabric of her dress. You watch as Kazuha touches the gloss of her lip and sucks it off her finger. Her smile is soft and warm when she gets to her feet. It's like a stage; everything posed: Xinyu and Kazuha, standing side-by-side and arms entwined.

"Second place," says Xinyu, looking you right in the eyes.

"I get it," you say. Your cock stands at full mast. "You don't need to remind me."

"Oh," she grins, leaning against the dancer, "I absolutely do." Her hand touches Kazuha's chin and lifts, kissing her deep, tongues dancing against one another's. When Xinyu's teeth drag along her bottom lip, you know she must be able to taste herself. "She's real good. Though I do wonder what her girlfriend is like," she whispers as she eyes Yunjin.

Kazuha speaks up. "She can definitely make a girl cum." She speaks with such nonchalance as if she's discussing the weather or what brand her shampoo is and not the way she's had Yunjin eating out of her cunt.

Kazuha is a professional; it's no surprise to hear she knows how to get a girl to see god, and it's no surprise that anyone she lays with has to be on top of their game. Xinyu knows, too. She grins, and she laughs, and she holds her waist like Kazuha's some sort of prize, and it's just so Xinyu, this display. "Lucky us." She touches a hand to the dancer's hip. She says to Yunjin, "We oughta try her out."

"You're going to leave him hanging?" says Yunjin, running a hand down your chest dangerously low before taking it back, a gentle press of lips on your jaw. "That's not very fair."

"He can help you out, right?" Xinyu offers, gesturing in your direction with one of those looks in her eyes. You know that one. "Make us cum." And her hand slips to the swell of Kazuha's breast, groping greedily. It's a demand that comes out as a suggestion.

Kazuha whispers something inaudible to Xinyu's ears and it must've been good because the woman hums, intrigued, the smile on her mouth turning wider and more mischievous by the second. They both take a step, both reach out, Kazuha takes your wrist and Xinyu takes Yunjin's. Wordlessly, they take you away from the kitchen and to the window: the massive wall of windows that line your apartment with the city behind.

"I want the world to see," Kazuha explains. "To wish they were you."

"Sounds a little cheesy," you quip.

"Sounds hot," Xinyu retorts as she places her hands on the glass. She bends forward so that the swell of her ass pushes out against the hem of her skirt, and against Yunjin, who is standing right behind her. "Don't you think, babe?" she teases Yunjin.

"Very," Yunjin says. She moves her fingers along the seams of Xinyu's body, finding their way underneath her top. You hear Xinyu breathe out through her mouth. Yunjin moves closer to Xinyu's ear and bites it. "But the only ones that'll actually get to touch you, to taste you... that'll be us, huh?" She moves her fingers along the waistband of her skirt.

Xinyu turns her head back at her, smiling. "They'll be able to see how well I can take it, too. You'll let them see, won't you?"

Kazuha perches in front of you, spreading her fingers out against the glass, lowering her shoulders, arching her spine and lifting her ass to the sky for your taking. In an instant, you're on your knees and appreciating her for everything she's worth. "You don't need to be a gentleman. Just go for it. You already had the courtesy earlier," she tells you as you move closer.

"Can't I take a moment to appreciate you first?" you reply.

"Do you have to?" Her laugh is half a moan, and she's pulling up her own dress. "Are you so infatuated by the sight of me? Because, believe me—" and her words are cut off as you sink your teeth into her cheeks, your fingertips pressing tight into the skin at her hip— "you've seen more than most get to."

You run a hand up the expanse of her thigh. "Savouring every moment," you hum into her skin.

"How romantic," she laughs. There are the smallest noises in the back of her throat that come with your touch as you caress her ass. Fingers into flesh, gentle pressure until you feel her roll against it. The perfect ass. The kind people would kill for.

You hear Xinyu gasp, the sharp breath: Yunjin's got her face pressed hard between Xinyu's spread thighs from behind. "Y'know—" your girl manages between moaning pants, "wasn't sure what to expect. This isn't how we usually do things." She's trying to hold the conversation together while Yunjin works to make a ruin of it. Xinyu braces herself against the glass. "Two girls at once is a pretty good score."

"I'd call it that," you hum in agreement as you pull Kazuha's delicate panties down her thighs.

"The two of you do this often?" Yunjin asks between licking Xinyu's dripping cunt and then slapping an ass cheek hard, enough to sting. It leaves an angry pink imprint on the flesh of her. Xinyu hisses, her fingers curling against the glass as she struggles to hold herself steady. Kazuha arches her spine to give you better access.

"See them all the time," Kazuha gently laughs, the breathiest moan breaking her sentence up, and she rocks herself back against you. "Taking someone home before my show even ends."

Xinyu's eyes open, and her vision is clear. She looks over her shoulder. Her hips are slow, riding the tongue that pushes deeper inside. Her voice is steady, and she's trying hard not to let Yunjin catch her completely, though the pressure on the glass betrays her. "Been keeping an eye on us, hm?"

You're dragging your tongue against Kazuha, circling around the wetness between her legs. You taste the sweet musk of her, and then you drag the flat of your tongue along the folds. She hums with a laugh that sounds a little breathier, more strained. Your tongue moves deeper, dipping into the parting of flesh, to taste the soft, velvet feel of her, the slick heat that comes with her arousal.

"You're not exactly subtle. Hard not to notice."

You push a little firmer, face into her ass, tasting the deepest parts of her and as she shifts on her knees, she lowers a hand to your hair and grabs a handful of it, keeping you where she needs you, fingers curled around the strands and the sting that follows. You hear the noise she makes, the way she shivers under your attention. It feels good.

"We have a fan," Xinyu jokes, but her laughter is cut off by a moan as Yunjin sucks harder on the soft folds between her legs. "Maybe two." There's the sound of skin hitting skin, and then a gasp. You know the sounds of Xinyu when her skin is slapped, or her flesh is bit.

Yunjin's hands roam her body freely. They're everywhere: touching, teasing. Her nails scratch and drag, and Xinyu groans when teeth meet her inner thigh again.

Kazuha is dripping against your chin now. Every lick sends another jolt up her spine, and every circle against her sensitive clit has her moaning. You squeeze her ass. She rocks forward. "Mhm..." Her lips part, and her jaw goes slack.

"What a pretty fucking mess," you hum against the wetness.

Xinyu takes Kazuha by the chin, pulling her into a kiss, and there's no way for anyone else to appreciate how beautiful they look against each other. Xinyu runs a hand up into Kazuha's hair, and her hips are still grinding, still pushing down onto Yunjin's mouth. "I'm gonna cum if she doesn't stop."

"Cum with me?" Kazuha says. It sounds desperate, almost needy in its demand: an urgency to share this. To do it together.

It doesn't sound like a bad idea at all.

"Not stopping," is the last thing Yunjin says as she continues to feast. You think she might have a point to prove, but if that means she wants to eat a pussy that good, then so be it. Your mouth works Kazuha faster: you spread the folds with your fingers and go to work on her clit. Your teeth catch the sensitive flesh, and she shakes with it, thighs threatening to tremble and tense, a strangled cry falling from her lips that she smothers by moaning it right into Xinyu's lips.

The taste of Kazuha on your tongue is something you'll never get tired of. Her sweet juice spills over, and when she arches, she cums harder, cries out louder until finally, her knees start to shake. That's how it starts, and with her orgasm comes Xinyu's too. There's a moment when the two are tangled together, when the sounds that fall out of them echo each other's. Their voices meet, their moans mix, and their tongues clash in their kiss, like they can't bear to keep any distance from one another. It's intimate, even amidst the other mouths on them. Even as Yunjin and you coax them through it. When it passes, the two cling onto each other, holding each other up, both of them trembling with the aftermath of a shared bliss.

Kazuha falls first: with a slow slump she sinks down to the floor, falling away from your hungry mouth and onto her hands and knees on the hardwood. She pants, heavy breaths, her head bowed, her hair in her eyes. There's a contented hum to the room as it all begins to settle down. Kazuha turns to you: there's that gorgeous smile, as she pushes back hair from her face. Her makeup is smudged. Her lipstick's a mess.

Xinyu follows after, but not without first stroking Yunjin's hair and kissing her, thanking her. Xinyu falls into Kazuha's embrace, the two of them holding each other up on the floor. Their heads are on one another's shoulders.

You lose your balance to a hard push. Your ass hitting the ground hard, sitting flat on the hardwood.

"Your turn." Yunjin grins, a hand pushing at the centre of your chest, keeping you from rising.

"You're going to do that right here?"

She grins at you. "Right now."

From here on out, it's just an inevitable, sordid decline into depravity. There is no message here, no moral, no meaning beyond the mindless, the reckless. There's nothing profound about the way Yunjin slips the other strap off her shoulder and pulls the material down to her waist to expose her braless chest. There's no wisdom in the way she moves into your lap, arms hooked over your shoulders.

No revelations come from how her bare pussy slides against the head of your cock. No matters of the world solved by the way you grope her tits in your palms. Nothing poetic about the sound that slips between her pretty red lips when you enter her cunt. This is just the way things are. This is barely a footnote on the night, not an epic climax. It's not a resolution or a denouement. Just another impending orgasm. You're just lucky you're at the centre of it all.

"Give us a show, won't you?" Xinyu murmurs.

Yunjin's got a smile on her lips that says, sure, sure, I can do that. She puts her hands on your chest, pinning you against the ground, her hips lifting and rolling as she slides you in and out of herself. "You think we should thank them? The people in the toilets?"

"Why's that?"

"Well, we'd have gone in there." Yunjin pushes her hips down hard onto you to punctuate her sentence. "We'd have fucked." She's taking control here: riding you in the centre of the hardwood floor. "You'd have cum." Another roll of the hips. "In me. On me." She gasps, moans. "That would have been that." It's all being said so nonchalantly. "But now, it's like this."

You laugh a little as you watch the woman ride you for all you're worth. "It's fitting," you say as you push yourself up from the floor, sitting face-to-face with the woman riding you. "Because you deserve so much more than a quickie on a dirty toilet." You wrap an arm around the small of her back. "And I'd much rather take my time with you." You buck your hips up into her, commandeering the rhythm as your pace starts to climb. You drive into her, pounding hard, as you bury your face between her breasts.

There are the smallest of noises that break free from Yunjin: the whines that get trapped behind her throat and the moans that slip between her teeth. She lets you handle her, and the only sound she makes is that soft whimpering and that sharp hiss when your fingers grip tight at her skin, and when her body slams down against your cock, you feel her tense and then shake around your shaft, squeezing and clamping down hard. She stifles her sounds.

"You good?" you whisper. She doesn't answer. At least, not at first. She gives herself a moment to catch her breath, as her nails drag across your shoulder blade.

She moans out a reply. "Oh yeah. So good. I'm so—" her words trail into a hiss of a breath.

You push her onto her back, pinning her to the ground as she laughs, arms above her head and eyes on yours, as you pick the pace back up again. "Show's still on," Xinyu says, somewhere on your peripheries.

"He fucks like a..." Kazuha whispers, unable to find the right words.

"I know," Xinyu laughs, before leaning in to kiss at Kazuha's jaw. "Doesn't he just?" The words are barely a whisper in her ear.

There's this shift in your periphery, Xinyu taking a place on the floor, her hand behind Kazuha's head as she spreads her legs again. It's rare you've found anyone who can keep up with Xinyu, but tonight's proven to be the exception. Kazuha's on all fours, leaning in for another taste. The sight has you groan.

Yunjin laughs at that, pulling your face back to hers, her legs wrapping around your hips, locking behind your back as she pulls you into her. "Don't get distracted now, honey," she says. Her fingertips trace along the muscles in your shoulders. Her lips curl up into a smile as her body shivers underneath yours, and you can feel it: that sweet clamping down of her pussy around your cock, and you know that she's close to coming again.

"Got an idea," you whisper.

"Wait, wait—" Yunjin claws at your back, holding you closer, tighter. "Just let me—" and you feel it. Her wet heat coating your length, pulsing. You roll her into it, feel the slick mess as her hips twist against the hardwood. She shakes, head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut, and lips parted. "There we go. Now, idea?"

"Come here." It's seamless, the way you move her around and behind Kazuha, positioning her face right against her girlfriend's ass. "Doesn't that look so good?"

"Beautiful," she says.

"Bet you eat that ass every chance you get, I know I would."

"Me too," Xinyu chimes.

"Yeah?" Yunjin says as she traces her hands along Kazuha's hips and curves, the lines that make her. She touches her thighs, and then she moves her fingertips to the cheeks of her ass. "Well." A kiss on the flesh of it. "You know. She does have such a pretty ass," she whispers.

"You both do," you reply as you mimic Yunjin's touches on her own ass.

She smiles into the skin, pressing more soft kisses along it. Her fingernails dig in gently as her mouth presses a little harder against it. Yunjin drags her nails over it, making marks. Yunjin moans softly, burying her mouth deeper between the cheeks. Kazuha arches with a moan of her own, rocking back. Yunjin sinks deeper, eating her girlfriend's ass like it was the last meal she'd have for days. The sounds are wet and hungry. Her moans are muffled as her mouth does its work. "God..." Yunjin groans into the flesh. Her hands roam up to Kazuha's sides, and she digs her fingers in and holds her, rocking the woman's hips against her face. It's like she can't get enough, and the taste must be so fucking intoxicating.

You're back inside Yunjin, the end of the train. She shivers again, moans again. Her nails drag up the small of Kazuha's back, marking the line of her spine with the gentle red trails. Her teeth scrape against Kazuha's skin, and she presses the pad of her tongue between her asscheeks again.

Yunjin's dress is still bunched at the waist, you bunch it and then hold it firm: it pulls tight across her toned stomach and gives you a handle, a grip to hold. You thrust into her, hard. She groans into Kazuha, and in turn, Kazuha gasps into Xinyu.

You hear Xinyu moaning, a note that arcs and echoes and then tapers off again. Kazuha is humming, soft and quiet, and Yunjin groans deeply. When the three of you all start to sync up, to fall into one steady beat, it feels right. It's everything falling together. Waves on the sand.

Xinyu is gasping; her head is back, and her throat is exposed, and her body is writhing with pleasure. She has her fingers buried in Kazuha's hair, clutching at it desperately, as she rocks back onto her tongue, onto her mouth, her hips bucking erratically. You're fucking Yunjin in slow and deep thrusts that have her moaning and shuddering, her fingers gripping hard into the dancer's thighs, and she's eating that ass with hunger, her own body responding to each motion of your hips in a ripple of a wave that runs up her spine, one after the next after the next.

This was never meant to last. There is no way.

You're on edge. Xinyu's on the precipice, and Kazuha is shaking.

There is no way, you say it again, and that's how your mind feels: unsteady, untethered, and it's in that haze that you slip your free hand to Yunjin's hip and guide it under her, have her press two fingers into the slickness that's so familiar, that she knows so well. You tell her. "Make your girlfriend cum." It's not an order. You've no authority here, in the mess that this has become, but she does, doesn't she: she's the only one who could get someone to sing for the world to see.

It's just seconds after when she slips the digits up inside that the woman is shaking, her back arching, and she's moaning in tandem with the way her hips roll back on you. Yunjin's fingers plunge deeper inside, and Kazuha shivers in delight. And then there's the smallest cry of a sound, and she's spilling wet onto the hand that keeps pushing her down. "You're so beautiful, Kazu," Yunjin murmurs, the words muffled by how she's buried her face between those cheeks, she's so damn close to her own climax. Kazuha is trembling, shaking. She moans out her release into Xinyu's wet cunt.

Thighs clamp hard on Kazuha's head. "Yes—" Xinyu cries out, as her hips rock upwards, bucking on Kazuha's mouth as she rides the orgasm hard, hands at her own breasts, groping greedily as her tongue drags her bottom lip under white, teeth bared: it's like a growl, almost, or a snarl, her eyes open wide, but staring right through everything.

And that's what pushes you over. You grab hard onto Yunjin's hip, the bunched fabric of her dress. Your fingernails drag against her flesh as you rut into her, hips thrusting again and again. She can't help the gasp, the sound, as your nails scrape deep into her thigh. She's so sensitive. The skin so soft and so receptive to touch. That noise turns into a moan. You know the sounds of her now. She doesn't need to tell you. You know. The pace of her breathing changes, and you hear the breathy little whimpers. When she gasps and when her cunt flutters, you can tell that she's close. And you know, when she cums because of the shuddering that runs up her body, the tensing of her muscles and that moaning that starts low and quiet before it grows, and then it explodes out of her in a sudden burst, like fireworks.

Xinyu's curling a finger. A beckon. You have a place to take, kneeling over her, and a finish that she demands.

"You know what to do, don't you?" she teases, a laugh on the tip of her tongue: that sharp and mischievous smirk, and the eyes that gleam in the light.

"I do."

She turns her gaze on the couple on the floor, the girls who've sunk onto one another. You can hear Yunjin laughing. Kazuha's fingers trail over her face, tracing the outline. "Go ahead," Xinyu says to you: not permission but expectation.

She presents her face as if it's a canvas and, yeah, sure, maybe you've done this more times than you can count, but you've still got your hand on your dick and the other on the back of Xinyu's neck, rubbing like it's the first time, and—

There it goes.

"God," Yunjin groans, "that's pretty."

Kazuha's contented hum agrees. They both reach a hand out to run their fingers across the mess of your cum, spreading it across the smooth expanse of skin, painting their art of Xinyu. There are no lines, no patterns, just the abstract swirl and the smearing that follows.

"Should take a photo," Kazuha suggests. "For posterity's sake."

"Too late," Yunjin mutters as she leans in to lick at the slick of white on the woman's cheek.

Soon, they're both at it, cleaning your girlfriend like she was the world's finest delicacy. And she basks in the attention. The centre of it. She's used to that kind of spotlight, though you don't think anyone shines as bright as her.

Yunjin takes a mouthful, opening to show the white on her tongue, and then her lips collide with Xinyu's. The cum is passed, tongue-to-tongue, a kiss shared. They share it with each other, a kiss that is truly sordid. You hear Kazuha's moan of excitement before you even realise what's happening: she joins in, making the kiss a trio. Three mouths passing your cum back and forth and the sound of their soft moans of delight.

It's hard to fathom that this is only the beginning. It's almost as difficult to comprehend just how far it's already gone, and the truth, as you see it, is that it doesn't need to make sense. Some nights are destined for excess. Nights like these. With a trio like this. You're not asking for any answers: all you're asking is that the four of you sink deeper, lose yourself to it.

The girls break the kiss, and Xinyu says, "You know, he has this walk-in shower. The big kind." You can hear the smirk in her tone like she knows just the kind of trouble she'll cause with her words.

"Yeah? I bet we could all fit in it," Kazuha hums, and there's that look of hers again, a little devious but mostly playful: a look of a girl who just wants to please everyone she comes into contact with. She can't seem to get enough, and she's just dying for a taste of more. Her hands slide along both women's waists, pulling them in a tighter embrace. Xinyu looks at you.

"You did always say—"

"I did."

"And, honestly, there's no better—"

"I know," you tell her, climbing to your feet and holding out a hand. "Come on."

#Yunjin smut #Kazuha smut #Xinyu smut #lesserafim smut #triples smut #male reader #kpop smut #m reader #Kazuha x reader #praelmas #smut #kpop fanfic #Yunjin x reader #kazuha x yunjin #xinyu x reader #xinyu x yunjin #xinyu x kazuha #it's a hot mess #partner swapping

716 notes · View notes

partiallysame · 1 day ago

Note

How do you think the boys would act when Price's lil wife goes fun places? Like are they gonna freak out that the lifeguard looks at her in her bikini when they're at a water park?

You know I was just thinking the same thing

The first time you realized they were gonna be possessive was when they came over for dinner one night and you were wearing a cute lil hand made bracelet with a G on it. Kyle oh so excited to boast he must’ve been your favorite. G for Garrick right? No. Price came bursting his bubble stating “s’from her boyfriend Gerald” what the fuck kind of name is Gerald “met him at the rec center where she works out”. All three men were vibrating with jealousy. Were they not enough, you needed another one. Two days later they show up to the rec center and you come out of the bathroom to see the 3 soldiers pinning Gerald (a 10 year old boy who had a crush on you) to the wall, Kyle may or may not have had a knife in his hand. After that they each had their own weapon bowl by the door. You making them take out everything and put it in their personal bowl before leaving the house. The first couple times you patted them down to make sure. Johnny sure did like this part until you found a knife strapped to his ankle and he was banished to the middle backseat of the car for 3 weeks.

The second time was when you all went to the beach. Your body ody ody bangin in your bikini. Simon stayed fully clothed in all black “what are you wearing Si? “Swimsuit” no those are tac pants. You oblivious to all the stares you were getting until all of a sudden Simon was on top of the lifeguard tower. How the hell did he get up there? The lifeguard was wondering the same question when the giant man in black showed up 10ft in the air behind him “keep your eyes on the water. Not my wife”.

The third time was when you went out for girls night. Tight dress in which you had to pry 4 sets of hands off of you to be able to leave the house. “We can drive you” no being drunk in the Uber is half the fun. The moment you left the house so did they. Full stealth mode. Following you from bar to bar to make sure you were safe and no creepy beady eyes found you. The first few guys to approach you were never there for a few seconds before accepting your decline to dance “ya you better be respectful dipshit” although each man was clenching their fist watching men ogle you (just like they did when they met you). But then one guy wasn’t taking no for an answer. You felt a tap on your shoulder (Kyle) but turned to see no one there. When you turned back the drunk man was gone oh well. Was he face down in the concrete outside after being pulled out of the bar in a chokehold? Yes. End of the night you called John to come get you (he knew you would you always did but he def didn’t tell the boys that) so while you got in the car all giddy, Price waved to the boys who were standing on the sidewalk still outside the bar scrambling to get back to the car and home to cutesy drunk you.

#prices lil wife #cod x reader #poly!141 #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #tf 141 #cod modern warfare #kyle gaz garrick #john price #fluff #blurb #ghost #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader

544 notes · View notes

beloveds-embrace · 1 day ago

Text

(dukedom au, but you are gone for a week cue four men yearning)

The estate feels terribly empty without you.

At first, John tells himself it is only because the house is large and his duties are many. It is a fine excuse- an easy one. He can pretend, for a little while, that his mood is not soured by the absence of your voice at breakfast, by the fact that your perfume no longer lingers in the halls, by the cold, empty side of the bed where you normally sleep.

A week. A mere week, and yet John feels as though you have been gone an eternity.

The others are no better.

Johnny, usually so full of mirth, lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary, creating dish after dish that no one eats. He sets out a plate for you at every meal, stares at it as if willing you to appear. Sometimes, in a fit of frustration, he abandons the dining table entirely and takes his meals in the kitchen, where the staff quietly shuffle around him, their own hearts aching for the absence of their beloved duchess.

Kyle keeps himself busy, burying himself in the estate’s affairs. He goes over reports he has already read twice over, polishes the silverware himself when he thinks no one is looking. John finds him in your sitting room one evening, carefully dusting the spines of your books, though that is hardly his duty.

And Simon, ever so composed, ever so unreadable, is perhaps the worst of them all. He disappears for hours at a time, taking long, aimless rides through the countryside, returning only when the moon has risen high in the sky. He never says where he goes, and no one dares ask, but John knows it is longing that chases him from the estate. When he is not riding, he is haunting your parlor, sitting in your chair by the fire, fingers tracing over the embroidery of the cushion you had so painstakingly stitched by hand.

John had thought himself a patient man. He had been patient when you were wed, when you were shy and uncertain in his home. He had been patient when you discovered his lovers, when you had laughed instead of recoiled, when you had slowly, slowly, let yourself be drawn into their warmth.

But this- this absence of you-

John is not patient now.

He receives your letters, of course. Short, sweet things, penned in your careful hand. You speak of your relative’s health, of the weather, of how you miss the estate and the men who reside in it. You ask if Simon is eating properly, if Kyle is getting enough sleep, if Johnny is not overworking himself. And John- you ask of him too.

I dream of you, my love. I think of you often. Of all of you. Do you think of me?

John exhales, rubbing a hand over his beard as he stares at the parchment. He is sitting at his desk, the candlelight flickering, casting long shadows over the room.

Do you even need to ask?

He folds the letter carefully, setting it atop the others in his drawer. The mere thought of you dreaming of him makes his body ache in ways he cannot put to words, even as he pens a reply for you. He does not mention how empty and lifeless the the estate is without you- you must be worried already by your relative’s health and tired still from the long journey. He can’t put more on your plate.

Though, he hates how the days pass slowly.

By nightfall, John sits alone in the drawing room, a fire crackling low in the hearth, but the seat beside him is empty. Your embroidery frame remains untouched. He glances at it, at the last piece you had been working on- a delicate bloom of violets, only half-finished- and finds himself running a finger over the fine thread.

“Ridiculous.” He mutters under his breath. And yet, he does not move from his place, staring into the fire as if waiting for the sound of your footsteps.

In the kitchen, Johnny kneads dough with more force than necessary, his arms sore from the effort. He does not complain, but his movements are sharp, restless.

Johnny knew he would miss you. He had expected it, had braced for it when he kissed your cheek in parting and told you to travel safely. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.

The kitchen is too still. He finds himself setting out two teacups in the morning instead of one, expecting to hear your soft voice asking what was for breakfast. He catches himself reaching for the honey you like, only to stop halfway and set it back down with a sigh.

He spends more time than usual baking, filling the kitchen with scents of warm bread, sweet pastries, things you love. The staff enjoy it, of course, but they aren’t you. They don’t smile at him with that particular look in their eyes, don’t sneak tastes of jam off the spoon when they think he isn’t looking.

On the fourth evening without you, Johnny sits at the long dining table, his hands folded in front of him as he stared at the empty chair where you usually sat.

“I should’ve gone with her.” He mutters, drumming his fingers against the polished wood.

“You wouldn’t have been allowed,” Kyle replies, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “She wouldn’t let you drop everything just to follow her like a lost pup.”

Johnny huffs, but he doesn’t argue.

Kyle, ever dutiful, remains composed, but there is an air of unease about him. The routine of the estate is well-kept, yet something is missing. Someone is missing. He finds himself checking the front gates more often than usual, as if expecting your carriage to appear earlier than usual.

Kyle keeps himself busy. He always did, and this week is no exception. The house still needs running, duties still need tending. But even as he works, he feels the weight of your absence like a missing piece of a puzzle.

He notices it in the small things. The way the household staff move, more subdued, missing the warmth you carried into every room. The way the evening routine feels… off. You had a habit of lingering in the hallways after supper, speaking softly with the maids, the footmen, offering a kind word or a knowing glance when someone needed it.

Without you, the house feels colder.

Kyle does not sigh or linger by windows, does not wallow the way Johnny or John do. But on the fifth day, when he enters the library to set fresh candles, he pauses by your reading chair. One of your books lays open, a silk ribbon marking your place. He reaches for it, smoothing a hand over the page before exhaling slowly and setting it back down.

That night, he locked the doors a little later than usual, waiting- just a little longer- for the sound of your return.

Simon, meanwhile, says nothing. He does not pine aloud, nor does he linger like the others. And yet, there is no denying that your absence gnawed at him.

He had been the last to fall for you, the last to let you into his heart. He thought himself made of colder things, of old scars and solitude, yet you had settled into his life as if you had always belonged.

And now, you were gone.

Simon finds himself drawn to your rooms, not stepping inside, but lingering just outside the threshold. He will not enter without you there. But he stands in the hallway sometimes, late at night when even the candles had burned low, and simply… listens.

There is no sound beyond the distant hoot of an owl. No soft breathing, no rustle of your gown as you move through the rooms.

He closes his eyes.

“Come home soon, Duchess.” He murmurs, voice lost to the empty halls.

The estate is not whole without you.

By the seventh day, they are restless.

John stands at the front of the house, hands clasped behind his back as he stares down the road. Johnny hovers in the entrance hall, pacing. Kyle has ensured everything is perfectly arranged for your return. Simon has taken to standing in the courtyard, watching the horizon.

And then- at last- the distant rumble of carriage wheels.

They do not rush, do not appear desperate, but the moment your carriage comes into view, relief ripples through them.

The door opens. You step out, your gaze sweeping over them- soft, surprised at the intensity of their presence. And then you smile, and it is as if the week of longing melts away in an instant.

John steps forward first, taking your gloved hand and kissing it, but his grip lingers. Johnny barely restrains himself from pulling you into an embrace. Kyle exhales, tension easing from his shoulders. Simon says nothing, but the way he looks at you speaks volumes.

“You’re home, Duchess.” John murmurs.

Your smile widens. “I am.”

And at last, the house is warm again.

Dukedom au masterlist

579 notes · View notes

monstersholygrail · 2 days ago

Text

Yandere Best Friend

Male Yandere x Gender Neutral Reader A night out with your friends proves challenging for your best friend, leaving him to try and prove to you why he’s better.

Yandere!Best Friend and you, Oblivious!Reader, are quite the pair. Honestly, everyone around you two can see just how obsessed he is with you. He doesn’t even bother to hide it, knowing you won’t realize what’s happening anyway.

Yan!Best Friend who, without fail, anytime sees you talking to a guy (no matter how platonic and friendly) will sneak up behind you, drawing you back tightly into his chest and give your cheek a wet kiss hello.

Though his eyes never leave the man before you, his deadly gaze screaming ‘Yeah, that’s right. They’re already taken.’ Meanwhile you didn’t think a thing of it. You knew he just found you too irresistible not to give a sweet lil smooch.

Yan!Best Friend who hates going out because isn’t it just so much better when it’s only you and him anyway? All cozied up together in his apartment with his three deadbolt locks. But the minute you tell him you’re going out to a bar with your friends, he’s suddenly a social butterfly, insisting he come with you. ‘Only wanna make sure you’ll be safe, baby.’

And when the table you all sit at is one chair short, his lap is conveniently right there for you to slide into. Given there’s not possibly another option (according to him) you do so happily.

Yan!Best Friend who quickly remembers all of the many reasons he’s slowly been distancing you from all your other friends. Hanging out with them is practically torture for him.

He spends the whole time sulking and pouting at the fact that he has to share you. His patience thinning every time you laugh at one of their jokes. He’s hung out with your friends plenty of times before. They’re not funny. Not funnier than him, anyway.

And when he gently grips your chin between his fingers and brings your attention back on him, all your friends send him these knowing glares that just get on his nerves. But you just look at him expectantly, your innocent self waiting for him to speak.

He’s not one to let you down so he leans in close, whispering a silly little joke just between you two that sends you into a fit of giggles. It eases the tensions in his shoulders and makes him think your friends might get out of this unscathed. He wouldn’t want you sad after all.

Yan!Best Friend who helps you as you stumble out of the bar with the rest of the group. When your friend offers to drive you home cause your place is on the way, his hands squeeze your hips, unwilling to let you go. ‘No, no, I can take care of them just fine.’ He doesn’t bother to hide the possessiveness in his tone.

He waits in a silent standoff between him and your friend until you break the tension by launching yourself at him. Placing a sloppy kiss to his cheek— because it’s ok, best friends kiss when it’s you and him— and begging for him to take you home. Your friend just sighs, telling you to text them when you get home so they know you’re ok before heading to their taxi.

Oh, it’ll be ok. He’ll make sure by turning your phone off the second he can slip it out of your palm. Softly telling you that he just doesn’t want you to drop it.

Yan!Best Friend who just can’t seem to keep his hands to himself as you two stumble into his apartment. Where it’s safe. His hands run all over your smooth silky skin and when you ask what he’s doing he murmurs softly in your ear, ‘Don’t want cha to fall now, do we, darling?’

You know he’s just taking care of you as he helps you to his bed. You whine and whimper about how you ache all over. An appreciative sigh leaving you as he slips off your shoes and runs his hands along your legs. Massaging out the aches, that’s all. When he crawls into bed with you, you nuzzle in closer and he’s right there to mold your body perfectly to his.

You can’t blame him for cuddling you in return when he continues to massage and caress your body. One hand traveling down your spine while the other wraps around your leg, hooking it over his waist as his fingers tease your inner thigh. Inching higher and higher. Whispering soothing sweet nothings in your ear.

‘Hold on tight honey, I’m here. I’ll make you feel alllll better…’

650 notes · View notes

superbat-love · 3 days ago

Text

Kal stared in disbelief at the salad Bruce was served—an omega special. Without hesitation, Kal went to the alpha buffet table, piling a plate high with various cuts of meat. Returning to Bruce’s table, he set the plate in front of him.

"You need more protein," Kal said firmly.

Bruce raised an eyebrow but split the portions with Kal, watching him take a bite first before cautiously following suit.

Dinner was mostly quiet on Bruce’s end. Kal made several attempts to start conversations, but Bruce’s responses remained curt. That is, until the topic of family came up.

"My son, Tim, got into college," Bruce said, his tone softening. "He’s the first omega to be accepted into the academic research program."

"That’s impressive," Kal said, intrigued. "Sounds like he’s forging his own path."

Bruce nodded, a hint of pride in his eyes. The conversation flowed more smoothly between them until a large bald alpha suddenly joined their table, uninvited.

The alpha gave Kal a dismissive once-over before focusing solely on Bruce. "Wayne. Fancy meeting you here," he said, his voice laced with disdain. "I heard Jason caused trouble again. Like father, like son."

“Warden Ranken,” Bruce greeted him coolly. "Jason shouldn’t have been there in the first place."

Ranken snorted. "There are no prisons for omegas like him. Do you know how many riots he incited in gen pop? The only reason he’s out is because your oldest pulled some strings. How long do you think you can hide behind your alpha son’s protection?"

Kal noticed Bruce’s hands tighten around his fork, his usual composure slipping.

"You should leave," Kal warned Ranken.

Ranken sneered. "You should stop wasting your time with a defective omega like—"

Before Ranken could finish, Kal lunged across the table, sinking his fangs into Ranken’s arm.

The Omega Queen AU

522 notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 12 hours ago

Note

Hope you can do this-

WE TOTALLY NEED t141 with a wife reader doing that one TikTok trend about standing naked in front of them, like they could be watching a rugby game and reader comes into the room with nothing but a towel on, drops the towel, completely flashes them and then leaves 😂

(you can do gender neutral if you don't want to do a female reader 💕)

HA! OKAY! I know this trend! I've seen videos of it before. Love, love, love this idea, anon. I could have gone real smutty, but I controlled myself (shocking, I know) and only went a bit cheeky (lol) with it. I hope you have a good laugh or smile while reading. Enjoy!!

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, non-descriptive nudity, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, shenanigans, swearing, implied sexual content

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

The documents are sprawled out across the dining room table. John has been pouring over them for hours, considering every bit of information, determining importance.

In his peripheral, you float about, a moving shadow that appears and disappears as you roam the house. John would like to spend time with you, to bask in your presence, but it’s not to be. This is far too important to merely set aside.

For a time, you disappear, then your shadow emerges again. John expects you to continue on, but you linger, and it draws his attention up and away from the documents.

You stand before him in nothing but a fluffy white towel. Your skin, that of what he can see, is slightly wet as if you’ve just emerged from the shower.

“Love?” he prompts.

You don’t speak. You simply drop the towel.

All thoughts of the upcoming mission leave John’s head. In its place is your nakedness and the rushing of blood to his dick as it hardens.

As words form on his tongue, you abruptly turn, giving him a full view of your bare ass.

Fuck it, John thinks as he pushes back his chair.

The mission can fucking wait.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny’s tongue sticks out from between his teeth. It’s just a sliver of pink—a hint of the concentration brewing in his gaze.

“Come on,” he mutters, clicking the buttons on the controller. “Come on.”

He’s off. Away from work. Enjoying the comforts of home.

You appear from the right, directly between the television and the couch. Johnny notices but says nothing. When you don’t move away, he glances over. You’re in nothing but a fluffy, white towel.

“Coming to join me, love?” he asks with a wink.

As a reply, you smirk, and then drop the towel you’re wearing. It pools at your feet.

Johnny’s gaze completely shifts in your direction. He stares…and stares, the video game forgotten. You’re completely naked, looking goddamn delicious. All the blood in his brain promptly rushes to between his legs, building an aching need that grows by the second.

And you’re…walking away? No. You should be sitting in his lap right now. You should be on his dick.

“Oi!” he shouts, standing abruptly, the controller clattering to the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, and Johnny melts under that look. Desire hangs heavy, and Johnny decides right then that the game can wait.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle leans against the kitchen counter, his gaze distant as Price chatters away in his ear. They’ve been on the phone for five minutes—a new record for Price who thinks cellphones are evil incarnate—and the man won’t shut up.

“No,” says Kyle, keeping his tone neutral. “I hear you. It’s a fucking mess that one.”

You appear from around the corner in nothing but a towel. Kyle smirks in your general direction, extending one arm toward you with the intent to draw you close to him. But you do not approach. You remain completely out of reach.

Frowning, Kyle pushes off from the counter. The words begin to form on his lips and then promptly disappear when you abruptly drop the towel.

His mouth hangs open, breath stolen, with gaze fixated on all that nakedness.

Price is still talking—still jabbering.

Kyle hears none of it. Price’s voice becomes a low buzz as all of Kyle’s attention goes from his head to his dick.

“Captain,” he manages to gasp out as you dart away down the hall. “Captain. I have to go.”

Kyle doesn’t wait for Price’s affirmative. He ends the call, legs already moving to follow you.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon lifts the hammer, intent on striking the nail to push it further into the wall.

Just as he brings his arm down, a shadow appears in his peripheral. Within him is a tug—an insistent urge to look and seek out the source of the movement.

And Simon does.

Shifting his head just enough for the shadow to become solid, Simon’s gaze falls upon the one person he loves most in this world. It’s only seconds that pass, but his brain registers everything about your figure in an instant. It’s your exposed skin, then the towel wrapped around your body, to you opening it up to reveal the nakedness underneath, only for you to drop the towel where it pools on the floor.

The hammer comes crashing down, but Simon doesn’t notice that the trajectory has shifted. Not until it falls, and misses the nail, coming down on his hand.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he growls, staring down at his now throbbing thumb.

Simon glances up, ready to tell you off, but you’re already walking away, bare ass on full display.

You naught thing. Distracting him on purpose.

Simon sets down the hammer, following, intent on teaching you a lesson.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@fern-reads @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

@saoirse06 @glassgulls @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307

@itsberrydreemurstuff @z-wantstowrite @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie

@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @glassgulls @greeniegreengreen

582 notes · View notes

vanteguccir · 2 days ago

Text

── ୨୧ !　NOT AN UBER DRIVER

⋆౨ৎ˚ — matt sturniolo x reader

SUMMARY: Where a very much drunk Y/N, glasses-less, and leaving a party, hops into what she thinks is her Uber, only to be greeted by Matt, a cute guy who is definitely not her Uber driver.

WARNING: Being drunk, feeling sick.

REQUESTED?: No.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: I saw this TikTok last week and thought 'why not?', it felt like a funny idea, so I hope yall like it 🤍.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

The bass thumped through the pavement, the kind of deep, rolling sound that reverberated in her bones and made the ground feel unsteady beneath her feet.

Or maybe that was just the tequila. Hard to tell.

Either way, the party was starting to blur together, flashes of neon lights, the distant echo of laughter, the lingering scent of something vaguely sweet and smoky in the air.

Y/N blinked, trying to focus on her phone screen. The tiny glowing numbers refused to sit still, swimming in and out of focus as she squinted at them.

Where the hell were her glasses?

Right. In her purse. Or maybe on someone’s table. Or maybe gone forever. It didn’t really matter at this point. What mattered was that her Uber was here.

Probably.

The app had just pinged her, and that was her cue to leave.

With the kind of confidence only a drunk girl could have, she swiped a hand through her hair, straightened her posture like that would somehow make her seem more composed, and made her way toward the line of parked cars outside the mansion. The LA air was cooler out here, crisp against her flushed skin.

She hummed to herself, stumbling slightly as she approached the row of black and silver vehicles. Was it the black Honda? Or the black SUV? Or-

Whatever, doesn’t matter.

Uber drivers always had those tiny stickers on the window, right? Not that she could see them without her glasses.

So, with absolutely no hesitation, Y/N reached for the handle of a random car and slid into the passenger seat like she did this every day. The leather was warm from sitting under the LA heat, the faint scent of something salty and familiar lingering in the air.

She barely had time to register the fact that the driver hadn’t greeted her before she clicked her seatbelt into place and sighed.

"Hey, Uber driver who I don’t know the name of because I don’t have my glasses with me." She said, head lolling slightly to the side as she glanced toward the figure beside her.

Matt Sturniolo was staring at her like he had just witnessed a crime.

His fingers hovered frozen over the fast-food bag in his lap, his wide blue eyes reflecting pure, unfiltered what the actual fuck energy. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, his grip tightening ever so slightly around a lone onion ring.

Y/N, oblivious to the sheer level of distress she had just caused, frowned at him. Weirdly quiet guy.

Then, without missing a beat, Matt cleared his throat, glanced at his onion ring, and started talking.

"Hey... uh. Do you want an onion ring?"

Y/N blinked at him. Processing.

Then, after too many seconds, she shrugged.

"Sure, why not."

And just like that, she took the onion ring from his fingers - that was already bitten -, popped it into her mouth, and chewed.

The onion ring was good. Like, really good. Crispy, salty, the kind of satisfying crunch that felt almost poetic in the moment. Or maybe that was just her messy taste buds. Either way, Y/N sat there, chewing thoughtfully, completely unfazed by the fact that the guy next to her - her supposed Uber driver - had yet to say much beyond offering her fast food.

She swallowed, then licked a bit of salt off her lip before shifting in her seat. It was only then that she noticed something was... off.

They weren’t moving.

The car was still in park, engine humming softly, headlights illuminating the empty stretch of road ahead.

She furrowed her brows, glancing at him.

"Hey, I’m all good to go!" She announced, clapping her hands together like this was some kind of Uber check-in process. "You can start driving now."

Matt, still mildly stunned and feeling lost, blinked at her. Then, after a pause, he cleared his throat, preparing himself to make her leave his KIA.

"Miss, I'm not-" Matt stopped himself, jaw tensing.

He could think she was insane and reckless all he wanted, but he sure wasn’t about to let a drunk girl figure out how to get home alone. Not in this city. Not when she could barely stand straight without swaying like a damn cartoon character.

He let out a slow exhale, cleaning his dirty fingers on the napkin laying above the car console.

"You know what? What’s the address?"

Oh. Right. Addresses.

Y/N blinked at him, then at her phone, the glowing letters on the screen looking like they were written in an ancient, forbidden language that her brain had no capacity to decipher right now. She squinted hard, her mouth moving in a silent test run before she finally read them aloud, not even realizing that the Uber app would’ve already handled this for her. If he was her Uber driver at all.

Matt just nodded, turning to his GPS and tapping in the location like this was just another casual night.

But just as he finished, a text notification popped up on the screen.

Nick: We’re leaving in 10. U there?

Matt glanced at it for half a second.

And then?

He ignored it.

His fingers hovered over the screen, but instead of bothering to answer, he just drove his attention to the road, shifted gears, and put his car in motion.

The engine hummed smoothly, the low rumble cutting through the quiet night as the car rolled onto the road, the distant echoes of the party fading into the background.

Y/N exhaled dramatically, sinking further into the passenger seat, trying to focus on the soft hum of the car rather than the growing ache in her head.

After a beat, she glanced over at Matt - really looked at him for the first time. His dark shirt, the way his fingers decorated with silver rings drummed lightly on the steering wheel, the faint glow of streetlights casting sharp angles across his bearded face making his features pop in the kind of way that made her want to run a hand through her hair and pretend she wasn’t so clearly out of it.

He was cute. Like, annoyingly cute.

"Are all Ubers that work past midnight this pretty?" She asked, her words dripping with playful sincerity.

Matt’s eyes widened, his grip on the wheel tightening just a little as his mouth opened, and then, realizing he wasn’t choking on anything, he did exactly that, choked on nothing. For a split second, he glanced at her, looking like a deer caught in headlights before snapping his gaze back to the road.

"What?" He asked, his voice going a little higher than usual, almost like a weird, adorable squeak.

Y/N raised her eyebrows, tilting her head like she was explaining the weather.

"I mean, it’s a fair question, right? I feel like this must be an exclusive, midnight-only service you’ve got going here."

Matt’s eyes flicked over to her again, his face a mixture of confusion, shock, and something a lot like embarrassment. He cleared his throat as if it would somehow help him regain some composure, but it only made the situation more awkward, and infinitely more endearing.

"... I... I’m not-" He atarted, though his voice was barely a whisper as he struggled to keep his attention on the road.

"Wait." She interrupted him abruptly, turning fully toward him now, gasping softly. "Are you one of those cool Uber drivers?"

Matt let out a breathy, shocked laugh through his nose, shaking his head with the sudden change of humor.

"What- what do you mean ‘cool Uber driver’?"

"You know." She gestured vaguely. "The ones who let me blast my music and give me free snacks."

Matt hummed, tilting his head in mock consideration.

"I don’t know. What kind of music are we talking?"

Y/N gasped, clutching her chest.

"As if that’s even a question. The best kind, duh."

Matt raised a brow. For him, the best kind was Mac Miller.

"Which is...?"

She grinned, already reaching for his aux cord like it was her car.

"I could tell you, but I’d rather show you."

Matt didn’t stop her. He just exhaled another amused breath through his nose, watching through the corner of his eye as she scrolled furiously through her playlists, her brows furrowing in deep concentration. Then, with a triumphant little hum, she hit play.

The car instantly filled with the unmistakable opening notes of Tik Tok by Kesha.

Matt’s grip on the steering wheel twitched. Y/N, completely unbothered, turned to him with the most serious expression possible.

"This is non-negotiable. You must sing."

Matt scoffed.

"I must?"

"It’s a legally binding agreement the second Kesha starts playing." She said matter-of-factly.

Matt shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite himself.

"I don’t think that’s how the law works."

"You think the law has power over Kesha?" She gasped. "Over me?"

Matt laughed. A real laugh this time. Low and warm and easy.

Nick would've loved her.

Y/N, taking this as a win, nodded firmly before dramatically belting out the lyrics, all while drumming her hands against her thighs like this was a full-on concert.

"BEFORE I LEAVE BRUSH MY TEETH WITH A BOTTLE OF JACK-"

Matt winced.

"Jesus Christ."

"- CAUSE WHEN I LEAVE FOR THE NIGHT, I AIN'T COMING BACK!"

Matt, to his credit, didn’t crash the car. He just huffed out another laugh, shaking his head as he reached into the Burger King bag and held out another onion ring.

"Here. Please, for the love of God, chew."

Y/N gasped again, snatching the onion ring dramatically.

"Are you trying to silence me?"

"A little bit."

She narrowed her eyes, biting into it slowly, all while maintaining intense eye contact.

"You fear my talent."

Matt let out a small chuckle, adjusting his grip on the wheel.

"I fear for my eardrums."

Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically, taking another bite of the onion ring. She chewed happily for a few seconds, but then, suddenly, her jaw slowed.

A weird, unsettling feeling rolled through her stomach like a warning siren, and before she could process it, nausea hit her like a wave. Everything inside her flipped, her stomach twisting unpleasantly. She swallowed thickly, her throat tightening, her whole body stilling.

Matt noticed instantly.

"Hey, hey, hey." He said, his voice dipping into something soft, immediately catching onto her discomfort.

His reaction was so quick that before she could even think, he had already taken one hand off the wheel, reaching toward her. His fingers brushed against hers, gently but firmly taking the half-eaten onion ring from her grasp, tossing it effortlessly back into the bag.

And then, without a moment's hesitation, he paused the song and rolled down her window.

The cool night air rushed inside, hitting her face in a gentle, relieving gust, playing with the strands of her hair and making them dance in the wind, cooling down her warm face.

Matt's hand went back to the wheel, but his eyes flicked toward her every couple of seconds.

"You good? Want me to pull over?"

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the fresh air like it was her lifeline. Her fingers gripped the side of the seat, her head tilting slightly toward the breeze, trying to ground herself.

"Ugh, no, no, I'm fine." She muttered, still a little off-balance. "It just hit me weird. I think my stomach was like, 'Oh, cool, fried food after a night of drinking? Let's ruin this bitch'."

Matt huffed a small laugh.

"Yeah, well, if your stomach starts a full-on rebellion, let me know before it declares war all over my car."

"Don't be mean about it, Uber driver."

Y/N’s voice came out small and pouty, her bottom lip jutting out dramatically as she turned toward him, blinking slowly to ward off the dizziness that followed the nausea.

Matt glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, trying so hard not to laugh at the ridiculous, genuinely heartbroken expression on her face.

"I wasn’t being mean-"

"Yes, you were."

"I was just-"

"So mean."

Her voice wobbled just slightly, and suddenly Matt’s stomach dropped.

Oh, shit.

She was about to cry.

Matt had never dealt with a drunk, emotional person before, and definitely not a stranger one. His brain scrambled for literally anything to do, anything at all, before full-on tears started spilling down her cheeks.

"Hey, no. Don't cry, sweetheart."

The second the pet name left his lips, Y/N’s entire demeanor shifted.

Her tears stopped, and her face softened, lips slightly parted, like she had just witnessed a miracle.

"Sweetheart?"

Matt froze.

Oh, fuck.

Matt glanced around, suddenly feeling too warm, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel like it was his lifeline. His heart was pounding, and she was still staring at him, blinking up at him like he had just given her the most precious gift in the world.

And he needed to fix this immediately.

Without another word, he reached for the smart screen, his fingers quickly tapping it to press play on the song he had paused minutes before.

The second the sound of Kesha's voice blasted through the car again, Y/N’s mood did a complete 180°. Her face lit up, eyes widening as if she had just been brought back to life.

"Oh, shit- KESHA!"

And just like that, everything was gone.

The near-tears were gone, the heartbreak about his comment had vanished, and she was singing again, full volume, completely unapologetic, her hands moving wildly as she danced in her seat.

Matt let out a slow breath, his heart still beating too fast.

Between a 2000's song here and drunk comments there about how she ended up taking way too many jello shots with a dude named Brad who refused to say what he actually did for life or how she ended up getting locked in a bathroom because some drunk couple mistook the stall for a VIP lounge, the car slowed, turning onto a familiar street.

Matt glanced at his GPS, then out the window, before finally shifting into park. He reached for the smart screen, lowering the volume to a minimum before looking at her, voice soft.

"Alright, this is you."

Y/N blinked, then turned her head to look outside.

And- oh.

It was her place.

Huh.

For a second, she just... stared at it. The streetlights, the familiar shape of her front door, the welcome mat that she’d impulsively bought months ago because it said "Hot Girls Live Here".

She chewed on her lip, hesitating for half a second before sighing dramatically.

"Welp. Bye bye, mister Uber driver."

Matt hummed, nodding, but didn’t say anything. So she grabbed her purse and reached for the door handle.

The second she swung it open and stepped out, however, the ground tilted.

Okay, not literally, but it sure as hell felt like it. Her legs wobbled, the world spinning ever so slightly, and before she could even blink, a warm hand wrapped around her arm, steadying her.

"Whoa, hey."

Y/N blinked down at him, her vision slightly wobbly, her brain playing catch-up.

Matt was still in his seat, halfway over the center console, one arm stretched out to keep her from completely face-planting onto the pavement. His fingers curled securely around her forearm, firm but careful, like she was a newborn deer that had just taken its first, very questionable, steps.

"Damn, got two left feet there, huh?" He muttered, lips twitching. "You good?"

Y/N laughed way too hard than any sober person would. Like, actual tears in her eyes hard. And then, as if to prove just how not good she was, she swayed again before flopping back onto the seat with a little bounce.

Matt raised a brow, biting back his own chuckle. It wasn’t even a good joke.

Still giggling, Y/N reached out blindly, pressing a palm to his arm.

"You’re so funny."

However, her face falls shortly after, her brows knitting together, laced with a curious gaze as she slides her fingers around his skin in search of the swallows inked onto his whole arm.

Matt tensed slightly, watching her fingertips skate across the ink on his forearm, brushing over lines and shading with gentle curiosity.

"Having fun there?" He wet his lips.

"Yeah." She nodded enthusiastically - too enthusiastically, because a second later, she froze as dizziness smacked into her like a truck for the second time.

Matt swore internally. His skin was heating way too much for a guy who had a fully intoxicated girl petting his arm like it was a damn artifact.

Okay. Time to move.

"Alright!" His voice came out way louder than he intended, and he immediately regretted it. He cleared his throat again, slowly untangling his arm from her grasp. "Stay right there."

And before she could even attempt a protest, he was already moving.

Y/N blinked as she watched him step out, rounding the front of the car in a few easy strides. His shirt riding up slightly, his keys jingling from his belt loop, his hair shifting slightly with the breeze.

And then, suddenly, he was right in front of her.

Without hesitation, he reached for her purse on the ground, slinging it over his own shoulder, and held out a hand.

"C’mon."

Y/N just stared at him. Then at his hand. Then at his very serious expression. Her brain took a moment before her arm finally moved.

The moment Matt’s fingers wrapped around Y/N’s hand, his skin was all she could feel.

His palm was warm, the kind of warmth that felt steadying. But it wasn’t just that. It was smooth, too, except for the slightly rougher patches right at the base of his fingers - the callouses from years of drumming.

Her drunken brain latched onto the detail immediately.

"Oh, wow." She blurted out, squeezing his hand. "Your hands are so soft. Like silk."

Matt blinked, looking at their joined hands for a second before glancing back up at her, his lips twitching.

"First time anyone’s ever told me they feel like silk. I’m flattered."

Y/N hummed dramatically, still holding onto him.

"You should be. It’s a big deal."

Matt let out a small chuckle before giving her fingers a quick, firm squeeze back.

With a giggle, Y/N finally let herself be pulled up, swaying a little too much in the process, but before she could even stumble, Matt moved, gently grabbing her arm, pulling it over his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

And wow.

Wow.

He was warm. And solid. And smelled like onion rings and rich cologne and some kind of softness that made her stomach flip in ways she refused to unpack right now.

"Watch your feet."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Matt had no idea what time it was when they finally reached her porch, but it was definitely late. The kind of late that made the streetlights buzz a little louder, the air feel a little colder, and his patience with this drunk, ridiculous girl stretch dangerously thin.

Not that he actually minded.

If anything, it was insanely cute how she was just sitting there now, slumped in the wooden chair like some kind of defeated heroine. Her arms were dangling off the armrests, legs stretched out in front of her, head tilted back dramatically, and mascara forming black trails below her eyes.

Matt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I said stay still."

Y/N let out a deep, theatrical sigh, still moving her legs like a swing.

"I am still."

Matt exhaled through his nose.

"No, you’re not. You’re-" He gestured vaguely toward her. "You'll fall from there."

She waved a limp hand in his direction.

"Whatever."

Matt groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He had the idea that trying to argue with a drunk person was a lost cause, so instead of wasting his breath, he turned to the front door.

And then realized the next problem.

She wasn’t going to open it.

Because she was currently treating that wooden chair like it was a swing and she was a kid after school time.

Matt turned back to her, eyebrows raised.

"You got your keys?"

Y/N, still dramatically draped over the chair, gave him a lazy thumbs-up.

"Yup."

Matt stared at her expectantly.

She didn’t move.

Matt sighed.

"Okay. Where?"

Y/N blinked up at him. Then, as if the idea had just occurred to her, she pointed toward the black purse still dangling off his shoulder.

Matt stared at it, then back at her.

"Can I open it?"

Y/N, without even lifting her head, simply flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture.

Matt huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

"That’s not an answer."

She made the motion again, this time more dramatic.

Matt rolled his eyes but obeyed, carefully pulling the purse to the front of him and unzipping it. He was quick in the way he searched, making sure not to look too closely at whatever chaos was inside.

Luckily, it didn’t take long.

After just a few seconds, his fingers closed around a set of keys, the keychain a glittery pink monstrosity.

Matt smirked.

Shaking his head, he straightened up and moved to the front door, unlocking it with ease before turning back toward her.

And then came the next problem.

Because the second he reached out to help her stand, he realized just how much of a mess this was about to be.

Y/N, for all her earlier confidence, was absolutely useless on her feet now.

Like, actually useless.

The moment he pulled her up, she practically folded against him, her entire body weight leaning into his chest like she had no bones whatsoever.

"Jesus, dude." Matt barely had time to adjust, his arms scrambling to keep her upright. "You gotta help me here."

Y/N, her cheek now fully pressed against his shoulder, let out a content sigh.

"Mmm, comfy."

Matt let out a silent scream into the night.

This was impossible.

He couldn’t just drag her inside like some kind of caveman, and carrying her? Not happening. He wasn't the weakest, sure, but she was a whole human person.

So, instead, he opted for shuffling.

Painfully.

Slowly.

Awkwardly.

It was a process, but eventually, after what felt like an entire century, he managed to get her through the front door.

And the moment they stepped inside, he was hit with her world.

From the soft, warm lighting to the overflowing bookshelf in the corner to the cozy, mismatched cushions draped over the couch to the little Polaroid pictures stuck to the fridge.

It was lived-in, personal, comforting.

Matt blinked, taking it in for half a second before remembering the deadweight in his arms.

With a final exhale, he maneuvered them toward the big couch, practically collapsing with her as he eased her down, making sure she didn’t just flop like a ragdoll.

Once she was settled, he knelt beside her, hesitating before brushing some stray hair from her eyes.

"You good?"

Y/N, blinking sleepily up at him, nodded.

"Mhm."

Matt sighed, patting her knee.

"You should lay down."

Y/N huffed, but obliged, shifting so she could stretch out across the cushions.

Matt watched her for a second, waiting.

"You comfortable?"

Y/N, eyes half-lidded, gave him a slow, lazy grin.

"I would be more comfortable if you cuddled me, blue eyes."

Matt froze.

Yeah, okay. He should definitely go.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The unforgiving brightness of the sun pierced through Y/N’s closed eyelids, an intrusive, blaring light that made her face scrunch in discomfort.

Weird.

Her room had blackout curtains, ones she had spent way too much money on to ensure that early mornings wouldn’t include the added torture of daylight exposure.

Her brows knit together, confusion settling in before she even opened her eyes.

And then, slowly, she did.

Only to be met with the wrong ceiling.

Y/N blinked, her brain sluggishly catching up to the fact that this was not her bedroom.

Then, she registered other things; her body feeling heavy under too many layers of clothes, the sticky sensation of dried makeup clinging to her skin, and, worst of all, the absolute tragedy happening inside her mouth.

She groaned, twisting her face in pure disgust. It tasted like something had died on her tongue, and she vaguely remembered drinking... tequila? And maybe some kind of mystery cocktail that some random stranger shoved at her, saying it was a "game changer".

A game changer in what? Making her suffer?

Y/N sat up, immediately regretting it as a sharp, pounding pain erupted behind her eyes. Jesus Christ.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hands pressing against her temples in an attempt to soothe the pain, but nothing helped. It was the kind of deep, bone-vibrating headache that made every movement feel like an earthquake inside her skull.

After a minute - or maybe five - she finally forced herself to function.

She opened her eyes again, and this time, she really looked around.

Oh.

She was in her living room.

The TV. The coffee table. The faint scent of her vanilla-scented candle that had long since burned out.

Right.

Her mind buzzed, trying to connect the blurry pieces of last night.

The party. The drinks. The decision to go home.

And then... the Uber driver.

Y/N frowned, blinking slowly.

Her eyes drifted downward, and that’s when she noticed the glass of water and the bottle of painkillers sitting neatly on the table.

Her brows lifted in surprise.

Wow.

So, not only did the Uber driver make sure she got home safely, but he also took care of her after the fact?

Because she knows her drunk version, and she couldn't even sit straight.

That was... suspiciously thoughtful.

Y/N shrugged to herself, grabbing the glass and the medicine without question, tossing the pill against her tongue and gulping down the water like her life depended on it. And, honestly? It kind of did. The cool liquid washed away the awful taste in her mouth, making her sigh in relief.

And then-

BRRRRRRING.

Y/N flinched, eyes snapping toward the sudden noise.

Her phone.

Where the hell was it?

She groaned, rummaging around the blanket that was still wrapped around her before realizing. Her purse.

She reached over, dragging it toward herself, and as soon as she dug inside, her fingers wrapped around her phone.

She unlocked it immediately, her eyebrows furrowing as she scanned the recent notifications.

And that’s when she saw it.

A string of messages from her Uber app.

Her actual Uber driver.

UBER: Your driver has arrived.

UBER: Your driver is waiting.

UBER: Your driver is still waiting.

UBER: Your driver will be leaving soon.

UBER: Your driver has canceled your ride.

Oh.

Her brain stuttered, slowly putting the pieces together.

So... she didn’t get into her Uber last night.

She left the poor guy stranded outside the party, probably cursing her existence, while she happily hopped into some random car.

Shit.

Y/N blinked down at her screen, processing the absolute chaos of her life choices when something caught her eye.

A small, folded note - clearly from her very much old notebook above her TV table - sitting neatly beside her purse, right below her hands.

Her brows lifted again.

She reached for it, flipping it open while glancing back at her phone, her brain still half-focused on her Uber driver’s angry messages.

And then, as she read the words, her heart did a weird little thing in her chest.

"Call me whenever you need a cool Uber driver again. Or, y’know, if you just wanna talk."

- Matt

Y/N stared at the note.

Then back at her phone.

Then back at the note.

And finally, it clicked.

She hadn’t just gotten into a random car last night.

She had gotten into a random guy’s car.

A very cute, very cool random guy’s car.

And instead of kidnapping her or doing something worse, he drove her home, tucked her in, left her water and medicine, and even gave her his number?

Y/N stared at the note for a long second, brain short-circuiting.

Then, she let out a laugh - soft and disbelieving - before grinning to herself.

Well.

This was definitely going to be interesting.

443 notes · View notes