#if that's the only thing you took away from the game?

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° you outshine the morning sun

( sae itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — just a short drabble bc domestic sae has invaded my brain

♡ word count — 705

♡ content — sae itoshi x reader, sae x fem! reader, made sae abt 25 in this, marriage mentioned, pregnancy mentioned. AN: i'd give this man as many babies as he wants.

♡ synopsis — sae itoshi didn't need to be a soccer god, not as long as he had you

The roar of the crowd still buzzed in Sae Itoshi’s ears as he exited the stadium, the post-game adrenaline barely settled in his veins. The night air was thick with the voices of fans calling his name, their desperation and admiration mixing into a cacophony he had long since learned to ignore.

"Sae! Just one autograph!"

"Marry me, Sae! Please! Just one chance!"

"I’d give you as many babies as you want!"

The shrill voices of young girls, the deep admiration from older men, the wistful sighs of women both young and old—none of it meant anything to him. He kept his gaze forward, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he pushed through the chaos. The only thing on his mind was getting home.

A sleek black car idled by the curb, the driver standing by the door, already well aware of the arrangement. No talking. No questions. Just drive and get him home as quickly as possible, and the tip would be hefty. An even bigger one if the trip was fast.

Sae slid into the back seat without a word, the door shutting out the noise of the world outside. He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the seat as the car pulled away from the stadium and into the quiet of the night. The streetlights blurred past, but he barely noticed them. Instead, his hands moved instinctively to his duffel bag, fingers searching through the smallest inside pocket until they curled around something cool and familiar.

A simple silver ring, discreet and unassuming, warmed quickly in his palm. His thumb brushed over the carved initials—his and yours—etched into the metal. He slipped it onto his ring finger, feeling a sense of calm wash over him.

Yeah. He just needed to get home.

The drive was mercifully quick, and before long, he was stepping out of the car and up the pathway to the house—the one place in the world where he wasn’t Sae Itoshi, soccer legend. He barely had time to set his duffel bag down when something small and fast crashed into his leg.

"Daddy!"

A grin tugged at Sae’s lips as he looked down, teal eyes meeting an identical pair staring up at him with pure joy. His daughter, barely three years old, clung to his leg with all her might. Her soft pink hair was pulled up into two messy pigtails, bouncing as she giggled.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, crouching down to scoop her into his arms. She fit so perfectly against him, her tiny hands grabbing onto his jersey as if she never wanted to let go. And he? He didn’t mind one bit.

"Oh! I didn’t know you’d be home so soon," your voice rang out from the kitchen, warm and full of love. Sae glanced up just as you turned the corner, a wooden spoon in your hand, eyes crinkling at the sight of him. "The game just ended."

"Took a shortcut," he said simply, stepping closer to you.

His gaze flickered down to the soft curve of your stomach, where a second life—one he helped create—was steadily growing. Without hesitation, he reached out, resting a gentle hand there, feeling the warmth of your body beneath his fingertips.

A soft smile played on your lips as he leaned in, pressing a quick but meaningful kiss against them. Before you could deepen it, a tiny voice piped up between you.

"Yuck!" your daughter squealed, squirming in his arms.

You laughed, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of pink hair behind her ear. "You say that now, but one day, you’ll think it’s sweet."

"Nuh-uh!" she insisted, her little nose scrunching up in defiance.

Sae chuckled, finally feeling the weight of the world ease off his shoulders. Here, there were no screaming fans, no demanding coaches, no suffocating expectations. Just you, your daughter, and the quiet hum of home.

Sae Itoshi didn’t need fangirls, fanboys, or old women begging for his attention. He didn’t need adoration from the world, validation from the media, or the empty promises of strangers who only saw him as a soccer god.

Sae Itoshi just needed this.

Sae Itoshi just needed to be home.

Sae Itoshi just needed you.

posting this as an apology for going MIA for a bit :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!

[fungifaggot]

NSFW 18+

Male Reader x Male Character Insert

Synopsis: A story about pining over your new roommate.

(M/n) = Male characters name (Y/n) = Your name

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Living with a stranger was never ideal.

It was unsettling—feeling like a guest in your own home. Even though you paid rent, the space never truly felt like yours. You had to be mindful of your volume, keep your areas tidy, and tiptoe around the shared spaces when he was home. Most of your time was spent in your room or the kitchen, avoiding unnecessary interaction.

Your roommate wasn’t bad by any means. In fact, he was kind—attractive, even, but there was no spark, no real chemistry. Conversations were brief, limited to mornings, quick exchanges after work, and the occasional weekend interaction. Otherwise, he always seemed preoccupied.

This wasn’t the living situation you would have chosen given better options, but time had forced your hand. Your previous roommate moved away, and with your lease ending, you had to act fast.

Now, nearly a month in—three weeks and two days, to be exact—you realized how little effort you’d made to get to know him. Not that you meant to be distant, but you’d both been busy. Boxes still sat unopened in your bedrooms, remnants of a transition still not yet complete.

Then came one Saturday night.

Both of you were home, and as you sorted through one of your lingering boxes, you found your old gaming console. A thought struck you—maybe this was your chance to break the ice. Without overthinking, you set it up in the living room, laid out some snacks, two glasses, and a bottle of liquor—just in case.

With two controllers in hand, you stood at his door, hesitating before knocking. Your pulse quickened. Why were you nervous? You took a steadying breath and knocked.

A rustling noise came from inside, then the door clicked open.

He stood there in loungewear, hair slightly tousled, looking a little worn down, but still effortlessly handsome. You almost felt bad for disturbing him, but the way his expression softened told you he didn’t mind.

“Sorry if now’s not a good time,” you said, lifting a controller. “I just set up my console in the living room—thought you might want to join me?”

He chuckled, reaching for the controller.

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

That night, time slipped away. The game was forgotten as the two of you talked—really talked—for the first time. You learned about his interests, his sense of humor, little details about his past. The conversation flowed so naturally that neither of you noticed when the controllers were set aside.

After that, everything changed.

The tension that once lingered between you disappeared. Moving around each other became effortless. At some point, comfort replaced formality—walking to the kitchen in just boxers, passing each other on the way from the shower in only a towel. It felt like you’d known him for years.

Somewhere along the way, a quiet crush began to form. You felt it in the small moments, the way your stomach flipped when he laughed, or how you started looking forward to seeing him at the end of the day.

But you pushed it down.

Your lease still had a couple months left, and the last thing you wanted was to ruin the good thing you had going on with him.

He made it hard though, he would strut around in the tightest shorts, and bend over provocatively while doing the dishes or while he gathered his laundry. He'd sit so close to you on the couch, wearing nothing but boxers, rubbing his bare thighs against yours tempting you to take just the quickest glimpse down at his bulge. You weren't sure if he was doing it on purpose. Was he subtly flirting with you? Or were you just a pervert. Either way, it was getting to you. Most nights ended with you feeling pent up and jerking off to the thought of him.

Some nights, if you got lucky you could hear him masturbate through the shared wall of your bedrooms. You knew it was wrong, but when it happened you would press your ear against the wall and stroke your cock, touching yourself at the same time as him. You always felt guilty after, but it didn't stop you from doing it again.

Today was a weekday, and you had gotten home particularly late. You softly maneuvered your way through the apartment door, careful not to wake up your roommate or neighbors. You quietly set down your keys, and made your way to your bedroom. As you passed by (M/n)'s room, you heard a low guttural moan. He was much louder than he normally was, he must not have heard you enter.

You stayed still, not wanting to elicit any sounds that would alert him of your presence. It was sick, but you wanted to hear more.

"Y/n"

Your ears perked up like a cat- no fucking way.

"Y/nnn" he said again, even louder this time.

You were confident that you heard him correctly.

You weren’t sure what to do. The tent growing in your pants urged you to turn the doorknob, storm inside, and claim what was yours, but rationally, you knew better. You were afraid to overstep his boundaries.

Instead of taking action, you unzipped your pants and pulled your cock out. You leaned your forehead against his door to get a close listen and started stroking your cock. You circled your thumb around the head, using the precum that had already dribbled out to wet the tip.

(M/n) made the cutest sounds on the other side of the door. You could hear soft panting, followed by whiny moans. And if you listened really closely you could hear a deliciously sweet squelching sound.

"Y/n" He moaned out again, the sound of your name rolling off of his tongue made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Feeling a hint of courage, you let out a loud moan you had been holding back, hoping it might catch his attention.

You immediately heard (M/n)'s movements come to a halt, his moans no longer lingering in the air. You didn't stop though, your hand kept moving. You huffed loudly outside his door, strained moans bubbling up and out of your mouth.

"(M/n)" you moaned out, finally saying his name out loud.

He could definitely hear you.

A terrifying silence filled the air, maybe this wasn't as good of an idea as you thought.

Until a soft squelching sound and a deep sigh rang through the air as he continued his movements.

This gave you just enough confidence to knock on his door—not so much as a request to enter, but more as a warning that you were coming in. You slowly eased the door open, giving him plenty of time to stop you if he wanted to. However, nothing was said. After closing the door behind you, you turned to finally lay eyes on him. His hand was still moving, desperately pumping his cock as you took in the sight of him. He looked absolutely lovely, his hair was slightly sweaty and sticking to his forehead. He still had his shirt on but it was bunched up and being held up by his teeth. He laid on his back, legs spread and completely bare.

He moaned softly like he enjoyed the intensity of being under your gaze.

In his free hand, you noticed he held a pair of your boxers that had gone missing.

"I didn't know you were such a dirty boy," you said with a grin, approaching his bed, and towering over him.

"Would you like for me to help you with your problem sweetheart?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A/n: I tried to make the male character as vague as possible so yall can imagine your faves- personally I wrote this with Peter Parker or Mark Grayson in mind.

Anyway, enjoy- all feedback is appreciated xx

[madaboutmunson]

Tag, You’re It

For the dailydrabble prompt 'Tag, You're It' by @strangerthingswritersguild

Ao3 Link

“No-no-no Sheepies. Eddie doesn’t do sports,” Eddie drawled lying back on the grassy hillside and pulling his sunglasses over his eyes.

There was a collective groan from the kids.

“It’s not even sports,” Dustin complained, “It’s more like...uh...like capturing a castle.”

“Capturing a castle?” Eddie scoffed, peering over the top of his sunglasses. “Aren’t you all a little old to be chasing one another around in a field, defending a tree stump?” He was aware of how hypocritical this was, only a few weekends ago he had been charging around a forest defending a tree stump of his own, albeit in character.

A frustrated blush rose to Mike’s face, “It’s not like that. It’s timed and-and there's a prize. Well two. And if you capture the stump you add a rule.”

“A prize?” Eddie yawned and leaned back on his hands on the grass.

“You’re not selling this,” Lucas huffed at Mike.

“Sinclair’s right you’re not. Be Gone!” Eddie sighed wearily and waved them away.

“Come on Eddie it’s embarrassing out there, the girls have Steve on their team,” Dustin whined.

“He’s only playing to spite me,” Mike grumbled folding his arms.

“He asked if we wanted some help, and genius Mike here laughed and said he had too much hairspray in to be on the boy’s team,” Lucas griped, “Now he’s kicking our ass, especially with his stupid rules.”

“Stupid rules?” Eddie asked with a deeper sigh. He was not interested in the game itself but he figured they weren’t moving, so he might as well get the gossip.

“Every time he gets the stump he makes up a rule so none of us can tag him,” Mike scowled.

“Huh? You can make up a rule that you can’t be tagged? Sounds like a glaring pit fall in the rules system here,” Eddie chuckled.

“No. He’ll say we can only tag him if we compliment him, or tell him he’s the best, or sing, or something,” Lucas added.

“Sounds pretty easy to me?” Eddie said looking between the three high-schoolers pausing for them, but its clear all the running had put their brains out to lunch, “Just say the thing.”

“NO WAY!” They yelled in unison.

“If you wanna win, sometimes you gotta swallow your pride guys. Now if you could stop casting your shadows so I can catch some rays, and take your putrid aromas with you, that would be splendid. Thanks.”

The three of them huddled up. Eddie could hear them muttering.

“What if we got you some beers?” Dustin asked, “Or a new D&D module?”

“Where are you pipsqueaks gonna get alcohol from?” Eddie laughed.

“The Christmas stash my mom has, she won’t notice anything is missing, Nancy, has taken a whole vodka bottle from it before,” Mike replied.

Eddie sat up, “I’m listening. Why do you wanna win so badly anyway?”

“At first it was for a bag of candy and who gets to choose the next film at the movies, but now we just really wanna beat Steve, he’s mocking us out there.”

Eddie peeked around the trio and true enough Steve Harrington looked pretty damn pleased with himself, and pretty damn cute. He was wearing very fitted athletic shorts and a snug white tank top that clung to his broad shoulders, as anyone in their right mind would being doing that close to Steve, sweat patches making it almost translucent in places, with his chest hair poking out the top. If that wasn't bad enough he was celebrating by flexing his muscles to mock the boys. Eddie took a deep inhale of breath, because he didn't realise he had been holding it.

“Alright, I’ll win it for you, but I don’t wanna hear a peep out you three begging me for shit the rest of the summer. Got it?”

They nodded in unison as Eddie got up, dusted off his denim cutoffs and tank top and pushed his sunglasses into his hair.

“Let’s take down a King,” Eddie grinned with malevolence.

Steve frowned as they approached the field again, “Munson? You joining us?”

“Yeah, thought I’d even the teams out. I heard the numbers were uneven?”

“And you’re the one to bring balance to the game?” Steve asked raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Eddie said confidently, with his hands on his hips.

A laugh bubbled out of Steve getting louder until he was doubled over.

Eddie’s lip twitched, but he keeps his cool, “Well are we playing or what?”

The teams spaced out, and Eddie flexed his fingers, and bolted for the stump as soon as Robin blew the whistle.

His team mates flanked him but each of them fell, tackled by Max, El, and Erica.

Just as Eddie was about to leap for the stump Harrington beats him to it.

“Freeze!” Robin shouted and Eddie sneered at being stuck in place, “Go ahead, Steve.”

Harrington tapped his chin thoughtfully, “You can only tag me if you recite me a poem.”

There was a collective groan, but Eddie grinned.

“Ok unfreeze,” Robin called out, and Eddie hopped up on the stump crowding Steve.

“Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet,” he said smoothly before looking over Steve, “But not as sweet as you big boy.”

Steve didn’t budge, looked confused at Eddie.

“Stump is Eddie’s,” Robin officiated.

“No that’s didn’t even rhyme properly!” Steve complained at Robin.

“Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme,” Eddie smirked.

“Yeah it does!” Steve frowned.

“Steve I made my ruling. Eddie gets the stump, and the longer you stand there whining the more time you waste. You’ve got less than five minutes left.”

Steve huffed down his nose and stomped back to his starting position on the field.

“Eddie, your rule?”

“Uh that’s easy you have to tell me I’m real pretty.” He smiled wide and batted his eyelashes, as the girls rolled their eyes.

Robin shook her head but blew the whistle anyway. The others charged towards the stump. Harrington was way too fast for anyone to get there before him, and he slapped Eddie’s leg with his hand.

“Tag, stump’s mine,” Steve said.

Eddie looked down on him with glee, “Uh-uh you gotta say it.”

Steve’s face was a picture, contorting with effort as he looked up at Eddie, “YOUREREALPRETTY” he said quickly and weirdly loudly.

Eddie tossed his hair with his hand, “I didn’t know you cared Harrington.” Steve blushed hard. He smiled toothily and hopped down from the stump sauntering back to his starting position with no complaint, he knew the clock was ticking.

“What are you doing?” Dustin said through gritted teeth, “You said you’d win.”

“Oh but I am,” Eddie smirked and gestured to a confused looking Steve and Robin tapping her watch at him.

“Ok! Ok. It’s hard to think of one. Alright! Geez! You have to say...uh...you have to say I’m the smartest man in the universe.” Steve said and gathered up the girls for a huddle and pointed at Eddie.

Robin blew the whistle, and Eddie nimbly dodged the flying tackles from the girls. They were fast, but Eddie had that feral energy coursing through him now. He got to the foot of the stump and spanked Steve’s backside. “Tag,” he said slyly and grabbed onto Steve’s hips to hoist himself up onto the stump.

He looked right into Steve’s eyes, “It’s my stump, smartest man in the universe,” punctuating his words with a wink.

Steve didn’t say anything, just stared, dropped off the stump, and went back to the starting position. Eddie knew he’d rattled him and the next thing Steve wouldn’t do. No way.

“Eddie! Rule?” Robin said a little exasperated

“A kiss,” Eddie said.

“No way there are kids here!” Robin said.

“I didn’t say they had to kiss me directly, they can blow me a kiss”

Robin turned to the kids. They were all yelling at her about the time and didn’t seem to care.

“Alright, but for the record, I’m against this” she reluctantly blew the whistle, and just like Eddie predicted Steve was thrown, he was tackling the boys hoping one of the girls would head for the stump but they wouldn’t go for it.

Eddie looked smug, striking a mock-heroic pose as he flexed his much smaller, toned muscles with theatrical pride, fully aware of the irony. He grinned to himself, already picturing how he was going to be sipping cocktails on the porch tonight. His thoughts were broken by an angry Erica screaming, “Just do it sailor man! Go over there and blow that long haired freak a kiss!”

“We’ve only got ten seconds left!” Max complained shoving Mike to the floor.

“Yes Steve I don’t want to watch the same movie all summer,” El said.

The boys understood the assignment and made kissy noises at Steve to mock him.

Eddie rocked on his heels with a huge smile as he watched the last few seconds tick down.

Until he felt a slap on his hand and he was confronted with a furious Steve

Eddie raised his eyebrows with confidence, “Well Howdy there Big b-“

And before he knew what was happening, he heard a collective gasp and “Steve’s stump! That’s time, come on nerds,” Robin added.

Eddie felt pressure on his lips, heat on the sides of his face. Steve was kissing him and was grabbing his face. He was rendered speechless. Steve smiled. Eddie suddenly felt hands on his shoulders as he was pushed off the stump and landed on his ass with a thud, almost as hard as his heart was hammering in his chest.

He could hear the boys complaining and the girls cheering. He shrugged at them in apology, heart pounding and face burning, trying to suppress the chaos spiralling in his chest from that kiss. He pulled down his sunglasses and quickly tried to walk back to his van, before he had a public crisis.

He was nearly at his sanctuary when he heard the rapid footsteps on the gravel path behind him, “Hey! Wait up!”

Eddie’s stomach dropped to the depths of the abyss, twisting with something hot and familiar. Dread, maybe, or anticipation. He couldn't tell. He could run, but that would look worse. He stopped and turned on his heel.

“You didn’t shake my hand,” Steve frowned a little out of breath.

“What?” was all Eddie could manage.

“We beat you, we're supposed to shake hands after. No hard feelings. Sportspersonship stuff.” Steve tried again, extending his hand towards Eddie.

“Oh, yeah. No hard feelings here. It was literally just tag, man. You’re good.” Eddie laughed it off, eager to get away.

“You won’t shake my hand? Is it because of what I did?” Steve asked and Eddie could hear the shame in his voice, and he couldn’t have that. Not with those sad puppy dog eyes looking so wounded at him.

“Look. I set the rule. You just wanted the win real bad,” Eddie said, trying to sound breezy, though his voice wavered just enough to betray the heat still lingering on his cheeks. "It’s not a problem,” Eddie said and extended his hand.

Steve's smile brightened as they shook on it but as Eddie tried to let go, he found Steve gripping his hand tightly.

“You okay, Steve?” he asked and found himself pulled flush with Steve’s chest, their faces an inch apart. As they collided he was met with the full Harrington experience. The beauty marks, the crooked smile, the flecks of gold in his eyes, the soft swoop of his hair, the heat from his body, and that scent of sun lotion, cologne and sweat. It's enough for him to forcefully replant his feet, so he didn't collapse with how overwhelmed he felt.

“I would have done it sooner without a crowd,” Steve said gently.

“Shook my hand?” Eddie asked nervously, confused but he knew what Steve was getting at.

“If you ever want one again just give me a call,” Steve smirked, leaving a frazzled Eddie standing slack-jawed as he jogged back to the others.

[httpuckdrop]

boyfriend? (part 2) – ws2

will doesn't only dislike other guys flirting with you – he gets jealous when they as much as ask about you, aswell.

pairing: will smith x friend!reader

genre: fluff, college!au

word count: 1.1k

warnings: none

requested: yes!! requests are always open <3

author's note: had so much fun writing this aaaa hope you enjoy reading it!! can be read as a stand-alone fic but it's better if you read part one first. have a lovely day 💗

read part one here!

will is going through a very uncanny type of déjà vu.

it wasn't more than two weeks ago that he was in this exact position; standing in the corner of someone's living room, a red solo cup in his hands, eyes stuck on you as you wander around, making friends with pretty much everyone. to be fair, your open nature and friendly soul are some of the things he likes the most about you – along with the fact that you make whoever you're talking to feel like they're the funniest and smartest and sweetest person you've ever met – but it's far better when he's the one you give all your attention to.

will doesn't mind not being the busiest bee at the party. he's okay with just staring at you from afar, occasionally indulging in a drinking challenge or a video game. but he can sense that something is about to shift even before it does – and suddenly, he realizes why. the guy you'd been chatting to up until now has just been replaced, and not just by anyone.

charlie is one of the defensemen on the eagles, a year ahead of will, a few inches taller and a few pounds stronger. they're not the closest of friends, but being teammates assures a certain type of bond, which might be why charlie came to will that time after practice last week.

"smitty, you know that friend of yours?" charlie had asked after arriving in the locker room. "the flirty, chatty one with the cute smile?"

will had known that he meant you instantly. he nodded, continuing to unlace his skates without even throwing his friend a glance.

"she's really hot. is she taken or can i...?" charlie asked, playfully bumping his shoulder with the younger's.

will took a deep breath, pulling his skates off his feet and placing them in his stall. "nah, she's interested in some dude in one of her classes." it wasn't true, so he didn't even know why he said it. but one little white lie couldn't hurt, right?

"really?" charlie frowned.

"yeah, sorry dude." will finally turned to the teammate. "she won't stop talking about him, they're pretty much a couple by now." and with that, the older just shook his head, stomping off with a mumble about how this was just his luck.

so now, seeing charlie next to you, will's eyes following the way he rests his hand on the small of your back as you lean in to talk to him... it definitely makes will feel a little nauseous. the one thing he hates more than seeing you get hit on is seeing you get hit on by someone who shouldn't be hitting on you.

an image flashes through his mind; you, sitting in the crowded grandstands as he's skating around on the ice, with an eagles jersey thrown over your body – but with charlie's surname on your back. and then, when the team goes out to celebrate after the big win, he's got you on his arm, leaning in to whisper in your ear and-

the idea is so oddly repulsing that will finds himself moving along to the kitchen to grab himself a new drink.

even when occupying himself with talking to gabe and ryan, he isn't able to completely shut you out of his mind. the friends, knowing will far too well after many years together, can easily tell that something is bothering him – assuming that it's girl problems, and assuming that girl is you – and feel a need to do something about it. they're just about to pull him out to the backyard when suddenly, a hand lands on his arm.

"can i steal him away for a second, boys?" you ask ryan and gabe with a smile before tilting your head up to will.

"he's all yours," ryan answers, chuckling as you drag will away.

he has no idea what your plan is, but he happily obliges – he will always follow along if you're the one leading him. once you reach the empty hallway leading toward the bathroom, you stop and release the grip you have on his arm. "so..." you slant your head, blinking up at him. "why did you tell charlie that i have a boyfriend?"

will's breath hitches in his throat. "i didn't. did he say i did?"

"maybe not in exactly those words," you counter, crossing your arms over your chest. "but something along the lines. did he lie?"

will doesn't answer. he doesn't know how to get out of this scot-free. he hates lying to you – not that he's sure if he's ever even been able to – so instead, he settles for remaining quiet.

"is it because you like me, smitty?"

he has to actively stop his jaw from dropping. the way the words just dropped from your mouth so casually, like they weren't flipping his world upside down, makes him speechless.

with him just staring at you, you place a hand on his shoulder, stepping the slightest bit closer. "if you do, then you should tell me," you hum, the alcohol in your system giving you that last bit of confidence you need. "and if you don't, then i'll just go away and we can pretend-"

but will doesn't want you to walk away. he doesn't want to keep pretending like he isn't in love with you, like he doesn't want you in his arms and in his room and your hands in his. he's got tunnel vision by now, and the only option he sees is grabbing your waist and pulling you flush against him. so that's exactly what he does.

you don't know who leans in first – it's probably the same gravitational pull affecting both of you – but it feels like this moment is exactly what you were made for. when your lips meet, will suddenly feels a ton lighter, all and any previous doubts and insecurities gone in a flash. your hand finds his chest, feeling his fluttering heartbeat beneath his shirt, and you can't help but smile against him.

"finally," you whisper once you part, but a confused frown stretches across will's features. you shake your head. "two weeks ago, you didn't want to kiss me."

"that's not true," he replied, watching you cock an eyebrow at him. "of course i wanted to. but i wasn't actually your boyfriend, but…"

"but now?"

will snickers, hands giving your sides a gentle squeeze. "now, i'd like to think that things have changed."

[norrissm]

⌗ the art of latte hearts — ln4

barista!lando. fluff. lando makes latte art hearts on your drinks — upon confrontation, he stumbles over an awkward confession. you and i by tom speight. ★ LIBRARY

you were a regular at the cafe. lando had noticed the first time you walked in. “a vanilla latte please,” you’d said.

the ding of the overhead bell of the door at exactly 9 o'clock in the morning, the exasperated look in your eyes before the coffee would kick in, ordering the same drink - sometimes swapping in an americano too - he knew it all too well.

the moment when you’d leave, muttering a “thanks lando” turning around to leave with a smile, he felt like he’d do this forever if that meant hearing his name from your lips.

and when it starts happening, lando doesn't know either. hands carefully, almost absentmindedly, drew a heart on your coffee, passing it to you as a confession spoken in the quiet, unknown to you.

max had noticed it nonetheless. wiping the mugs one day he’d said “mate she either has no clue or is waiting for you to up your game.” lando had feigned innocence calling it a ‘baseless allegation’ before chucking a cloth at him.

it got him thinking that night. did you see it simply as latte art?

it took your friend nothing to ruin lando’s day a few days later. pointing out the heart to you. “how’s it he makes hearts for you and this,” she motioned at her coffee. “this rather amazing tulip on mine?”

you’d never paid attention to this before, choosing to peacefully live with the fact that your barista crush made hearts on your coffee and not ruin your mood by being nosy enough to see if he did with others.

“i’m sure that’s a procedure for them. y’know latte art.”

“no, latte hearts,” she emphasised beckoning over to the other cups littered across the cafe. flowers, smiles and even some swirls but no hearts in sight.

“it’s textbook barista flirting.” she said. “and i know you fancy the curly-haired too. might as well do something about it y’know.” eyes wide over the rim of the coffee mug.

which is why you found yourself at the counter again. having finished the latte waiting for lando to be done with an order. max had excused himself from the register to take over, ushering him away from the matcha he was working with.

lando straightened up seeing you again. “another latte?” he asked. a charming smile adorning his face.

oh, how you loved this smile. the reason you kept coming back to this cafe, a solid 20-minute walk from your dorm. worth it you’d think.

“another latte heart?” you teased. lando blinks. “what?”

“you seem to be enjoying practising latte hearts on my coffee.” you gesture to your coffee. lando laughs, a little too quickly. “pfft, no, it’s just, uh—just muscle memory, y’know? been making a lot of hearts lately.”

“only on my drinks, though,” you counter, raising an eyebrow. “seems like a very specific muscle memory.”

“okay, yeah, um… so, funny thing…” he scratches the back of his neck, cheeks dusted pink. “it’s kind of a—i don’t know—stupid barista crush thing? i started doing it without thinking, and then i thought maybe you’d notice, but then you didn’t, and i just… kept doing it?” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “wow, that sounds weird out loud.”

the words hang between you, and he looks like he wants to crawl under the counter. you bite back a smile. “oh? and what if i like you too?” lando blinks. “wait—really?”

you tap the mug with a finger. “yeah. maybe you could’ve tried, i don’t know, using words instead of milk foam?”

he grins, boyish and bright. “okay. how about this—can i take you out sometime?”

you pretend to think for a second, just to see him squirm. then, with a sip of your coffee, you smile.

“i’d like that.”

reblog and follow 3 all rights reserved ©️norrissm please do not copy, save, or translate my stories.

[p1astr81]

ode to a conversation - mv1

in which: Max has an epiphany; he no longer wants to be friends with benefits, but exclusive. You don’t feel the same.

pairing: Max Verstappen x fwb!reader

warnings: sexual themes—borderline smut scenes, HURT, negative comfort, reader and max are both a little shitty😭

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

His knees, encasing your hips, sunk deeper into the mattress. You laughed as his cold hands met the bare skin of your waist. Your shirt was long gone, leaving you in tiny shorts and a red lace bra. “That tickles.” You complained, though the smile on your face didn’t help in convincing him to stop.

“Yeah?” He asked, breathy and sensual. His fingers continued to explore your skin. Your squirming amused him.

“Yes!” You insisted, more giggles following. Your palms pushed lightly against his toned chest.

The moment brought Max back to a time, a few years ago. Stood in your kitchen, he was helping you prepare snacks for the rest of your friends. It was game night.

Trying to alert you of his presence behind you, he put a hand on your side. You jumped from your skin, turning to slap his shoulder. “Scared the piss out of me, Max.” He laughed, his hand sliding away.

Some sort of squeak was muffled by your closed lips. A concealed laugh, he deduced.

“You’re ticklish?” He asked, teasing.

“No.” You answered far too quick.

You didn’t see the mischievous look that took over his features before both of his hands attacked your sides. “Ah! No, stop!” You pleaded through uncontrolled laughter. You tried pushing him away but he was stronger.

Back then, he would’ve never taken advantage of the distraction as he had now.

He leaned down, lips finding a home in the curve of your neck, sucking a mark into the skin.

“No marks,” you requested, though the whimper you let out told him you didn’t mind the feeling.

He complied, trailing kisses down to your stomach instead. He stopped at the waistband of your shorts, looking up at you for approval.

“Keep going.”

۶ৎ

Max still recalls the first time it happened, when your little arrangement first became a thing.

It was after his win in Spain last year.

He was tired. You wanted to go out. He couldn’t deny you because of course, you’re his best friend. He’d do anything to keep you happy.

So he took a small nap, and then let you drag him out to a club.

Truthfully, he believes you only wanted to go out so you could get blackout drunk, his win having nothing to do with it. It was only a convenient excuse.

His theory did have some evidence, given you downed two shots as soon as you got in the building.

Max Planned to remain the sober one, but when you shoved a drink in his hand with an award-winning smile on your face, he couldn’t resist.

The night progressed, and by the time you were ready to return to the hotel, you were equally wasted.

You held onto each other, laughing at nothing while you tripped over each other’s feet. Your room was found eventually, after one older man came out of his room shouting at you to be quiet.

He helped you onto your mattress—at that time, you always shared a 2 bed room. You pulled him down with you, giggling. He fell on top of you, bracing himself with a hand on either side of your head.

The eye contact was intense. It had no business being so. You blinked up at him, doe eyed. It made his brain faulty. Back then he thought it was the alcohol—and it might’ve been—but now he was certain it was just you.

You were the brave one.

You leaned up, a hand on the back of his head, and pressed your lips to his.

Had he been sober, he may have listened to the little part of his head that told him to pull away. But he wasn’t sober. His brain had long ago succumbed to the alcohol. Since then, it had turned into a pile of mashed potatoes.

He kissed you back. Hard. With a fervor he didn’t know he was capable of off-track.

Fingers tangled in his hair, you tugged him away. A satisfied sigh left Max’s lips at the feeling.

“Fuck me, please.” Your desperate whisper weakened his whole body.

How could he deny your request when you asked oh so prettily?

۶ৎ

“Damn, you look… good.” Max complimented you over the loud blaring music of the club.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” You grinned, patting his chest. “Gonna go get a drink.” You dismissed yourself.

Max watched as you joined the crowd. He wouldn’t call it disappearing, because you stood out, no matter how many bodies surrounded you. How could you not? With the way the sparkles on your blue dress caught the light and with a face sculpted by Aphrodite herself. You were impossible to miss.

It’s how he found you so easily in the crowd an hour later, after you hadn’t returned. You were surrounded by two guys, dancing sensually with them.

All the alcohol he consumed through the night crept up the back of his throat. He had to tear his eyes from the scene so it wouldn’t paint the floor.

And it hits him. A revelation the size of the universe itself runs him over and flattens him to the ground.

The thought of anyone touching you like he had made him physically ill.

He wanted to be more than just a fuck buddy. He wanted you all to himself. And not in the possessive way. Just a desire to call you his.

Really it didn’t matter if these guys occupied your attention at that moment.

Max knew you would come back to him at the end of the night. And he knew the two of you would stumble until you found a surface to ravage each other on.

۶ৎ

You were both lying naked in his apartment. Max held you around the waist, your fingers laced together, resting on your hip. Your head lay against his chest.

It was far too intimate for a casual fuck. Max was losing his head, but he wouldn’t show it.

“You’re so sweet.” You muttered, inclining your head back to meet his eyes.

He raised a brow. “Why do you say that?”

You sucked in a breath, shrugging. “You’ve never kicked me out after we… have fun… and you always hold me like this.” You paused. “I don’t know, I guess it just makes me feel less… used?”

Max was silent for a moment. “Isn’t that standard?” His laugh wasn’t quite natural. Forced.

It took a second for you to shake your head. “No. Some of the guys they just… throw me to the side after they’re done with me.” Your body subconsciously retreated into him, seeking his warmth.

With your confession, he should have comforted you. He should have reassured you in some way. But stupidly, the words that came out of his mouth were, “are you seeing other guys?” His tone wasn’t accusatory or angry. It was curiosity.

Your expression flickered, brows furrowing then un-furrowing a moment later. “N-no,” you tilted your head, looking at him as if trying to dissect him. “Not anymore.” You paused. “Why?”

Max shook his head, shrugging. “Just wondering.”

Releasing a hum in response, you settled back against him. Max picked up your hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a kiss on your knuckles. You let out a small laugh.

۶ৎ

Over the next few weeks, Maxs demeanor shifted. He became more reserved, more hesitant to show affection. You noticed, rather quickly, as a matter of fact. You never brought it up, assuming it was temporary.

But when it persisted, when he continued to fade, when he refused your company after a difficult race, you began to worry.

He didn’t invite you to his hotel room. Unusual. Even without the intention of doing anything, Max would ask you over. “I enjoy your presence,” he explained one night a couple months prior, a content smile on his lips.

So when you weren’t requested, you took it upon yourself to seek him out.

The seconds between your knock and the door swinging open stretched long. Agonizingly so. “Hey, wh-what’s up?” Maxs hair is drenched. A towel over his shoulder and his shorts hanging loosely around his waist while he leans against the open door.

“Just wanted to see you,” you paused. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah.” Max scrambles, tripping over himself while tying to push the door open wider and get out of the way at the same time. You smile to yourself, finding a spot to sit on the end of his bed.

Max remained by the door, staring at his own feet with his hands in the pockets of his shorts.

“Well don’t just stand there, come here.” Your laugh was a soft sound, like the plush comforter on which Max joined you.

The blank white walls were fascinating to Max in that moment. Looking at you was too intimidating.

Only when you called his name in your feather-light voice did he dare a glance. “What’s got you so distracted lately?” Your voice hinted at amusement, but he could see the concern on your face.

Trying to ease your worries, he shook his head, claiming, “just that shit race.”

You reached out, a hand to his thigh, thumb brushing in soothing swipes. “Hey, it wasn’t that bad. I swear on it.”

Max attempted a smile. The sight of it was saddening, strained and not at all convincing.

A smirk grew on your face. “I could…” your fingers creeped up his thigh, “help you forget about it.” You suggested, biting your lip softly, blinking up at him through your lashes, and wrapping a hand around the waistband of his shorts.

Despite his brain screaming at him to not do so, he still found himself under you that night, hands steady on your hips while you rode him.

۶ৎ

You’d been chatting it up with one of Liam’s engineers all day. Laughing at his jokes, giving him those wide and curious eyes of yours, not moving away from his touch.

It was driving Max insane.

He couldn’t even look in your direction. The sight made his skin burn, his blood boil, his jaw clench.

You were playing along with all of his fucking charms, oblivious to how his gaze lingered on your cleavage.

He was jealous. He knew it, but he’d never admit it.

So when you wondered back over to Max’s side of the garage, he was more than fuming.

“Tough day, huh?” You tried to joke, sensing the tension that came off of him in waves.

Max tugged at the fingers of his gloves, loosening them. “Not great.” He muttered.

You followed him, standing by in silence as he glanced at data. You remained his shadow, following in silence until you entered his driver room and the door was closed behind you.

“I thought free practice went well?” You asked, his attitude skewing your opinion.

Max tugged at the zipper of his suit, pulling it all the way down. “It was fine.” He grumbled, an aggressive shrug as he tried to free his arms from the hold of the suit.

“Are you okay? You seem… off.” Your approach was hesitant, words stepping cautiously around his fuming self.

Max shook his head. “Fine.” He dismissed.

“Don’t lie to me.” You pushed.

Max couldn’t hold back his eye roll. “Didn’t seem to care when you were letting Lawson’s engineer ogle at your tits all day.” He tore off his skin-tight fireproofs, exposing his chest.

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Do you need a stress reliever or something? ‘Cause you’ve been avoiding me for the last two weeks.” You paused. “Or did you find someone new to be your fuck-Buddy?”

“Jesus fucking Christ do you hear yourself?!” You flinched at the volume of his voice. Guilt intertwined with the jealousy. He took a moment to compose himself. “There is no one else. There’s never been anyone else.” He confessed, a low voice.

“Then what is it? You’ve been pushing me away, and I let you be, because I figured you were just trying to focus on your job, but it’s so obviously not that. So, what?” Your voice was soft, an air of concern.

Max just shook his head.

“You know you can tell me anything. I’m your best friend, I’ll always be here for you.”

It was like he’d been stabbed right through the heart with an ice cold blade. Best friend. What a stupid combination of words.

“I can’t… talk to you about it.”

He hated how you looked at him. Soft, pitying eyes. A small frown. He tensed when your hand landed on his wrist, contorting his hand to lace your fingers with his.

“Of course you can.” Your soft, tender, voice was a mere whisper.

Max felt vulnerable. Like he could break down in tears. The whole situation was entirely too intimate, the bond too great for Max to risk losing.

He shook his head once again, struggling to meet your eyes. “No it’s… about you.”

Your grip on his hand didn’t falter. “That’s okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I won’t be mad or- or whatever.” When he didn’t say anything for a moment, you spoke up again. “Whatever it is, we can fix it. I promise.”

You were so gentle with him, speaking to him like he was a piece of glass, teetering on the edge of the precipice. It made him feel safe but it also scared the shit out of him.

Max inhaled, sharp and shaky. You gave his hand a good squeeze. “You promise it won’t change a thing?” He met your eyes.

“I can’t promise-“

“Promise me.”

A beat. And then a sigh.

“Okay. I promise.” You nodded.

Max opened his mouth. Then shut it. His eyes darted around the room. He dragged you over to sit on the small couch.

He was nervous. He was making you nervous.

“I can’t keep doing what we’re doing.” He paused, trying to compose his thoughts.

“Okay, then we don’t-“ you stopped when he squeezed your hand, eyes closed. He was struggling. It hurt you to see.

He sucked in a breath. “I can’t do it because I can’t pretend it’s just casual anymore.” He swallowed, gazing at your entwined hands as he felt your grip falter. “It’s not. Not for me. I don’t want it to be casual. I want us to be…” he made the mistake of looking up at you. Your pained expression made the words evaporate from his mind. He shook his head. “I want us to be exclusive. Just you and me.”

A beat. A swipe of his thumb over yours. “I want to call you mine.”

The air was punched out of your lungs. You dropped your hand from his, standing to your feet. Distance was created as you stood on the other side of the room.

It was a living nightmare for Max, the way you looked at him in horror.

You shook your head. “It wouldn’t work.”

Max blinked at you. “And why not? We’re halfway to a couple already-“

“Im not from your world.”

Max stood. “My world?”

“All of your exes were models or-or from famous families.” You scoffed. “I work in advertising.”

Two whole steps were all the closer you allowed him before you held up a hand.

“I don’t care that you’re not a model, or famous. God that’s part of the reason I love…” Max stopped himself. The words didn’t need to be said, though. You understood clearly.

Your laugh was breathy. “You’re being so irrational right now.”

“How? Tell me?”

“Because I don’t fit in here! I feel so out of place. This isn’t my scene. I only ever come here for you.” You sucked in a breath. “And you can’t love me. You don’t. You’re confusing lust for love.”

“No. No,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Even when you’re gone you plague my mind. It’s like you’ve infected every corner. I don’t go a second without-“

“I think you should consider this a bit more. Seriously, I think you’ve lost it.”

“Is it that hard to believe someone could love you? That I could love you?”

Eyeing the wall just beyond his face, you swallowed the growing lump in your throat. “I’ll see you later.” You muttered, leaving no space for him to reply before your out the door.

۶ৎ

Later didn’t arrive until over a month after the conversation.

Max let you be, though he admits to stalking your socials.

He hoped the ache in his chest would dissipate with your absence. It didn’t. In truth, he believes it may have gotten worse.

He doesn’t remember how, but he found himself at your front door one night. He was wasted. A sad, drunk mess.

You opened the door in your pajamas. Max frowned at the sound of your sigh. “What are you doing here?” You asked, a hint of annoyance, leaning against the door.

“I miss you.” He confessed.

“You’re drunk.” The obvious. “How’d you even get here?”

“I walked.”

“You wa-“ you scoffed in disbelief. “Fine. Come in.” You stepped aside, allowing him to stumble into your flat. He stumbled in your direction. You reached out, a hand of support for him to lean against.

The couch caught his lax form. “Where are you going?” He called out as you left down a hallway. You didn’t answer, re-emerging moments later with two blankets and a pair of sweatpants. He sat up, rolling the soft gray cloth of the pants between his fingers. “These are mine.” He commented.

With a layer of regret, you replied. “Yes. I forgot to give them back.”

The frown you received from Max would’ve been comical if you weren’t so annoyed with him.

“You can keep them.” His blue eyes pierced through yours: his soft, broken offering softened your heart.

Eyes finding the ceiling, you silently cursed him. “No, thank you.” You sighed, shifting your gaze to him once more. He picked at the frayed edges of the blanket. “You can sleep on the couch for the night. I don’t have the energy to drive you back to your own place, nor do I trust you to get there on your own.” You paused, went to dig under your kitchen sink, and returned with a red bucket in hand. “And if you’re going to get sick, please do it in there. Or, preferably, the toilet.” Your voice remained void of any real emotion, only a vague irritation sneaking through.

You got as far as the entry to the hallway before Max called for you.

Bracing yourself, you turned back. Max sat in the same spot, still pulling at the frayed edges, but his frown had deepened.

“Are you still mad at me?” Dense with fragility.

“I don’t know.” You sighed, a longer blink than normal. “I’m glad you’re okay, though.” There was an air of vulnerability to the confession.

“I still love you.” The words flowed from his mouth, free from the sober filter.

Your head was shaking as soon as the confession filled the space. “We can talk tomorrow.” You dismissed his claim and yourself.

۶ৎ

In the haze of your tire, you’d forgotten about Max. So when you woke up the next morning with the strong aroma of bacon filling your nose, panic jolted you awake.

A big stainless steel water bottle was gripped in your hand as you took cautious steps to the kitchen. The blonde hair of the man caught you off guard, the demeanor of someone you know knew well. You paused, lowering your weapon.

Max turned around then, sporting a soft grin when he saw you. “‘Morning.” He greeted, switching the stove off and plating the food. “Hope you don’t mind. I was a bit hungry.” He admitted, placing two plates at the table. He gestured from you to the plate.

“Oh, thank you.” You muttered, sitting across from him at the dining room table.

You progressed through the meal in silence, taking occasional glances at a very content looking Max.

“What are you playing at?” You finally break the silence in a seethe of annoyance.

Max paused, glancing around the room. “What do you mean?”

“Showing up here? Taking my couch for the night and then pretending we’re still best friends the next morning?” You shook your head. “What’s your game?” You narrowed your eyes.

The man across the table sat rigid in his seat, having lost his appetite now. He shifted, unable to find a comfortable position on the chair. “I don’t have any game.” He paused. Then, after a long moment, confessed. “But I was telling the truth. Last night. I meant it when I said I missed you.”

A loud clink, the sound of your fork hitting the porcelain of your plate, covered the sound of your scoff. You took the plate to the kitchen, scraping off the crumbs into the trash and borderline tossing the dishes into the sink.

“Be serious, Max.” You leaned against the kitchen island, hard gaze shooting across the room. Max hadn’t moved. “Did you miss me? Or did you miss being inside of me?”

Max sighed, fingers rubbing his forehead in frustration. “Jesus,” he muttered, “you want me to be a villain so bad, and I don’t get it.” He shook his head. He rose steady to his feet, but didn’t move after that. “You promised me nothing would change when I told you how I felt about you. You told me to consider it, and I have. For a whole fucking month.” He gave a bitter laugh. “And guess what? Nothing has changed.” He swallowed hard, trying and failing to hold back the tears pricking his eyes. “I missed you. I don’t give a damn if you don’t let me lay a finger on you ever again.”

Jaw clenched, you reverted your gaze to the marble countertop. Your breathing was uneven. “I need a minute to think about this.”

Max finally gets his feet moving, standing on the other side of the island from you now. “A minute? You’ve had a month!”

You don’t answer him, opting to shake your head. His eyes followed you as you walked away, down the hall. The door belonging to your bedroom was thrown shut.

Max took it as his cue to leave.

۶ৎ

“She still thinks I’m lying. I told her I think about her every second of the day, and she still thinks I’m lying.” Max confessed to Lando one afternoon, flying from one track to the next.

You’d declined to answer his calls for the past two weeks.

“Well, you have been in this sort of situationship for, what, a year now?” Lando leaned back in his seat, shrugging. “She probably thinks that’s all she’s good for to you.”

Max stabilized his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “But I told her… I told her that I didn’t.”

Lando shrugged again. “Maybe try showing her instead.”

۶ৎ

The stack of gifts and flowers grew on your dining room table. An arrangement of gifts had been left on your doorstep in the past week: three bouquets, your favorite snacks, gift cards, door dash orders—though you did eat those, a newer and better quality record player—one you specifically mentioned wanting—to replace your shitty old one, and stacks of new clothes from your wishlist.

You told yourself they were all stupid, meaningless gifts. He was just trying to win you back.

The last thing is what finally got you to break.

A red envelope landed in your mailbox.

To my favorite girl,

I’ve booked a reservation for us at that steakhouse you love. Come eat with me tonight, please. Or don’t. The choice is completely yours, love.♡

Max.

Your friend’s voice rang through your memory. “I think he’s being genuine. I’ve seen how he looks at you and heard how he talks about you when you’re not around.”

It gave you the little push you needed. You slipped on a nice dress. You wore short heels. You drove yourself to the restaurant. You met a relieved looking max at a table.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” He smiled, blinking repeatedly as if you were an apparition he was trying to clear. He truly did not expect you. But now he was optimistic that maybe he really did have a change with you.

He wasn’t sure what he expected you to say, but it never would’ve been,

“Why do you keep sending me all of this stuff?”

He blinked, a motion now done out of slight shock. “To show you that I see you. That I’m serious about this.”

You closed your eyes, pursing your lips. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

“It’s not in my nature.” He tried to smile. It developed halfway before falling. His optimism began to fade.

At least you chuckled at his joke, even if it was short and barely there.

The waiter came, took your drinks and left. No doubt, he sensed the tension.

“Please. I really do love you. Would I be doing all of this if I didn’t?” In a risky move, he reached across the table, taking your hand in his. You let him.

It was an insufferably long beat of silence before you sighed. “No. I guess not.” Your eyes shifted from the white tablecloth to where your hand lay in his. “Can this conversation wait for a more private area? I’ll follow you back to your place or to mine. I just can’t have it here.”

Another beat of silence lingered before your eyes raised to his. The vulnerability within them was striking. “Y-yeah. Absolutely. Whatever you want.” He nodded.

Max followed by your lead for the remainder of the night, which meant you progressed through dinner in near silence. And when you left, he complied when you asked if he could follow you back to your place.

He waited in the living room while you changed into something more comfortable. And waited some more when you returned and sat on the couch opposite him.

“I believe you. I do think you love me.” You paused, drawing your knees up to your chest. You laid your head on your knees. “But I can’t give you what you want.”

A suffocating silence, and then, “oh.” Max sighed, heartbreak. And then, anger. “So, what I was just a good fuck?”

You sat straight, looking at him like he was a crazed man. “No. God, no, Max. You’re my best friend!”

“And I love you!”

“And I can’t love you! I’m not made for a committed relationship! You deserve someone better!”

“But I want you.”

Tension strained in the silence. Each second that passed fractured another bit of Max’s heart.

“You said you wouldn’t care if you never got to touch me again.” You recalled and shrugged. “And now I’m telling you that’s all I can give you and you aren’t happy.”

Max chewed on his cheek. “Yeah, fine.” Max stood. “I should get back. Feed the cats.” He muttered, leaving before you got to say anything more.

۶ৎ

1 YEAR LATER

Max invited you to the Monaco Grand Prix, the first race you’d be attending of the ‘25 season.

Your relationship had strained. Not quite as close as you had been, but still friends. And the days you did spend together were spent at a distance, sizable gaps between your bodies.

He found you sat above the garage, sipping on a peach nectarine Red Bull with your eyes glued to your phone.

“Hi.” He greeted, a soft smile.

Looking up to meet his eyes, you returned his expression. “Looks like it’ll be an easy win for you today.” You joked as he was starting on pole.

He laughed. “Katlyn said something similar.”

Katlyn. His girlfriend. She looked like you, but you wouldn’t voice that to anyone.

“You two look happy together. I’m happy for you.” It was genuine.

Max’s smile faltered, then widened. “Yeah we are, thank you.”

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

an: lowkey not a fan of this but it’s been sitting in my drafts for ages

[milksuu]

ᴀ ʀᴜʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱʜ & ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ───── ♛ | 𝗣𝗧.𝗢𝟮

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, blood/violence, grotesque imagery, elements of horror

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

“Wake up, sleepy-head.” A childhood voice echoed like a distant memory in the void behind your eyes. Tearing through the dark threads of your subconscious. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

With a choked gasp, you emerged from the black pool of your mind. Your vision swam in a blurry haze, dimly lit by the sole fire pit in the room. When you blinked away the last smoke and ash from your lashes, you noted the ache of your body propped against a chair. 

Your sight then glazed over a long table displaying a feast only a vulture could salivate for. Unknown smells emanated from a mangled and strangled pheasant served past its due date. And across the table, something much worse. Skeleton bones seated tortuously, broken and dashed in all places. One with its skull completely detached from its person to serve as wicked center piece.

Your lips twisted into a nauseous bow.

“What, not hungry?�� 

That same voice split through you again. Snatching your attention towards the head of the table, where Hiccup busied himself nonchalantly with a plate of his own. 

“Can’t say I blame you.” The scathing sounds of cutlery sent your nerves aflame. You wondered how such an ordinary sound could be so cruel to your ears. “Being kidnapped never opened up anyone’s appetite. Which is a shame, since that means I always end up having to do it.” 

You watched, eyes wide and round, as he sliced the belly of the roasted bird in a slow, agonizing horizontal line. 

“I’m just joking. You don’t have to sit there and watch me eat. You can leave if you want. I won't chase you.” He took a slow, meticulous bite, before his dulled eyes lulled to peer at you with a devouring glint. “Unless you want me to.”

Sucking your breath tight against your ribs, you shifted your gaze back to the table. A sight that wasn’t any better to look at. Not with all the scattered remains of guests that never made it past a sickening appetizer, and you weren’t a fool to think you would fare any better. Especially if you decided to entertain the obvious game of chase he’d proposed. 

You wanted no part in it. Whether it was being forced to swallow putrid catch, or fleeing until your limbs were detached from you—he wouldn’t receive the satisfaction.

Not from you, at least.

With a purse of your lips, your fingers pushed away the plate. Then a snap of pheasant bone bent between his fingers. You wondered if that would be your neck. You flinched when he breathed out a bitter chuckle. 

“I get it. My cooking's probably not the best. Hard to learn when you’re busy doing...other things.”

Your skin prickled when the chair scrapped against the stone as he stood. The clanging of his prosthetic growing louder in your ears, sending your heart into a gut churning beat. You held for breath as he reached in front of you, thinking he'd steal your very last. Instead, he grabbed a pitcher and gave your cup a gracious pour.

You made no attempt to accept.

His lip edged with amusement as he served himself the rest before taking a generous swig. A thin dribble streamed down his chin, down the curvature of his neck. It the made the remaining soot in your mouth cotton your tongue dry.

You stood to reason you didn’t have to eat, but surely, you still had to drink. And if he had drank from the same pitcher, then...

When he wiped the wet of his skin and turned a shoulder, you quickly took the cup and drank without a sound. 

“You’re right,” he drawled openly, circling the head of the table. “Why waste time chewing bad food when we have so much talk about. I would ask you to go first, but that might take a little longer. I’ll be quick, though. Promise.”

When he turned, you hastily placed the cup back onto the table, pretending as if you hadn’t succumbed to his offering. 

“When you’re down a leg a short of a few meals, you almost get the sense that death is trying to tell you something. But everyone knows vikings are stubborn; we don’t listen to anything. So, after you and everyone else left for me for dead, I limped till my bandages were soaked red, and ate till my body was paralyzed.” There was a beat in the air as he rimmed the cup with his index finger. “From poison, obviously.”

Your heart and stomach sank when you realized what he had done. What you had done. You covered your shaking mouth with your hand, wishing you could take back the liquid you swallowed. 

“You know, at first I thought I was just another run-of-the mill starving idiot, eating whatever animal or plant I could. Poisonous or not. Until I stopped blacking out and waking up with a mouth full of dirt. Which really saves you from those moments when you’re just minding your own business at a Northern Market tavern, and some random up-to-no-gooder decides to spice up your drink. Boy, you should’ve seen the look of surprise on his face.”

He set his emptied cup and picked up the decapitated skull piece at the table's center, scratching at the nicks and dents in the bone.

“And what I did to it afterwards.”

The corners of his mouth pinned themselves to his dimples. It turned the once endearing sight into twisted holes that looked more like nails had dug cruelly into his cheeks.

“Oh. Don’t worry. The poison won’t kill you. I mean, it almost killed me. Couple of times, actually, but not you. Can’t have that wrench in my plans.” 

Hiccup sauntered towards the fire pit blazing to be fed with whatever he had to offer. He muttered something underneath his breath, seeming to argue with the skull he juggled between his hands. 

“I bet you’re wondering if I killed my dad. No, not yet. Vikings—stubborn, remember? We just talked about this. You can’t stab a mountain and hope it bleeds. You wither it down, break it apart, stone by stone. Until it just…” Hiccup tossed the skull into the fire’s arms, watching it feed its hot stomach with human remains. “Turns to dust.” 

He clapped the bone debris from his calloused fingers. 

“It won’t be much longer until my dad’s failures pile up like a heap of rubble, and just to spite him, that’ll be the foundation of where I’ll begin. Become the leader he could never be. A leader who brings actual peace and prosperity to Berk.” There was a crack of laughter, and he grasped his head to steady himself. “Against my own dragons! How hilarious is that?” 

The howl carried across the innards of the cave was never a gust of wind, but the screeches of dragons bellied deep within the mountain. Echoing through the cavernous walls, enough to shake the rocky fangs protruding from the ceiling.

“You can’t tell me that’s not pure poetry. His so-called biggest failure—me—becomes what he always thought I could never be. What he now fears I can be.” He twisted, pacing to place himself at your side, lurking close to your ear. “Chief.”

You remained silent, as you could only do. Even if you weren't mute, you wouldn't be able to say anything coherent. The poison bit into your lips, slithered down your throat to curl inside your chest and claw its way through every remaining part of your body. It chewed into your muscles till you felt like nothing more than pliable clay. Still, you wanted to defy it.

Defy him more than anything.

Without so much a look or inclination to respond to him in a manner he could understand, you simply dragged a nail against the wood of the chair. In that subtle, mono glyphic language Gothi had taught you.

You drew the scathing remark: To Hel with you.

“That’s not very nice to say. But if that’s where you’d like me to go...” He spun the dinner chair, gripped the arms of it, and pinned you with his presence alone. “Then how about I drag you down with me? I could sure use the company.”

Before you could comprehend the fact he understood you, the rough of his hand swiftly captured the underside of your arm. A rush of blood drained from your head as he yanked you to stand. You stumbled in his grasp as he dragged you closer and closer to the fire pit roaring with heat. The effects of the drug coating your nerves, making it impossible to fight every pull and tug of your body.

 Would he throw you in?

You were answered physically when his fingers unlatched, and your weight crumbled to the floor, inches away from licking flames.

"Go ahead." The command was blunt, a crushing blow to the back of your head. “Show me what Hel’s got in store for me.”

Your temples throbbed as you raised your chin, staring into the gaping mouth of the fire. Every part of you screamed to run away, but the flames beckoned you to stay, calling for the taste of poison in your veins.

Your ceremonial dagger—dropped at your side—whispered for you to take, take, take!

Spell bound by the incantation, you took the dagger in your trembling hands. Heard the sharpest point of iron begging to meet your skin. Obliging, you let it drink from a horizontal line in your palm. Not letting it be too greedy, you fed a serving of blood to the heart of the fire. It sparked and writhed hungrily, consuming every drop, wanting to lap it down to your tendons if it could.

When plums of smoke formed, images danced inside the clouds. The crash of black waves against the jagged cliff rocks. The flash of lightning through an never ending storm of ash. The cries of those you knew, drowned in a sea of jowls and wings. It stung your eyes and tears lined your vision, desperate to deny it all. Wanting the God's to reconsider. Worse part of it all....

....you stood at his side.

Consumed wholly by your mortifying entrancement, you hadn't noticed the scripture you'd written in blood on the stone. Hiccup crouched at your side, his head tilted in amusement.

"I always liked how bad you were at hiding what you were feeling," he said, taking your face in his leathered hands. "It's kinda cute, except now in a pathetic sort of way."

You choked on a silent cry, and his thumbs brushed away the tears scolding your flushed cheeks.

"Guess Hel has everything I want," he whispered cruelly, bringing your lips a mere breath away.

"Including you."

[crepezinhos]

Aventurine’s Polemic Suicide Note

POV: It’s been only a week since Aventurine tried to commit suicide in Penacony, and failed at doing so, yet, it feels like it’s been months. You two don’t really talk anymore, specifically, not about anything else that wasn’t his attempt and the letter he did for it, and it’d always lead to exhausting discussions about your relationship with him that only seemed to crack it even more. Neither of you want to be like this anymore, ghosting each other’s presence in your apartment as if you were strangers. That’s why you decided to give him a chance to make up for his wrongs, and show you what he meant when he said he desired you in his letter. Art Credits

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is an angsty (with slight comfort) NSFW piece

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— Contains: Mentions of detailed SA, suicide, slavery, physical and mental abuse and friend-zoning. This work also contains optional visual links.

— AU is: In-Game

— Switch!Aventurine x Stoneheart!Reader

“Kakavasha.” Hearing you call out his real name after so many hours in silence made his whole body curl on itself with anxiety, making him pull the sheets on top of him a bit harder.

Your voice was as gentle and soft as before all the recent events in Penacony, yet, he dreaded it more than anything. He was ashamed to acknowledge you, to listen to you, to look at you… ashamed of himself.

“I don’t want us to be like this.” Meanwhile, you laid in the bed with your belly turned up, blankly staring at the white roof above you and him, waiting for any sort of answer from him, whose back was all you could see.

But as silence prevailed in the room, you sighed and closed your eyes in disappointment. That helped you concentrate on the memories your head was playing of your whole life to help you find more things to say to him.

It all started when you two met each other when the same man bought the both of you, and dozens of other slaves to be his servants. He gave every two slaves a cell to live in together, although all the work you two did was independent, and you ended up with him as your partner. 35 and 36 were your respective numbers along with a matching tattoo you two had on the left side of your neck. The depression of being a slave made it hard for you two to communicate and bond at first, but you two eventually built a weird, but helpful bond. One where he’d always try to help you with your tasks, where you’d let him teach about and practice his clan’s rituals with you, and more especially, one where he’d always comfort you after the abuse.

…

…

The memories flooded your mind.

Being taken to some isolated room by force, then being forced to strip down or having your clothes ripped away by his hands, and then having your body invaded, touched, used, humiliated even, for the sake of the pleasure of your master…

Sometimes he’d even have more men in the room to witness the shows or even participate in them…

It happened multiple times. Each round made you lose more and more of yourself. The sole reason why you didn’t lose faith in men was because the person who would comfort you after these dark moments was a man too. Kakavasha. He didn’t understand the concept of rape, much less the consequences of it, yet, he took care of you for hours. He only learned that the reason you’d suddenly come back to your cell completely shaky and repulsive of physical touch, sometimes naked too, was because you were raped almost 2 years after getting out of that hellhole. Then, he finally started to understand and relate to your shy personality.

You still remember the day he killed the man with his own hands. All the other slaves were immediately happy with the news and fled as soon as possible, but Kakavasha refused to get out of there without you. He went back to your cell, unchained your wrists and neck and started dragging you by your wrist out of there. He refused to let go of it, even when he wanted to rest, when he needed both his hands to work, and especially, even when IPC wanted to recruit him. The pink-haired woman who negotiated with him was solely interested in him and his cursed luck, ignoring your presence and taking it as an inconvenience mostly, but he wouldn’t agree with any of her contracts if it didn’t include you.

That’s how you got your first title in the IPC: The Secretary of Strategic Investment Departments. It technically meant you were Kakavasha’s secretary since you were in his team. Only many years later you managed to get yourself a Stoneheart title, Ruby, gaining a lot of trust and respect from all of those who underestimated you, and you viewed as a leech to Aventurine.

All these dear memories and many others are why you feel so betrayed and hurt right now. He desired to throw it mall of that away. He tried to throw all of it away. How unfair, isn’t it? While you were trying your best to retrieve his cornerstone from the Family, he was getting ready to sacrifice himself and leave you behind. A few minutes before he was announcing his little game to the whole planet, you came to your hotel room exhausted only to find his stuff entirely packed, all the lights tuned off and with a weird letter sitting at the only desk of the room.

Why were you even giving yourself all this work of reliving such bittersweet moments? You’ve already pointed out the fact that he was trashing everything he’s built and all the connection you two had in previous fights anyway…

“We’re still best friends, aren’t we? Even if you broke my heart, the same way I must’ve broken yours too, we’re still the same, right?” You tried cheering Aventurine up, acting enthusiastically, but his body still seemed as immobile as a statue. So you sighed again, your fake smile dying. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you wrote.” You spoke more seriously, pausing for a moment to remember the content in the letter and what you had to say about it.

At first, you picked the letter thinking it was a message from the IPC, but when you realized the handwriting belonged to Aventurine, you found yourself more confused. After all, if he wanted to tell you something, he could’ve just texted you, right?

It started off with an apology for not being home or answering your earlier texts, then it transitioned to him retelling your history with him with a lot of passion, your current friendship with him and how he values it more than anything. Money, the IPC and even his own life. But you weren’t expecting the stakes of the letter to go downhill, and as fast as the speed of light.

“Although our friendship seems to be very well established to you, for me, it isn’t. For me, it is as unstable as this planet, and it’s all because of me. I hate to bring you into this, Y/N, but I can’t let myself die without being completely honest to you in this final letter. I am in love with you, Y/N. I am painfully, desperately and agonizingly head over heels for you, Y/N. I wonder how your face is like reading this, but I’d rather let curiosity torture me. Whether you reciprocate me or not, they’d make me feel even worse about what I’m doing right now, and I want to at least die peacefully. Going back to the main point, this is something that I’ve been closeting for years, something I’ve been neglecting for years. I’ve only come to accept it recently, when I decided that it’s not really worth living anymore, so I might as well just be open about it to you. You’re a wonderful woman, Y/N. Your self-steem might be low, you might find yourself vulnerable, weak, untalented and unattractive, but I assure you that no one views you like this. I, personally, view you as the complete contrary. Every single thing about you is perfect to me. Remember those few times we would dance together? The few times we danced here? Especially to White Night? You were always shy and awkward at first, but when you slowly started opening yourself more and start actually dancing, you had me almost passing out, Y/N. Whether it was because of how charming and beautiful you looked, how much I admired you, or the pain of knowing that you would never let me hold you closer, show you the love you deserve, kiss your lips, hold your hips and guide your body as we jammed to those songs. Please, even after I die, I want you to always remember you’re more than your fears and your position at the IPC. I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and always fill your lungs with confidence before going out. Even if I might always be nothing more than a dear friend to you, I don’t want you to ever pity me for this. I want to respect your boundaries and I want you to do it too. But I do love you, Y/N. More than anything.

You dear friend, Kakavasha.”

It was tough for you to absorb the information that Aventurine’s gaze upon you wasn’t innocent or a part of his confident facade and that it was lustful. To learn that he fantasized with something so impossible to you made you feel horrible for the man, even the pity that he begged you not to feel. You’d never tell him you were feeling pitiful, of course, but you still accepted that guilt, and you truly felt motivated to use it as a fuel for a new experiment.

“I want to give you a chance, Kakavasha.” Confessing such heavy words also made you want to avoid looking at him, who has been staring at the nightstand beside him while listening to you.

“No.” He suddenly mumbled, which surprised you. “I don’t want you to feel pity for me. I don’t deserve it and you don’t deserve it. It’s not fair… and it’s not what I want.” His voice was firm, far from what you usually hear from him.

“Well then. What do you want, Kakavasha?” You answered a bit enthusiastically again, wanting to keep him talking the most you could.

“If anything were to ever happen between us, I want it to be genuine. Something you’ve started to feel without me interfering the same way I did. But now, it just feels wrong.” You could sense his stress behind his slightly broken voice.

“Why?” You were slightly offended by his words.

“Because you are a victim of rape, Y/N!” He snapped with your innocence and rose from his place, sitting in the bed while he turned his whole body to you. “I should’ve died! All those things I wrote in the letter were supposed to be my last words, not my actual confession! Now it just feels I’m trying to trick into feeling bad for me and romancing with me and you’re falling for it…” You also rose up from your place as he screamed at you for balance, but unfortunately, couldn’t bring himself to speak much more than that due to his growing distress, sighing as he rubbed his fingers in his eyes afterwards.

“I-I understand that I am a bit afraid indeed, Vasha, but I don’t feel I’m falling for anythin—” You tried giggling it off to hide your real anxiety, but Kakavasha was reciprocating none of your patience.

“Yes, you are! You don’t think you’re falling for it because you already fell! You might not understand it yet, Y/N, but I do. This is not a part of your nature anymore. It was ruined and ripped away from you by our master, and that’s okay! Life has much more to it than this! You don’t need it to live properly! But this feeling is real Y/N, and most of us feel it. Most of us would rather to live their lives with someone to share their love with, and I’m one of them. I’m a desperate lost case! God, I’m so obsessed with you I’ve even asked Topaz if you had ever shared a secret of this kind with her because I was throbbing to learn if I was in your mind? It could even be someone else, but she’d always tell me ‘no’! I’ve even paid her to talk to you about it, try to indulge you into telling her any information, she’d come back with nothing? You see, Y/N? You don’t feel that need! You probably think I’m disgusting now anyway…” You couldn’t deny that what he told about Topaz was a bit shocking. If you ever told her anything lewd in those conversations, would she really tell Aventurine without your knowledge? Those few conversations weren’t innocent girl-talk as she called it?

But you really couldn’t find yourself mad at him in the end of the day, despite him believing you already were. You just didn’t know what to say. He had a really fair point about your mind. You were very knowledgeable about many sorts of topics, enough to protect yourself even, but you were truly inexperienced about love. Were you just falling for his words? But it doesn’t feel like it. It just feels like your heart is softening… opening itself for a new thing.

But, he seemed so insistent about you and he has so much more knowledge too. Maybe he is right. He’s a better source than you are, and maybe it’s just better to accept it. So you looked away from him, your eyes meeting the window of the room, displaying the flashy streets of Penacony under the moonlight.

“I-I’m sorry.” Kakavasha suddenly leaned in and hugged you from behind, his forehead resting in your shoulder. “You’re just really precious to me, Y/N, and I don’t want to lose out relationship for something so stupid.” He whispered softly, contrasting his previous tone, but making you relax your muscles a bit.

Despite being a risky bet, seeing how he had relaxed opened a path for you to continue arguing with him instead of letting the conversation die.

“So what if it’s out of pity, Vasha?” You tried waiting for an answer but nothing came out of him, so you opted to continue. “So what if you’ve messed me up and this is just a momentary curiosity that I’ll forever regret later? Do you think it’s more worth for me to live full of unresolved fears rather than trying to face them even if I fail?” He sighed in distress again seeing you didn’t want to end the conversation. He really wishes you could both just ignore the fact that he tried to commit suicide.

“That’s not what I mean, Y/N. I just think that you’re not likely to like it and I don’t want to be the one that ruins your expectations of this even more.” He pulled himself away from you, refusing to even look at you as he offended you.

“Who do you think you are to judge what I want and what I don’t?!” You gave him a little push as you snapped, recovering a bit of power for yourself. “And what if I like it, Vasha? What if you’re simply wasting your own luck away? It’s a risky gamble, I won’t lie to you, but that’s your niche, isn’t it?!” You paused for a moment, recovering all the air you’ve lost from the screaming. “You prefer gamble on your own death rather than gamble on me and you?!” You started to feel pressure in the back of your eyes, signaling you had tears coming down, and you did nothing to stop them.

Kakavasha remained as silent as a rock. The answer was obvious to the both of you, but he didn’t want to admit it, prefering to endlessly stare at the nothingness ahead of him as he absorbs your sorrow in silence.

You had a lot more to say to him, a lot more reasons to show him, but his lack of response made you conclude the case on your own. He didn’t want it, he didn’t want to be convinced, and there’s nothing you can do about it rather than respect him even if it hurt you a lot.

So you wheezed. With a lot of untold anger behind it that you didn’t want to express.

“Good night, Vasha.” You spat at him, trying your best to not let yourself go madder while laying down in the bed to get ready to sleep again. “I just hope you understand how uncomfortable it is to know that I was in that letter as a burden to you, as the main reason for you to feel so depressed to the degree of suicide, and that I can’t do nothing about it and I just have to accept the role that I have of being the most useless friend—” Before you could turn your whole body to the window of the room and ignore his presence in the bed for the whole night, you felt his hand hook your left shoulder hard, and hold your body in that previous angle you were at, only to meet Aventurine launching into you like a hungry animal and shutting your mouth with his lips.

You were stoned, unable to react to it even if all your limbs were perfectly available to push him away from you. You didn’t want to. It was the first time in many years that you felt a pair of lips against yours, and the first time those lips belonged to Kakavasha. It didn’t feel bad. It honestly felt like a need he awakened insideyou. Although the lack of given consent was not something you were a fan of, you knew Kakavasha. He would never do something like this in normal circumstances, much less to hurt you.

As soon as Kakavasha felt your body ease and melt into the heavy kiss that he insisted on, he finishing towering his body above yours, placing his own knees around yours, cornering them, and his pale palms pressing the pillow under your head down.

“Shut up…” He paused the kiss for a brief moment to murmur the order in an angry tone. “You’re not… a burden... or useles...” Even if Kakavasha had so many things to say to you, he didn’t want to stop kissing you at all. “You’re anything… but a burden… to me.” After all, your wet lips felt great just as he dreamed it to be.

Your cold hands ran up to latch on his head to keep him kissing you with no breaks in between making him shiver even harder in excitement.

Pulling his head deeper into yours forced his tongue to invade your mouth, sticky noises and groans beginning to fill the space between you two as saliva started to mix in your mouths and your tongues danced together.

For almost a minute, you two just stopped thinking just to fully focus on feeling each other. His head, who had most power between you two, turned to many different angles just to explore the most corners of your mouth he could, and you accepted it bravely. Your foreheads were rubbing together almost painfully, noses touching each other’s cheek, but no further physical contact was being done between you two. You could swear he was wishing he could move his hands, though. But as expected, he preferred to respect your limits.

And then, when he was finally done, he pulled his tongue and lips out of you. He didn’t dare separating your foreheads or break eye contact. You two were just staring each other. You, who looked at him more surprised, overwhelmed and uncertain, while he was visibly looking at you with arousal and desire.

“Y/N…” He moaned your name like a prayer. “I… I want more.” He confessed ins hoarse mumble, his cheeks blushing in a red tone that you’ve never seen before, even harder seeing how you immediately reacted to it with more shock. “I promise you, I just want to make you feel good… make you feel loved. That’s all. Really, I’ll be gentle, I’ll be slow, I’ll do whatever you have in your head, I’ll—” His eyes squinted, begging you for continuity as his voice slightly broke with despair and embarrassment.

You couldn’t help but start breathing a little bit faster than you were, your eyes turning away from his intense gaze.

Sex.

How come you haven’t thought of this after all you’ve read and heard from him yet? For the kind of man he currently is, it was idiotic of you to assume he wouldn’t desire you in such a lustful way. And now that the reality started hitting you, it felt weird. It was bizarre to think of you and him doing something like that.

The touching, the looking, the hearing, the moaning, the thrusting, the nudity, the feeling…

You really wish you could view it positively… fall in love with it, but he was right, your mind had been ruined for this sort of thing. It would always turn your imaginations of this into your real memories of it, which made your body sweat in fear and your legs to rub against each other in reluctance.

“That’s why I think we shouldn’t do this, Y/N. You don’t like it… You can’t like it.” He weakly smiled down at you seeing how uneasy you were with his confession.

“N-No!” You quickly reached down for his arms before he could get off you, caging yourself under him. “D-Do it… Please.” You used your fingers to gently brush his wrists, trying to convince him to stay.

Kakavasha was definitely a little surprised, even a bit aroused, with your initiative. You found motivation by the mere fact that you never felt an ‘orgasm’, and according to many women you’ve heard talking about it, it feels wonderful, even if it is at the price of doing something like this, which is so expensive to you.

“Are you… serious..?” Kakavasha’s eyes were shining with excitement, although he tried to maintain his concerned look.

“I want believe that this is as good as people say, and trust you to be the one doing it.” The more you spoke to Kakavasha, the more his violet eyes seemed to gain life.

“Y/N, I—” He chuckled a bit, feeling too embarrassed and joyful to keep making eye contact with you. “I really love you.” He whispered as his arms started to bend over, his whole body resting on top of yours gently. “More than anything.” And finally, he took your lips into his again with a kiss much more intense.

You decided to simply move your arms upward and hug his neck this time with your arms. You weren’t even pulling him into you, you were just trying to find some shelter under him, especially due to how truly nervous you still felt.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get to appreciate much of Kakavasha’s lips because he wanted to keep going as you allowed him to do so. So, he slowly pulled away from you and slid down to your neck, introducing himself there with a gentle bite in your skin. You couldn’t help but gasp in shock and pleasure and curl your fingers in his locks, your head unconsciously turning aside and giving him more space to savor. As expected, it was your first time ever being touched like this in such a place, so your reactions were way more sensitive and energetic than they should be. You felt like a total virgin under him even if you already had already been introduced to sex multiple times.

Can you really say you’re not a virgin anymore because of that, though?

“This tattoo…” Kakavasha’s tongue was mainly working in one spot of your neck, the tattoo you shared with him, even if his voice sounded so revolted and disgusted at the sight of it. “Do you even realize how strong you actually are, Y/N? This tattoo… It brands you as nothing but a slave… for either labour or pleasure… but you still keep it… and I’ll make sure I’ll give it another meaning.” You couldn’t deny those therapeutic words felt great to listen, and accompanied by the way he bit and licked your muscled skin so gently, made your first moan of his name to escape your mouth.

“Vasha..!” As soon as you pronounced that nickname, he grunted hard under his throat in pure appreciation of what you had moaned.

In previous nights, Kakavasha could never find the courage to tell any of his partners that he had a real name behind ‘Aventurine’, a name he really wished he could hear as a moan throughout the act. And now that he’s finally listening to it, and coming from someone so special to him like you, he couldn’t help but feel like going even deeper into you. He desperately wanted to take your clothes off.

“Fuck…” He cussed, trying to fight his urges back.

He urgently kept sucking and licking the skin around your tattoo, as if he was a wolf eating a piece of fresh meat, for a whole moment, trying to not rush himself with you. He would need to keep putting in his head again and again that you would need a lot of patience and prepare for this, and that he couldn’t just go savage with you, unfortunately. But if it meant he would get the opportunity to finally make love to you, after so many years yearning for any crumb, he would be happy to follow your pace.

When Kakavasha finally felt he’d done enough, he slowly pulled out of you, noticing a big pink mark covering the spot he made out with. He smirked for a quick moment, knowing it would soon turn darker and noticeably brand him there and that he could officially keep going.

He rose his torso slowly, killing his smirk in the process to avoid scaring you, his eyes meeting the sight of you, a hit overstimulated, and giving his arms space to reach the handles of your nightgown.

“May I?” His voice was soft and calm, his fingers brushing your clothes with delicacy.

You weakly nodded with closed eyes. You didn’t want to watch him taking his first look at such an intimate and vital part of you. You didn’t even quite want him to be seeing it in the first place, but you knew it was something necessary… at least for guys. But you were surprised at how resistant you were being with your hesitation. You were not familiar with the feeling having someone taking off your clothes so passionately like this and being so kind with the content behind it, meaning your memories couldn’t really ruin the experience of it or impede Kakavasha from doing it.

When your nude breasts finally popped out, Kakavasha moaned in desire, letting your nightgown rest below them to not make you any more uncomfortable. To control a bit of your anxiety, your hands moved under the pillow your head lied on and held it tight, your legs crushing against each other.

“Aeons… You’re divine…” Kakavasha grunted with an excited smile as he leaned his face down and gave your left boob a lick.

Shivers went down your body when you felt it, a high-pitched moan accompanying it. It felt so different to have a tongue licking your breast and a hand fondling the other with so much love when were used to having them simply squished like a fidget, and your nipples pinched to pain you and take pleasure on it. But once again, Kakavasha contrasted all those memories and replaced it with new ones, and that gave you so much pleasure. He was being so soft and attentive to them, actually trying to savor every corner of them and look for spots that made you feel the most comfortable so he could stimulate you.

“Kakavasha..!” You moaned his full name as you felt slightly overwhelmed with that new, weird pleasure, a hand of yours reaching down to his hand fondling your breast and trying to give him some assistance by guiding it.

You never thought you’d want him to press your breast any harder than he was, and neither did he. He was trying so much to keep his touch as light as a tickling feathers, but he was happy to see you wanting more.

“Is everything okay so far, Y/N?” His eyes looked up to you for that brief moment, but not stopping making out with your nipple. You nodded more quickly than before, wanting him to keep focusing on doing whatever he was doing to you. “Great…” He smiled for a moment before going back all into you.

You arched your back as you felt him start to suck you with the assistance of his tongue twirling around your skin. It obviously aroused him to have you serving yourself for him so voluntarily like that, so much that he had breathe in and out heavily to calm himself down. He even wondered if he was inside a dream all along, but he couldn’t care less about it at this point. He was loving doing that to you.

You were already feeling so cloudy with all that you could barely think about anything else that wasn’t him and his mouth. You couldn’t even decide whether you wanted to help him fondle your boob or help him suck the other. Although you technically could use your other free hand to do the job of holding his head, you didn’t want to lose the comfort of holding the pillow. You knew you’d become unstable and scared if you let it go.

“Hmmmmmm… They feel so good, Y/N…” He grunted, his voice hoarse with satisfaction, in between the sucking. “I wish I could spend a whole day just showing them love…” Kakavasha’s mouth popped out of your breast, quickly moving to give a kitten lick and a smooch on the other one, pushing your and his hand away from it in the process.

Then, he rose his body, kneeling on top of you. He slowly started to unbutton his black and golden shirt from his pijama set, which was already halfway unbuttoned before all of this. You couldn’t deny that seeing him take his clothes off and meeting his nude chest made your heart start beating even faster, as if it was about to pump out of your chest. Was this how he felt seeing your chest too? But it didn’t make sense. You’d seen Kakavasha shirtless before… multiple times, actually. Sometimes when he showered in your shared room and needed to walk back to it, he didn’t mind covering anything above his waist. But you had mostly seen it when he was working. When the heated weather was so severe that he took his shirt off to refresh his body and improve elasticity. You’d even see it a few times when he was dragged back to your cell after punishment, which was almost always physical.

Was is the context of the situation what made you so nervous and turned on with that sight?

He still had the same physique you remembered him to have. Long and slim chest, with slightly worked-out muscles that could only be visible when he made the effort of showing them off. The only difference was the fact he wasn’t painfully slim anymore to the point where his rib cage was visible.

While you kept unconsciously staring at him, he obviously noticed your gaze and he was a bit awkward with it despite having shown his chest to many other women before.

“Y/N.” He woke you up back to reality. “Do you… want to touch me?” He slowly ran his fingers down his chest, trying to seduce you into the act of touching him.

You didn’t want to answer him with words, but your hands definitely did the job of telling him what you wanted.

You didn’t want to touch him a lot. You just wanted to feel the softness of his skin and acknowledge what you were about to deal with. Reassure yourself that there was nothing to fear at this moment.

“Y/N…” He moaned your name when your hand reached his belly and the tip of your fingers slid upwards to his sternum, a hand of his reaching down to his crotch and pressing it down, trying to hide his growing erection from you so you wouldn’t get distracted or scared.

Bu that obviously called your attention and your gaze looked down at it, figuring that he was building a boner unconsciously while you touched him. The more you found yourself closer and closer to the final act of sex, the more you felt nervous, but somehow excited too.

That’s how you found the courage to kneel up on the bed to align with his height and move his hand away from his erection to replace it with yours instead, cupping and caressing it gently, which immediately made him quiver in his spot.

“Y-Y/N!” He moaned more desperately, his hands reaching your shoulders so he could find balance in his position and also feel a bit of you too.

You didn’t say anything to him for an answer, fully flustered and focused on what you were doing. It was hard, as expected, and it felt a bit thick. But you couldn’t deny how uncanny it felt to be holding something you were so repulsive of, especially when it hardened even more with your touch.

In a blink, you pulled your hand away from his pants, creeped out by it after thinking too much about what you were doing. The deeper you went through with this, the more reality hit you, and you didn’t want to face it yet. So you let it go, letting your curiosity about his anatomy consume you.

“S-Sorry…” He whispered shyly, avoiding eye contact with you when he saw your widened, scared eyes.

“N-No… I should be the one apologizing.” Instead of letting your hands rest in the air doing nothing after acting so rude, you decided to rest them in his shoulders. “I just… wanted to feel you, but—… I don’t know how far I can go, Vasha…” His gaze went back to you while you told him how you felt while yours turned away.

He didn’t say anything at first, thinking about what to do with what you said. The more he thought what to say to you, the more his smile died.

“Do you… want to stop..?” He whispered a bit sadly.

And just like he did just now, you remained quiet. It’s not that you wanted to say ‘No’, but you were so reluctant with the future ahead of you. Then it hit you. Another reality hit you. Look how far you’ve gone with him yet. He kissed you, made out with your neck, took off your nightgown, made out with your boobs… the stakes aren’t going to go too higher, are they?

Shit, you had gone so far with him, you didn’t even realize your nightgown had dropped from your belly to your knees because of you sitting up, leaving you singularly with your underwear.

…

He’s been looking at you like this during all this time, and he didn’t even think about saying anything to you, touching you… much less hurting you.

…

Even if you may not like whatever is ahead of you, you were safe, right? If you tell him to stop, he’ll stop, won’t he?

…

“No.” You confidently said, which brought a smile back to his lips along with a chuckle.

“I promise you, it’ll all be ok.” He moved a hand of his up to your cheek, cupping it as gently as you cupped his erection, his head leaning down to whisper in your ear as well. “Lay down for me, Y/N.” His soft voice made your body immediately weaken in submission.

You nodded and slowly let him help you lay down back to your spot in the bed just like you were previously. Kakavasha watched you with lust reflecting in his eyes.

“May I… take this off?” He asked as his hands landed on your hips, his fingers slowly fitting themselves under the side edge of your panties, but still waiting for your full consent.

You had to swallow down all the saliva pooling in your mouth to not pass out with his initiative. And with that move, a bit of your anxiety was also brought down with it, allowing you to relax a bit.

“… Y-Yes…” You mumbled weakly and Kakavasha nodded before finally starting to pull it down.

It was careful, considerate and slow, as you expected from him, but you still could not handle the pressure you truly felt about it.

“W-Wait!” You put a palm in front of your genitalia and shut your legs together before he could fully see it, agonizingly edging him.

Even if he couldn’t see it, the tease of only your hand covering it was almost making him drool with the tease of it. He’s been wanting to have the privilege of miring you like this for all these years you’ve known each other. Of course he was starving to see what was under your hand, but he was so proud of you now that he was wail king to wait for extra 20 years to get to see the flesh uber your hands.

“S-Sorry…” He painfully chose to look away and drop your panties at your knees, resting his hands on the bed instead, although his dick was sucking all the blood from his circulation, begging to keep savoring the view.

For a good moment you just started to breathe all the air that you needed. You were reasonably nervous completely and ashamed. Your body wasn’t pure, it was an object, or at least used as one, left so traumatized it was almost impossible to feel confident looking at it. Your vulva was supposed to be a secret you’d take to your grave, especially what was inside of it. Even your breasts were supposed to be a secret, but the abuse done to your genital had generally been way worse.

What if you weren’t strong enough to resist your discomfort and let yourself go this? What if you decide to stop this, go to sleep, and start pretending this never happened? It would hurt him horribly, wouldn’t it? Especially after you’ve insisted so much about how uncomfortable you felt being a burden to him.

You really don’t want to upset him. You truthfully just want to see him and you thrive together as a duo, either friends or couple and get him away from suicidou-se as much as you can.

Breathing in and out helped you calming down once again. You decided to not stop it. Not yet. You should at least try to let him try. He deserves it, you deserve it. The poor man wasn’t even daring to look at it, only taking a few peeks here and there. At this point, he wasn’t even considering letting himself breathe without your consent.

“If it comforts you… I don’t intend to… put it in yet…” His eyes were truly doing maximum force to not look at you as he talked, but he couldn’t avoid the burning fever in his cheeks at all.

You immediately sighed in relief after hearing that statement.

Although your knowledge of these things is very little for a woman of your age, you knew it was possible to make a woman feel good in multiple ways.

You angled your head down, trying to search for more clarification.

“I-I’ll use my fingers.” He nervously stated when he noticed you were looking at him. “I’ll go slow, of course… I just want to make sure you’re… prepared… for more.” A little grin showed in your lips at his consideration of you in the choice of his words. It was so unnatural, but so calming and important to you, that it successfully managed to get you to ease your trembling body.

“Okay…” It even got you speaking confidently, your middle and ring finger finally dissecting from each other along with your legs, giving him space to see your pussy.

“Aeons.” That was all he could say that was appropriate to your needs, his hands gripping on the sheet as tight as he could.

“D-Don’t stare too much…” You couldn’t bare the pressure of him looking st you anymore, almost shutting your legs in fear.

“I can’t… You’re too beautiful.” He started to crouch closer to your organ, his hands slowly sliding between your thighs to reopen your legs again and give him space to fit his head them.

In quick seconds, you felt a hand of his let go of your thigh and a pair of fingers lay on top your clit and give it a soft squeeze right after, making your legs shiver and squeeze around his head.

“V-Vasha!” You screamed in shock, feeling ticklish with every touch of his.

“You’re so, so beautiful…” His voice was hoarse and lustful as all his attention was dragged down to your pussy, his fingers gently beginning to slide up and down, stopping at your both hole and bit every round to tease them a bit more.

“K-Kakavasha!” You moaned his name again and again, feeling numb with the stimulation he repetitively did to your organ.

“I’m here, Y/N…” He couldn’t wait any longer to give you an orgasm, his middle finger finally beginning to roll into your hole with delicacy.

Once again, it was slow and gentle, but it was enough to make tears form in the back of your eyes from the pleasure. His finger was long, but thin, perfectly resembling a small version of a penis, which was why it felt so bizarre to you, but since it didn’t feel as overwhelming as an actual dick, it managed to make you feel good too. Kakavasha thankfully didn’t dare move after he put it all inside you too, which definitely helped you process the feeling, his eyes staring at yours precisely, waiting for any signs of either consent or comfort.

The sensation of feeling your insides around his finger was tortuous to him. He desperately wanted his aching erection to be inside there and feeling your right walls instead, but he knew he’d have to work for it and he didn’t mind spending hours fingering you for it.

“Y-You don’t need to… wait for me everytime.” You looked down at him again, also wanting to see how the scene of you being fingered looked like.

“Of course I do.” Although his words were a bit firmer this time, his smirk and actions were completely contradictory to his toughness.

He started moving his finger, rubbing it softly on many spots while beginning to set a pace for the amateur thrusting. And surprisingly, he risked a lot of your consent when he decided to suddenly launch his mouth onto your swollen clit too.

Your back arched when you felt him lick your clit up and down, a stingy wave of pleasure hitting you whole. Kakavasha was pushing his own head against your clit like a starved dog, and that forced your fingers to flee from your vulva and find shelter in the pillow again if you wanted to feel more of that.

Visual Link

“W-Wow!” You weren’t really aware it was possible to have both fingers and a mouth working in you like this, and it definitely felt unique.

“You taste so sweet…” His eyes rolled back as the taste of your liquids started lubricating his mouth and fingers, grunting in his throat. “I can’t wait to make you cum, Y/N…” He finally laid the rest of his body in the bed, starting to rub his own erection against the sheets to relieve himself a bit, moaning a bit in the process.

“M-My God..! Kakavasha!” While you moaned in shock and pleasure, Kakavasha simply proceeded to lick you whole in silence, enjoying the moans he got out of your throat.

Due to how drowned his head was onto you, you unfortunately couldn’t see how happy he truly felt to be finally doing this to you and listening to such intimate noises coming from you, mean in that you were liking it. He barely believed it. Some minutes ago, he was ashamed to even look at you and you were so mad at him, but look at where you two are right now.

He was having sex with you.

And just to remember himself that fact made his cock twitch in need for more.

If he could change the past, he’d definitely impede you and him from ever becoming slaves, even if it would probably cost your friendship with him. He always felt anger when he remembered you were a victim of a violation as serious as rape and how much it ruined his chances with you. So he would rather stop you from ever living those days, and see you and himself being happy and normal, especially if it meant it’d be easier for him to bond with you romantically like this.

“P-Please..! More!” You were taken aback and overwhelmed with all his independent work, but enjoying it like a hungry woman, your voice glistening with hunger and lust. You were expecting him to be careful and considerate with you all the time, but you should’ve known this sort of thing isn’t really rehearsed or supposed to be rehearsed at all.

“Of course, sweetheart…” He mumbled on your clit with a chuckle and proceeded to solely focus on licking it up and down repeatedly, immediately started driving you insane. “Tell me… where do you like it more..?” You felt him add a second finger (ring) gently and spin them both around, his digits starting to rub against your walls, exploring every fleshy spot inside you.

“Holy shit!” You screamed with the addition of his finger, your insides almost aching with how he stretched you.

While his fingers took many trips in many different angles and lengths, he suddenly hit you in a spot that made you snap immediately. The wave of pleasure was so intense that it made you jump up and sit down, squeezing his head against your pussy even harder. That was definitely the spot.

“Right there! Right there!” Your hands, that were blew free from the pillow, reached down to his hair and held it for your life, squeezing his locks and trying to grind your hips harder against his head, his nose getting slightly moistened from all the friction.

How could you’ve ever known it felt so good to be touched like this? You didn’t even know such techniques were possible. To have your most sensitive and intimate part being thrusted and sucked so passionately by someone that didn’t feel like a threat, even if you tried to make him feel like one, felt… wonderful.

And obviously, the obedient Kakavasha below you took your command and started particularly thrusting you in that single spot. Sometimes he went for other spots just to give your favorite one a break, but he mainly tortured the spot that you told him to tease.

“V-Vasha..!” Your voice was whimpering hoarsely already, which only made Kakavasha become more and more aroused with the moment even more.

He could even swear he felt a string of pre-cum release from his tip and run down his cock, wetting his boxers a bit in pure desperation for release.

“Yes… Keep saying my name… please…” His eyes were glossy with pleasure just like you, even if he was technically receiving none.

“Kakavasha!” You spoke his name more confidently, and it definitely pleased his ears.

It pleased him so much that he used his other free hand, who’s been in your thigh all this time, to hook both your legs together and push them forward, giving himself more space to eat you out. His hips were also trying to grind even rougher on the sheets below him, trying to find more relief during this moment that was torturing him so badly. But he definitely did not want to spoil himself. He wanted to preserve his release entirely for the moment he was inside you, especially to use it as fuel to fuck you good. If he can possibly make you like having sex, and make you like it enough to keep wanting to do it with him, he’ll definitely take the opportunity. He should’ve really gambled on this long time ago. Why didn’t he? Why would you say ‘no’ back then? He never did anything to make you want to say ‘no’ to him. The chances of you saying ‘yes’ to him were quite big… They’ve always been big. He’ll forever blame himself for wasting all this precious time and energy away, but not too much. It has been always hard for him to tell what’s going through your mind, ever since you two were slaves, especially for things like this, so it was hard for him to find courage to flirt with you.

Why even keep thinking about these angsty moments? They’re all paying off right now.

“Kakavasha, I feel weird…” Your words felt like a switch to him, making him stop masturbating you immediately.

“Do you want me to sto—”

“For God’s sake! Why would you stop?!” You pushed his mouth back to your clit with your hands in complete desperation before the building momentum inside you could fade away, and he immediately switched back to obeying you.

You made him smile with that plea. It’s as if he was falling even more in love with you at this moment.

“S-Sorry! I-I think I’m going to cum, that’s all!” You finally finished saying what you had in mind, going back to your normal hoarse tone.

And if you thought Kakavasha couldn’t go any tougher with you, his fingers started thrusting you faster, digits endlessly and singularly teasing your weak spot now while his tongue kept twirling your clit.

“Cum for me, then… Cum in my mouth, Y/N…” He became slightly desperate for your release when you warned him of it, blinded with lust and desire to feel your very essence raining on his tongue for him to taste while you’re feeling heavenly amounts of pleasure.

“I’m close..! I’m so… close..!” You kept warning him over and over, your mouth trembling with weak whimpers coming out of it.

And when your womb finally snapped, you managed to warn him, but you stopped talking afterwards due to the shock, your body throwing itself on the bed so it could fully process all the pleasure that was taking over your senses. It was more immense than you expected from all that build-up, and Kakavasha fiercely took it all, switching his fingers and mouth’s position, his tongue thrusting inside you so it could take your orgasm inside him and fingers circling your clit to prolong your climax. His reaction was simple. He simply angled his eyes upwards and enjoyed the view of you worming in the bed, paradisiacal under his touch, while moaning inside your pussy in arousal of feeling you drip in his tongue. He didn’t he could feel this good making you feel good.

After a few seconds, when it was unfortunately over, you gasped hard and finally stopped screaming, eyes darting at the rooftop exhausted while he still did the job of licking you clean and drinking all your cum. You were finally gaining your lost consciousness back after such intense moment that took some of it away, and Kakavasha obviously took your relaxation as a sign for him to pull out. So, while he gulped down your precious essence and sucked on his fingers to clean them, he took his mouth off of you, a ‘pop’ noise accompanying it.

Neither of you said anything for a few seconds, simply breathing in and out. Kakavasha also had to recover a bit from spending so much time breathing warm air and drowning in your wetness.

“Y/N…” He crawled up to you again and leaned down, his forehead almost touching yours. “Can we… keep going..?” His voice remained soft and calm, barely above a whisper.

“Yes…” At least, you were feeling way more sure and aafe about all of this after this orgasm. You didn’t even take a moment to think before answering, and that made Kakavasha a bit happy.

“I want nothing but you to make you feel good.” He leaned a bit upwards, which allowed him to remove his hands from the sheets and reach down to his pants to start taking them off and freezing his pushing erection.

You decided to follow his actions and looked down at his shaft, only to regret it immediately and raise your chin against to stare at the roof.

Oh, yeah… that.

That monstrous thing that has abused you so many times and looked so ugly and evil. The memories of seeing those did not make you feel good, it actually made you rethink what you had said earlier.

You closed your eyes. You should not take your words back now… not yet. It’s not fair to him. Kakavasha can’t control his sex the same way you can’t too, so don’t blame him for being forced to have something you don’t like.

“Is everything okay?” He asked while getting completely naked just like you were.

“Yes… I just don’t wanna… look at it… if you don’t mind.” You turned your face away from him, although it didn’t change the blackness your eyes mired.

“Of course I don’t mind it.” He replied gently, finding your reaction cute.

The room went a quiet after he talked since Kakavasha still needed to get rid of his pants hanging on his knees and also your underwear that was still hanging to your legs all this time. But even after he was done with that and finally readied himself between your legs, leaning his face close to yours, he stopped moving entirely and sighed.

“I think it would be better for you if you put it in yourself, Y/N. It feels weird for me to put it in whenever I want to when you look so nervous like that. I don’t want to scare you.” His voice sounded a bit worried and defeated seeing how you were acting under him, all stiff and anxious.

“N-No, please… I’ll be ok… I really just don’t wanna look at it… B-But I’m ok with you taking the lead here… I don’t think I can do it anyway…” You laughed it off, trying to calm him down, and it seemed to work since you heard him chuckle.

“Are you sure, Y/N?” He asked again, a hand of his moving down to hold your hips and holding it for prepare, but the grip was absolutely soft.

“Yes, Vasha.” You nodded, forcing your expression to soften to make him less resentful of beginning the act while your hands crawled back under the pillow.

And slowly, he started to take action. You squeaked when you felt him guide his fleshy tip to your wet lips, gently opening its passage, while also pulling your waist closer to it go help him with the penetration. The more he went inside and filled the emptiness of your inner walls, the more he slowed down, even more when you expressed discomfort with your face or voice. But he didn’t want to stop moving. The hug of your walls around him felt too good for him to not keep going deeper. After all, Kakavasha’s mouth dropped more and more the more he watched his cock disappear into you, finalizing with a loud groan when the skin of his hips finally slapped against yours and his head curled down until your foreheads were touching again.

“Shhhhh… It’s over.” He whispered, kissing your forehead gently while immediately dropping his hands from your hips and his dick to interact with you. “It’s ok… You’re ok.” You felt a group of fingers reach the top of your head and twirl with your locks, beginning to caress your scalp with the tip of his fingers smoothly.

You were overwhelmed once again. It felt weird but it felt good, it felt eerie but it felt genuine, you felt threatened, but you also felt safe. The uncertainty of I made you open your eyes very slowly for caution, meeting Kakavasha breathing with his mouth open, as if he was trying to control himself, while staring deeply at you eyes.

“Are you ok, Y/N?” The mere fact he made that question to made you feel better. It felt warm to be so considered like this in such a difficult moment.

“Y-Yes…” Your hands creeped up to hug his shoulders from behind, looking forward to bond you two together.

But Kakavasha immediately took as a sign to lay his forearms in the bed and press his whole body against yours. He groaned deep once again as he felt your breasts rub against his torso, and the way your back arched, making the contact even harder between your chests, made him even more desperate. But what really mattered to him was the way you were scratching his shoulders and back. He’d let you discount whatever you needed on him, even if he started to bleed.

“S-Sorry… I can’t stay silent about this, Y/N. You feel good. Really fucking good.” Kakavasha suddenly confessed with a hoarse voice, feeling horrible about telling you such a dirty thing, but unable to hold it back.

“T-Thank you.” You quietly mumbled back a bit embarrassed. Although you appreciated his comment, you didn’t feel like complimenting him back… because it wasn’t really reciprocal.

It didn’t feel bad, but it didn’t feel amazing either. It felt just like you remembered it to feel, but at the same time you knew this wasn’t abuse. You felt paralyzed and a bit uncomfortable, but maybe if you let him move, this will start to feel better.

“Y-You can move… slowly.” You warned him and he nodded, but didn’t immediately follow your order.

Instead he gave you a quick kiss on your cheek and forehead first, and then he started moving.

God, it felt even weirder to have him moving. At least that’s how you felt in the beginning. But when you realized he was being so attentive to your reactions and his slow, smooth pace, you felt safe again. You did not know how good it felt to be heard in an activity like this, nor how good it could feel when someone was actually searching for what made you feel pleasure. It was still bizarre, but in its own unique way, where you could still feel a bit good with him pulling out and pushing back, and Kakavasha was obviously enjoying it more than you.

“Fuck…” Kakavasha cussed out of relief, his cheeks burning in a bright red tone as he felt your walls tightening him.

Kakavasha could seriously pass out at any moment right now. You had no idea how excited he was truly feeling about this. How much he wanted to fuck you faster, praise you with thousands of words, and touch you in so many places. He wanted to do this with you for the whole night. He just wants to show you what you deserve, but he knew being that touchy and hypnotized would most likely turn you off, so he’d rather not gamble. He’ll take it slow and wait for your approval for him to keep going.

“Vasha…” And to watch your face and body contorting with pleasure under him and mire his own dick disappearing inside you every few seconds was even more addicting to him.

He couldn’t believe he was actually inside you at this moment. These mushy walls he was savoring belong to you, not some random prostitute. It was your voice who was calling his name. It was your love he was receiving. Shit. If he thinks about it too much he’ll cum in a blink and he doesn’t want that. But just for the sake of reassurance, he looked down at where you two were connected and saw what he expected to see. Your vulva stretched apart to receive him, and his cock going inside it. It felt really great. So great it made him feel more confident about this and so great he had to stop looking if he didn’t want to cum yet.

“Y/N…” He was obviously moaning way more than you, both in volume and frequency. “I love you so much… This feels amazing— Ah! Shit…” He proceeded to word every thought that came to his mind.

But when he said he wanted to prioritize you, he truly meant it. His noises might make it seem like he was prioritizing his own pleasure, but those weren’t even the loudest he could be. They were just a slight representation of how good he felt even when he wasn’t the focus. A slight representation how great he felt making you feel wonderful.

His head slid down and landed by your side, moaning on your neck instead of the whole room while also making out with it again, trying to listen to you more than himself and make you a bit more comfortable with his moves. Maybe the amount of noises he emitted scared you, so he’d avoid it.

Now, you were back at staring the roof again, free of his piercing gaze landing upon you. You used that moment to reflect, taking advantage of Kakavasha melting down into you to think about it with less guilt. You were feeling horrible about yourself and your thoughts at this moment. It did not feel as good as promised by nature. There could still be hope to this somewhere, but this is not for you. All you were feeling right now is discomfort. You were many times pinned down like this, only to be invaded and abused. Even if it was Kakavasha who was doing it, and despite all his consideration, your brain couldn’t help but keep warning you about rape every second, leaving no space for relaxation or comfort. That length inside you was the thing that once traumatized you, that scarred you for life, physically and mentally, and you were letting it in again. For what? To make you hate it even more? But you allowed him to do so much to you and you promised this to him. His hopes are set sky-high. Do you really want to ruin them?

And, well… there are still some positive sides to this, isn’t there? Hugging him feels warming, hearing him moan and call your name feels like a romance movie… but the main point of this whole act did not.

…

…

At least… it was Kakavasha, your most-trusted friend, who was doing this to you. He would never do this without your consent, would he? If you said ‘no’ to that first kiss of his, you two would be sleeping right now, wouldn’t you? If you said ‘no’ right now, he’d stop, wouldn’t he? Kakavasha is feeling depressed and suicidal. That’s what is making you keep yourself there and let him do what he wants to do with you. All you want is to see him getting better and yourself to live without fearing he’ll try to attempt against his own life again. Even if it costs a bit of your well-being, your own comfort, another scar that’d make you hate this even more… you wanted to do this for him… after all he’s done to you.

So you closed your eyes, and started thinking about other things unrelated to all of this, hoping it would distract you from it until it was over. And obviously, you hoped it would all end soon.

…

…

“Y-Y/N..!”

…

…

…

“A-Ah… Hmmm…”

…

…

…

“Aeons… I love you so much, Y/N…”

…

…

…

“You feel so fucking warm… so tight…”

…

…

“Gonna take care of you—! Ah… Every time you want me to…”

…

…

…

…

…

“You’re breathtaking, Y/N… This tattoo is nothing compared to you…”

…

…

…

…

“Y/N…”

…

…

“Y/N..?”

…

…

…

…

…

…

..?

What?

Why did he—

You opened your eyes again, only to meet Kakavasha’s face on top of yours again, staring at you visibly disappointed and his body immobile.

“You’re not enjoying it, are you?” He asked, but before a single syllable could leave your mouth, he sighed and spoke first, a bit angrier this time. “I told you, Y/N. You’ll never like this. It’s not part of your nature anymore.” His gaze was serious and heavy, forming a knot on your throat. “I appreciate it, but I don’t want to force you to do this, nor do I want you to force yourself to do this.” He turned away, slowly starting to pull his length out of you.

Wow. That hit you hard.

After all these steps you’ve taken, after all the time he spent preparing you, after all the expectations he’d created, his entire confidence was crushed in a matter of seconds. You must’ve actually worsened his well-being instead of making it better as you intended to. Looking at his eyes, seeing all its shine disappear along with his excitement broke your heart.

It made you feel… embarrassed.

You can’t leave him like this. You can’t just fool him like that. It didn’t feel right. You shouldn’t end things like this.

His insecurity sparked you. That one last hope you had in the back of your mind, but didn’t want to risk yet, was paining to be risked now.

“… No.” You intended that to be said in your mind, but it left your mouth, and Kakavasha noticed it.

“Wha—?” He didn’t catch what you said, so he looked back at you for a quick moment, only to be surprised by you launching yourself upwards and rushing your lips against his.

At first he didn’t react, after all, it was your lips against his, but then he quickly remembered how forced you felt to be doing this, and started to fight back.

“Y/N, you don’t have to—” He pushed you away with his hands, but you acted quick and grabbed both of his wrists.

You took them away from your body and pushed him instead. And for his shock, you surprisingly didn’t stop there. Using all your strength, you forced both your bodies to turn around, switching positions, and used your weight to push him down against the bed, sitting right on top of his belly.

Kakavasha could’ve fought you back, after all, he was stronger than you and your moves were quite slow, but he didn’t want to. He was shocked but didn’t feel threatened at all. He was rather curious. That’s why he simply chose to stare at you in confusion after he was laid down.

Why were you doing this? Why were you going so far for something you didn’t even enjoy? You didn’t have to do this for hm.

“What is wrong with you?!” You couldn’t help but grip his wrists tighter in revolt, trying to stop the growing tears in the back of your eyes from falling down and mess up your voice and face. “You were willing to gamble your success with our master when we were slaves… knowing failure would bring you death… You were willing to gamble your success and even mine in the IPC with Jade, despite neither of us having any experience with this type of work… You’re willing to gamble millions of Credits in our casino daily… or your own life away… But you’re not willing to gamble on this with me..?” You were slightly breathless after spitting out all that scolding, so you had to pause for a moment to recover your breath, which also gave him an opportunity to answer you, but he didn’t take it. “What is the matter with you?! Why do you underestimate me so much?!” And unfortunately, you tears couldn’t be held back anymore. They were too strong.

Kakavasha’s eyes squinted, almost shutting down seeeing your distress.

“S-Sorr—”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Kakavasha went mute after this, only his hard breathing emitting noise. “Yes, I was not enjoying it, ok?! But why do you insist with this bullshit of ‘my nature’ to me?! Since when are you this pessimistic about me?! Has it always been like this?!” You had to pause again for oxygen while he pathetically stared at you. “Does it not go through your head that maybe it’s something else?! I want to try it, for God’s sake!” You pulled your hands away and started clearing your tears. “You just… You just pulled an orgasm out of me… but you believe I’m not capable of facing more..?!” More tears fell from your eyes from the slight disappointment you were feeling, while he didn’t blink once.

Kakavasha didn’t answer anything, as expected from him after your order, but now you wanted to take it back.

“Say something!” You cried out, your voice slightly breaking while you removed your hands from his wrists to wipe your face.

…

…

Kakavasha’s muscles finally seemed to start relaxing, his gaze softening, his eyes thankfully blinking again and a smile slightly forming in his pink lips.

You felt something poke your buttocks. You actually have been feeling it since the moment you sat on him. But now it was completely annoying you. So you decided to look behind you and check it, only to meet his dick, that had hardened again, and enough to be standing straight and rubbing against your skin. It was begging you to do something with it.

“Use me.” You suddenly heard him mumble, your head spinning back to him pay attention to him.

“Huh?” You were still whiny and even more lost now.

“I said… Use me. You’re right… I’m a hypocrite… I’m nothing but a stupid, hypocrite bastard.” He paused for a second, his hands moving up to grip the pillow where his head laid just like you did. “I shouldn’t think of you like this. I should’ve never thought of you like this. So, please, use me. Use me as you please. Even ruin me if you see fit. I’ll let you do anything to me right now. Anything that’ll make you forgive me for my stupidness… for making you waste your precious tears away like this… I won’t touch you once, I won’t thrust you once, I won’t even look at you if you want me to. I’m yours tonight, Y/N. All fucking yours.” His dick pulsed a few times as he said such dirty words, desperate to be inside you again, his voice lacing with sadistic amusement and you couldn’t deny the little butterflies kicking your stomach too.

“Don’t speak of yourself like this.” You said a bit more firmly, finally finishing your task of clearing your tears away from your cheeks. “You’re not… a toy.” You reflected yourself on him as you said that, shaking your head to forget those thoughts before they consumed you again. “I-I’m not doing this because I want to… use you… Don’t… ever word it like that.” He immediately nodded like an obedient dog as you gave him those limits.

“Of course…” He talked to you as if you were a queen, even if a real queen would never act so scaredy like you were. You were still a bit nervous to engage in this activity, especially now that you were the one in control. But your body has been successfully turned on again, along with him. That was the perfect opportunity for you to try again.

So you lifted your hips, one of your hands going down to hold and align his dick with your moistened hole, and slowly slide it inside you entirely, your back arching upwards as you felt him consume you to the hilt again. He still felt overwhelmingly sized inside you, despite you having already tried it.

Wait, had you just touched his actual dick? You looked at it, you acknowledged it and its hungry state, then you proceeded to hold it with your hand, when you’ve been doing your best to avoid interacting with it in any way. Were you really feeling that safe around Kakavasha? Enough to touch something you disgusted so much? Wow… it surprised you how much this man managed to change you.

“Hmmmmm… Y/N…” Kakavasha was smiling in a weird way, as if he was enjoying this more than he was supposed to, but wasn’t scared to show his creepy devotion to you.

After all, it fueled you to start hopping in a weak, slow pace, causing the man to start moaning immediately while your hands rested on his belly to help you hop. His hands held the pillow tightly, and his head arched upwards in pure ecstasy.

This time, it didn’t feel so weird. Was it the position you were in what scared you before? Because now that you were the one setting the pace and making Kakavasha take you, no feeling of danger consumed you.

Perhaps you could finally say you were enjoying it.

“Y/N! Oh, Y/N…” Kakavasha moaned your name like a desperate prayer over and over again, his chest lifting up and down heavily to breathe in enough oxygen to take you.

Kakavasha wasn’t used to being the one who follows the rhythm. He was very ready to be the one guiding you, not the other way around. But at the same time, he loved it. He could see such a privileged view of your whole body on top of him and it looked so beautiful. Your pussy spread to receive his cock, your hips swaying on it and making it disappear into you, your boobs jiggling, and your face and vocal chords expressing so much pleasure. You looked like a work of art, the kind that deserves to be hanged at the museum, but unfortunately he couldn’t enjoy you more than that. He promised himself that he wouldn’t influence you and your choices, and it was starting to weigh on his pleasure.

He promised you all he’d do is receive what you have for him, so he couldn’t do nothing but drool with the view of you while his heart and cock ached for more physical touch.

“Vasha…” You groaned his name before starting to speed up your rhythm a bit, finally getting better used to him and his size.

“Yes, Y/N… I’m here!” He made to sure to reply just in case you weren’t saying his name out of pleasure, and to communicate instead. “How do you feel, hum..? Any better?” He was still a bit insecure this whole act, especially how to interpret your movements and noises.

“I feel good… I definitely feel better.” You decided to move your hands a bit upwards, feeling more of Kakavasha’s torso rather than his belly, and he immediately liked to see that coming from you.

“You do..? Good…” He proceeded to go back to moaning repeatedly, eyes working hard to keep themselves open and savor the view.

His balls felt so heavy with all the stimulation that they were itching. And knowing that he wasn’t even feeling the most pleasure he could feel tortured him even more. It only showed to him how you made everything feel so much better, despite being an inexperienced newbie at it. He’s had so many other women riding him, way more professionally, but none of them made him feel so horny and hungry like this. Was he this terribly addicted to you? Enough to overshadow every other experience he’s had?

He couldn’t keep himself so caged under you like this. It was too tortuous for him.

“Y-Y/N… I’m sorry… but I need to tell you how much I— ah! How much I want to touch you right now… S-Sorry..! I know I promised you t-that I wouldn’t… but this is too much for me.!” Kakavasha turned his face away and closed his eyes, expecting the worst reaction out of you. “Only your hips… I’ll only touch your hips…” Kakavasha’s eyes froze on your hips, looking at them like a raw, bloody piece of meat.

“F-Fine… Be gentle…” You decided to give in to him and leaned down, pressing your whole body against his while your hands went to the sides of his head, which immediately made him groan loudly.

Obviously, Kakavasha’s hands snapped to your hips and gripped on them tight, not enough to hurt you, of course. His moans became slightly more high-pitched with the feeling of holding your hips and the stimulation of your breasts pressing against his chest. As expected, he didn’t quite exactly keep his hands there. The closure of your faces now made it irresistible for him to not launch his mouth on yours and seal you Hoth with a messy, wet kiss, and his fingers were brushing your hips up and down, sometimes going as far to your buttocks or scratching your spine, but those didn’t bother you at all. If anything, they made you feel desired.

“You’re so perfect, Y/N..!” He broke the kiss only to say those words and immediately go after your neck next.

And, once again, he begun making out with your cursed tattoo and whispering sweet words directly to your ear, freeing a hand of your hips to push your head harder onto him so he could reach your neck with ease.

“You’re such a brave, powerful woman, Y/N…” He licked your skin with delicacy, his voice as sweet as honey against your ear, warming the air around it.

“S-Stop… teasing me..!” Your voice didn’t leave your throat any louder than a whisper, lingering with exhaustion and overstimulation.

“I’m not teasing you… I’m just telling you the mere truth… You’re amazing, Y/N. You’ve evolved from a slave, to a secretary, and finally to a Stoneheart on your own, and I’ve been proudly accompanying you ever since Step 1… admiring and loving every cell of yours every fucking second. Only Aeons knows how much I want you to keep riding me like this… I want to do this with you the whole night… Just you and me… fucking each other like this…” Kakavasha giggled in your ear as he felt pleasure from feeling his heart weigh lighter after confessing all that dirty stuff, those darker desires of his, his cock aching for his orgasm that was slowly rising to its peak, while you had the contrary effect.

His poetry completely overstuffed you with love, joy and passion, making it harder for your heart to process it all and keep beating as it was. Even if they were risky words to say to someone as sensible as you, they only made your swollen clit throb for more of them. Without this, you would never know that you had such a like for dedication, especially an exaggerated one like this. Could it possibly be what people call a ‘kink’? Because all you felt was your muscles weakening on top of him, and your heart almost pumping out of your chest in exhaustion.

“C-Can’t… do this anymore..!” You whimpered, your hips almost fully stopping to move, nails clawing at the sheets for your dear life.

“W-Want some help..?” He couldn’t help but already begin moving a bit to not lose the momentum happening between you two and fly both his hands back to your hips, preparing to help you in case you said ‘Yes’.

“P-Please..!” As soon as he heard you plead for his help so breathlessly beautiful like that, he immediately snapped. In a second, you felt his legs spread farther away from each other, and his hips thrusting upward, causing you to scream in slight shock.

Although having all the control of the intercourse gave you a lot of comfort and reassurance of yourself and your actions, you didn’t expect it to feel even better when he was the one acting again. It still felt like you had more power than him, even if that wasn’t quite true anymore. You were sitting down so peacefully with freedom to move everywhere while he wetted the bed with his sweat and suffocated in that strained position that didn’t favor him at all, not even with his precise thrusts. The position did really matter for someone like you, didn’t it? Unlike Kakavasha, that did not once seem uncomfortable with this.

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Kakavasha’s pace was way faster than yours and was a bit more brutal too. He seemed to be trying to specifically hit you in a specific spot compared to the rest of your walls… your g-spot.

“Oh, my God!” You screamed with tears hanging in the corner of your eyes again, your head arching upwards again to let all your voice out of your throat, letting Kakavasha stare at your broken face.

“It’s here, isn’t it..?” He smirked with lingering arousal, stopping his rhythm for a moment to grind in your g-spot and torture it until he found it.

“F-Fuck!” The way a heavy wave of pleasure was sent through your whole body from your womb made you whine in satisfaction. “Y-Yes! Right there! It’s right there!” Kakavasha immediately unpaused his thrusts when he got your confirmation.

Your body was panicking with the spanking he did at your g-spot, stimulation taking over your senses and turning you into that hungry animal. At least he was acting as animalistic as you, even worse, if you could be honest. You could even feel a remarkable feeling in the back of your womb… that same exact growing burn you felt in the back of your womb that you just felt while he ate your pussy out, specifically when you were about to have your orgasm.

“Is it too much, Y/N..?” Not even he knew how his masochism and desire for you wasn’t taking over his mind right now. Fucking your pussy, so tight, sloppy and warm for being untouched for so long, like that was truly breaking his mind bit by bit.

“N-No! Keep going! I-I think I’m close!” Kakavasha smiled at that warning, and he obviously didn’t dare stop thrusting you in that speed.

If anything, you could even say he started to go faster. So fast he was almost slipping out of your hole every time he pulled up, but his focus thankfully managed to keep himself into you all the time.

It was everything. You and him, after so many years fighting together, befriending each other, becoming familiar with each other, now bonding in a way that you two never dared to. The intimacy, skin to skin, eye to eye, mouth to mouth… It wasn’t the average sex Kakavasha would experience on his own, or the abuse done to you.

It was love. A kind of love, so passionate and strong, that was making your past fears look like nothing but an annoying piece of dust. One that Kakavasha never got to express and was now vomiting it all and almost losing his consciousness for. One that was so new to you, but was truly taking you to heaven.

“To think that… I wouldn’t be experiencing this if I was dead right now… It kills me, Y/N..!” His voice broke in a few syllables while he moaned and babbled, his smile dying due to the heavy feeling of guilt in his heart when he reminded himself of that.

“Shhh, shhh…” You put a palm on top of his mouth so he could stop ruining the mood. “It’s ok, Vasha… We all make mistakes, and I forgive you… I definitely forgive you…” You tried talking the sweetest you could, although it was hard to keep your noises in the back of your throat and impede them from breaking your calm tone.

“But I was going to die, Y/N..! I was going to kill myself… and leave you behind..! And I still… I still think about i—!” He insisted on talking even if you had tried to shut him up.

“Stop talking, Kakavasha…” You spoke in a more serious tone, and Kakavasha almost went against you, but you spoke before he could. “Just focus on me, ok..? I’m here… I’m right here.” Those words sent shivers down on Kakavasha’s spine, immediately falling for your seduction while his dick pulsed for more of you.

You were right. You were right there for him, and he couldn’t get enough of you. You could keep rising the stakes, but it’d never be enough for his desire for more of you, for an impossible amount of pleasure coming from you and him. But at least he was getting to express some of it— no, most of it with you right now, and he was not going to stop until you reached another orgasm.

“Make me cum like you said you wanted me to, Kakavasha…” You quickly leaned down just to kiss him on his tattoo to intentionally turn his mind off from those thoughts, and you successfully got him to snap.

Kakavasha sat up, forcing you to kneel on top of him again. His thrusts became erratical, making you throw your head behind your shoulders.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… Please, let me cum too—! Ah! Please, please, please, please…” Kakavasha buried his face on your shoulder, his hands almost turning the bones of your hips into dust.

“Of course you can, Kakavasha…” You simply hugged him back, clawing your fingernails on his back so harshly it made him hiss in pain.

“I want to make you cum with me too… I want to see it… Your face, your body… I want to hear the noises that you do… Please tell me you’re close!” His voice was so high-pitched that you wondered if he’d gone insane already.

“I am, Vasha… I’m almost there..!” Your vice eas also going more high-pitched then the usual due to the closure of your orgasm.

“P-Please.. let me lay you down… I-It won’t last long, I promise, I just want us to cum as soon—” You got tired of him of trying to explain every thought in his mind midway and decided to take over.

“Do it.” Kakavasha’s eyes widened with shock at your dedication, but also shone brighter than before. In less than one second, you were thrown in the bed, close to he edge of it, so the momentum wouldn’t be lost, not in the slightest.

For the next seconds, you and Kakavasha simply focused on staring deep down at each other while he completely bottomed his entire length inside you every thrust, in search of that blissful orgasm he looked for.

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He looked so beautiful above you, all sweaty and wasted, but still working his hardest to make you feel pleasure. Kakavasha also thought you looked hypnotizing under him, but the difference between you and him was that he looked at you way dirtier than you did. He was looking at your swollen, soaked pussy taking him in, then raising his eyes to your bouncing boobs, then to your sweaty face and open mouth emitting such beautiful noises. In the back of his mind, he wanted to fuck you all night in many different places and positions. He wanted to hear your dirtiest moans and tell you his dirtiest wishes while he had you under him looking just like that.

But before he could enjoy any more of you, the arousal of seeing you under made him orgasm snap prematurely, way before than he expected it to come.

“F-FUCK!” Kakavasha groaned with a deep voice before suddenly stopping with his thrusts and start to yelp like crazy.

He was screaming, body quivering and shivering entirely as his dick started ejaculating. Your orgasm followed his orgasm a few seconds later, and it was definitely another shocker to you. You weren’t expecting it to be so much more breathtaking than the last one. Maybe the build-up to this one or the connection between you two was what made your body burn with so much more fever. Screams obviously came out of your mouth, accompanying Kakavasha’s screams even louder than him, also including the hook of your nails that dug so deep in his back that it could make him bleed.

“Yes, that’s it— Fuck!” Kakavasha tried keeping control so there was some guidance in the situation but Kakavasha was also having the hardest orgasm of his life, and it was hard to resist when he knew it was all being spilled inside you.

It was too much ecstasy for the both of you, and this moment of climax lasted incredibly long.

Obviously, the intensity of the moment couldn’t be increased and only decreased, so soon enough, you and Kakavasha were simply panting messes looking at each each other. So weak that his arms couldn’t hold himself above you for too long and they broke, pressing his body against yours.

Neither of you knew what to say to each other, the way your bodies curled onto each other and made physical contact was enough to express everything either of you had to say. This was a great night. You completely renewed your limits and learned new things about sex, improving your knowledge about it too, while for Kakavasha, this was casually the best fucking night of his life. Fuck suicide. He got you to have sex with him. This completely restored his hormones, and would definitely weigh positively in his mental health. He was so happy he didn’t even want to let go or pull out. Feeling you hug and caress his back after hurting it so bad, crawling his fingers under you to caress your back too, shove his head between your shoulder and neck and feeling your inner walls still moisten his length was a contact that he desperately craved for.

“Y/N…” Things were finally becoming normal again.

“Kakavasha…” Ignoring the fact that you two couldn’t really call each other ‘friends’ anymore…

“How do you… How do you feel..?” He finally had enough strength again to push himself upward and stare at your face again while unfortunately pulling himself out, his soaked dick feeling the sharp cold of the room’s temperature.

“Hmmmm… Weird…” You shrugged your shoulders, and you noticed Kakavasha’s eyes widen a bit, as if he was about to have a heartbreak. Luckily, you were just kidding with him. “…ly good.” You giggled at his reaction, and his cheeks simply flushed with embarrassment at being so easily fooled.

“You..!” He tried scolding you, but he had zero negative energy to do that. “You promise..?” But he was still a bit insecure, and needed a clear confirmation.

“Yes.” You nodded, attempting to begin getting out, but his arms were weighting really hard in the sheets.

“I hate to say this… but I would really like to keep going…” He looked away from you and paused for a moment. “I could bring you to paradise all night… teach you more about this… let you experiment more… whatever you want…” But there was a little smile in his face, lingering with hope. “So… round two?” Although you weren’t a fan of guys flirting with you, having Kakavasha doing it sounded funny, real, romantic and intuitive. “P-Please, don’t get me wrong… I’m already very happy and satisfied, I just still have energy in me to keep going… If you don’t want a second round, you can just say ‘No’ to me and I’ll be completely fine.” His eyes looked anywhere else, but avoided your face the most they could.

“I don’t know, Vasha…” You replied a bit unenthusiastically, trying to think about it, but Kakavasha didn’t give you much time.

“Alright, then… No need to worry or overthink it. You did absolutely amazing tonight…” He suddenly pulled you and him upwards, only to throw himself in the pillows again, bringing you with him.

When you two landed, Kakavasha immediately pushed you out of his lap, laying you down beside him just like you two were before all of this and layering the sheets on top of you. He was staring at you passionately, cheeks flushing and a grin in his lips that resembled a little kid in love.

“Aeons, you look beautiful like this…” You couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at his compliment and pull the sheets closer to you after he said those, trying to stop from saying any better things to you.

It was your first time ever showing him your nudity, and looking at him fully naked indeed, and his words didn’t make it any easier to keep yourself naked for the whole night of staring at him nude all night.

“Stop…” You mumbled while avoiding looking at his violet eyes, who were still shining with satisfaction.

“How can I?” He also decided to cover himself with the sheets too, and now that you two had censored your bodies from each other, you could make eye contact again. “You’re the perfect sight for sore eyes.” He reached a hand out, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You simply smiled awkwardly in response, letting him keep fixing your hair.

Despite the moment being wholesome, you were really going back to your previous thoughts before this, when you were scolding Kakavasha for his attempt against his own life. Your thoughts about it came back even spicier now due to what he almost said while you were riding him.

“But I was going to die, Y/N..! I was going to kill myself… and leave you behind..! And I still… I still think about i—!”

So he really still thinks about it? Even if you just tried your best to give him a reason to not? Why? Wasn’t this enough to make him at least reconsider it? You don’t want him to die. He doesn’t deserve to die and rest in peace for the rest of eternity. He deserves to live and prosper, whether if it’s with you or not, after all the things he went through.

So, meanwhile you allowed him to play with your hair, you took advantage of his distraction to speak about the big unspoken elephant in the room.

“Kakavasha.” You called him pretty seriously, and he looked at you without realizing your serious expression. “Do you really still think about killing yourself?” You spoke seriously, referring to suicide harshly so it’d trigger him to remember what he said and engage in the conversation truthfully with you.

His hands froze in their place, still resting in your hair, as he heard ask such a question in such an invasive tone, looking at you a bit shocked and confused.

“Promise me you’ll never attempt suicide again, Kakavasha.” Although his mouth was quiet and reluctant to talk, his widened eyes looking away from you what you needed to know. “I’m serious.” You completed yourself, trying to appeal to his empathy with you and your trust in him.

He didn’t answer initially, looking at many different corners that weren’t you and not face your piercing gaze, but you were determined to keep pressuring him to at least give you an answer, even if it was a lie or a mere syllable. But the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to talk about it with you, as if he was uncomfortable. Since it’s easy for someone like you to identify discomfort, you quickly realized it and decided to accommodate to it, hopping a little closer to him and revolving your hands around his waist to hug it.

“Things will get better, Kakavasha. I can assure you that.” You laid your head harder against his chest very close to his heart, feeling his accelerated heartbeat echo in your ear.

He still didn’t say anything, and instead just circled his own arms around your head like a leech and went back to fidgeting with your hair, but a bit more stressed this time.

“I want to be your lover, Y/N.” He whispered with an anxious tone, afraid of his own words, while they simply surprised you. “I want to be your boyfriend, o-or your husband… or at least… someone you’ll never ever abandon.” He shoved his face in your neck again, breathing your skin as if he needed it to live.

“I’d never abandon you, Kakavasha. But I… can’t accept being your lover.” His eyes shrunk with tears glossing them as he heard that rejection, his heart aching and throbbing for your love. “Not only I’ve lost some of my trust in you, but I don’t think I’d be a good girlfriend.” He immediately rose his head and tried to argue back, but you flew your hand to slap his mouth shut before he could say anything. “I know what you want to say, but, trust me, Vasha, if I were to become your girlfriend today, the way I am, all traumatized and scared of the most basic romantic interactions, I’d most likely fail to meet all the new expectations you’d have for me, and breaking up with you would certainly demolish all the friendship we’ve built yet, or at least most of it. After all, this is indeed a nature that has unfortunately been taken away from me.” You only felt him squeeze your locks tighter and tighter, trying to press your body against his harder, and slight gasp escaping his throat, hinting his incoming tears. “No, no… Don’t you dare cry on me, Kakavasha…” You lifted your face upwards to smooch him in his collarbone and neck, your hands creeping down to hug him, but that only seemed to make it worse for him.

“D-Do you… at least… love me back..?” His broken voice whispered in your ear again.

“… I’ll always be here with you, Kakavasha.” You decided to not give him a direct answer, wanting to avoid raising the stakes between you two that were already skyrocketing at this point. “Let’s rest now, ok? You’ve done a lot of today. We’ve done a lot today.” You whispered with a soft voiced trying to seduce him again.

It was either shattering his heart or making him set high expectations for his future with you that you didn’t believe you would achieve. And even he recognized it deep down in his heart, even if he wanted to disagree with it. That’s why you immediately changed topics. If you got him to close his eyes and sleep, there could be a chance he’d wake up feeling fine without this part of the night replaying in his mind.

And finally, he started to sob in sorrow for his failed attempt at making you his. He didn’t even know why he was crying at this point. Your words about staying with him forever was so vague and uncertain that it was enough to make him woe, but enough to make him want to hug and savor you for the whole night with all his strength and love, as if he was about to lose you.

And crying makes everyone tired, doesn’t it? So in a few minutes, after sobbing so much after using so much of his energy to have sex with you, his eyes finally weighed too heavy to keep them open, and he sealed them shut, not trying at all to keep them open for more time.

Despite the fact that your relationship with him was still troubled, even if you two tried fixing a bit of it tonight, you two still had to play his part in the cycle of life, and wake up new and fresh tomorrow, whether if it’s to go back to work at the IPC or keep trying to convince Kakavasha that suicide wasn’t worth it for someone like him.

Taglist: @gaboplaydespacito @b1eh-h

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it! <3

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Old Wounds Uncovered

A story. Truths are told, tears are spilled and best friends are found. Relationships: Grayson x Lyra, Lyra and Jameson (platonic)

Post- The Grandest Game

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Lyra wasn’t the angsty type, nor was she the kind of person to cry over someone else’s trauma.

Yet, somehow, none of that seemed to hold true when it came to her boyfriend.

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne. Her Hawthorne.

Lyra took a deep breath as she stared up at the full moon from her spot on the roof of the Hawthorne house. It was all she could do at that moment, to try and seize the tears from spilling out.

Her thoughts began to drift back to the conversation she’d had with Grayson.

———————————

Lyra ran her hand through Grayson’s hair while her other hand was occupied with holding the book she was invested in.

After a few minutes of silence, Lyra looked up from her book towards Grayson, expecting him to be asleep since he hadn’t made so much as a peep in a while.

So she was surprised when she saw Grayson staring at… nothing in particular, seemingly deep in thought, but that wasn’t the surprising part.

The surprising part was that Grayson looked vulnerable, troubled, almost…hurt.

Lyra stared at him as her attention focused solely on her boyfriend. This was, in fact, not the first time this had happened.

Grayson, just like Lyra herself, had his fair share of trauma. The only difference was that, while she had shared all her worries and troubles with him, Grayson didn’t say much about his own.

Lyra stared on at him as she fought an internal battle of her own, a part of her believed that when Grayson wanted to open up, he would. Lyra should give him some space. But another part of Lyra, the more prominent one, begged for her to ask. To just give him a little push. To let him know that she was here and waiting to listen. To understand.

She hesitated for a moment before deciding that she wouldn’t pry, just ask. If he wanted to tell her, he would.

“Gray?” She asked softly. Grayson visibly flinched, being snapped away from his thoughts all of a sudden.

Grayson looked up at her, “Yeah?” He asked.

If anyone else were to look at him now, they wouldn’t see a single thing out of place. He looked normal. Untouchable. Like Grayson Hawthorne.

Yet Lyra didn’t know just Grayson Hawthorne, she knew Grayson. Gray. Her asshole. She saw the way his eyebrows looked slightly furrowed, the few droplets of sweat that were threatening to make their way down his forehead, the way his eyes looked glassier than usual.

Lyra took a moment to assess his state as they sat their in silence.

“You can tell me.” She said, finally, praying the words didn’t sound too pushy.

Grayson continued staring up at her as she saw his eyes visibly soften. “Alright.” He answered after a beat of silence.

“Alright.” Lyra had replied.

And so he started. From the beginning.

Lyra’s breath caught in her throat as she thought about Grayson’s past.

About the boy who was never shown motherly affection. The boy who was raised to be the heir apparent and never given a true opportunity to enjoy his childhood. The boy who fell in love with a manipulative bitch and lost his brother as a result. The boy who had his, supposed, life purpose snatched away from him within a day and given to a random girl.

The boy who fell in love again but let go for his brother. The boy who found out about his father after years only to realise that he never truly cared. The boy who became a puppet for a seemingly innocent girl. The boy who suffered alone for so long that he forgot what it was like to open up.

The boy who had is childhood snatched away from him, had his heart crushed and handed to him, had to play the puppet for years, had to suffer alone.

Who never truly got to be a boy.

Lyra felt a tear trail down her cheek as her heart ached impossibly more for the boy she was never able to meet. For the boy she could no longer help no matter how much she wanted to. For the boy who had blossomed into a man despite the suffering he went through.

She let out a sob as a word drifted to her, undeserving.

How could she even be deemed deserving of him?

Lyra had been traumatised by the memory of her father. She had wanted to find out the truth, she had wanted to be at peace.

Grayson gave her all of that and so much more.

Grayson had found her, reached out again, helped her, laughed with her, helped her rekindle her love for dance, made her happy again, made her whole again.

Yet, what had she done for him? What could she do for him? Nothing. She was undeserving.

She let out a cold chuckle knowing fully well how upset Grayson would be to hear that mental declaration, no matter how true it seemed.

Lyra was planning to get up when she heard footsteps from behind her. She whipped her head around to see Jameson Winchester Hawthorne standing behind her, wearing an intrigued expression.

She turned her head back to the moon and held back the urge to roll her eyes.

In the few months Lyra had gotten to know the Hawthornes, she had formed a… unique dynamic with Jameson.

He was a wicked-dumbass and egoist in the making while she was sassy, quick-witted and… petty sensible. So, obviously, they exchanged blows every chance they got.

“Weird seeing you here?” Jameson made that statement a question.

Lyra let out a, very pointed, huff, “I could ask you the same thing, dumbass.” She said and nearly winced at how broken her voice sounded to her own ears.

Lyra felt Jameson go still behind her before he walked on over and plopped himself down right next to her.

“Well, I’m sorry to inform you that the rooftop of this household has been my go to place since like— the beginning of time.” He said, adding a big show of his hands to support his statement.

This time, Lyra did roll her eyes, “This household hasn’t existed since the beginning of time.”

“Well, it has since the beginning of my time.” He said and Lyra suddenly felt the urge to smack him square in the face. Then again, that wasn’t particularly rare around Jameson.

“Jameson, it’s seriously not the time.” She said, putting her hands to her face as she fought her tears back. Crying in front of people would never not be embarrassing.

Lyra could feel Jameson’s assessing gaze on her, though it felt like he was staring directly into her soul. Hawthornes had a way of doing that.

“Alright then, why don’t you run it by me?” He said, finally, breaking the silence.

Lyra looked back up at him and blinked, “Run what by you?”

This time it was Jameson’s turn to roll his eyes, “What’s bothering you, moron. Obviously.”

Lyra blinked again. And then another time.

Jameson was asking her what was bothering her. Jameson. Jameson Winchester Hawthorne.

The same Jameson Winchester Hawthorne who couldn’t be bothered with ‘emotions’ or ‘sentiments’ for the life of him. That much, she had figured out by now,

Lyra stared on at the maniac and her expression must have given away something because Jameson looked at her and let out a scoff.

“Cmon. I’m not that bad. Why does everyone do this when ever I ask what’s wrong???” He asked, and the worst part was, he looked genuinely confused.

“I don’t know? Maybe because you are exactly that bad??” She replied, the disbelief still evident in her tone.

Jameson sent her a glare with no real heat behind it before looking back to the moon, “I guess Heiress makes me want to try.” He said and, for a moment, Jameson looked loveable. (A/N: ITS SUPPOSED TO BE A JOKE. PLS. ITS IN LYRA’S POV KINDA— BEAR WITH ME.)

Lyra gave him a small smile, she knew that feeling. It was something that came with falling in love. You know you aren’t the best person, but they make you want to try to be better. For them.

For him. She thought.

They sat their in silence with nothing but the moon to keep them company.

“He suffered.” She managed. Lyra felt the change in Jameson’s demeanour.

“I mean— it’s no surprise,” she let out a small laugh with no heart to it, “to make a man like him. It’s obvious he had suffered but—”

She took a deep breath, calming her feelings, “I just didn’t expect that. He didn’t deserve it.” She stopped, knowing fully well that the unspoken words would be heard by Jameson.

He was Grayson’s brother, after all.

Lyra glanced over at Jameson when he didn’t say anything for a few beats. His eyes looked distant, regretful-almost.

“He didn’t,” He said, finally, “deserve it, I mean.” Jameson lowered his gaze to the ground underneath them, seemingly deep in thought.

“He’s been through a lot. I don’t know just how much he told you—” he took a breath, “but— he’s lived through a lot.”

It was obvious at this point that both of them didn’t hold an expertise at speaking their mind or feelings.

“Before her.” Jameson started again. Lyra took in a sharp breath. Her. Emily.

“Grayson and I were— close,” he made a few incomprehensible noises, “I mean— we were closer than we are now.” He explained.

Lyra’s gaze locked onto his face, his eyes had taken on a more distant look, like he wasn’t sitting here but somewhere else. Somewhere further away, somewhere out of reach.

“We still bickered a lot. Hell, I think we fought more back then but,” He took a moment to think about it and Lyra’s gaze softened, thinking about the two brothers together. Happy. Content.

“There was some unspoken trust. I could talk to him, he could talk to me. Anytime, anywhere. Brothers first and everything else second.” He finished and a small smile enraptured his expression.

“We always had trusted each other. We still do. It’s just— somewhere along the way, we lost the talking factor.” Jameson said and Lyra saw his eyes darken.

A moment of silence passed between them, “After Emily?” Lyra asked finally, already knowing the answer at some level.

Jameson closed his eyes, “After Emily.” He confirmed.

Lyra felt her blood boil thinking about the 15 year old girl. Who would have thought that such a young girl with a heart disorder could disassemble such a strong relationship. Knowingly, at that.

Lyra hadn’t felt this level of anger in a while.

She didn’t realise how silent she had been until she felt Jameson’s gaze on her. He was looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Are you mad?” He asked, and she swore she could hear a tinge of amusement in his voice.

Lyra rolled her eyes, “Absolutely not, Sherlock. I’m so fucking satisfied that some little bitch with a weak heart and, obviously a mental issue, managed to cause you both so much trauma.” She finished with a huff.

Jameson let out a laugh, “You really suit Grayson.”

A small smile creeped its way onto Lyra’s face as she rolled her eyes again.

A pregnant pause followed.

“He deserves the world.” Lyra said, unable to help herself. Because he did. He deserved that and so much more, and she could never possibly be that, no matter how much she wanted to.

Jameson looked her up and down with a peculiar gaze.

“He does,” he, surprisingly, agreed. A pause followed, when suddenly he shuffled back up to his feet.

“And you are just that.” He finished.

Lyra’s eyes widened to amounts that shouldn’t even be considered humanly possible as she whipped her head up to look at him, the shock obvious on her face.

Jameson looked down at her and let out a huff of his own, “Dude— I can practically feel the ‘I don’t deserve him’ thoughts radiating off of you.” He said and Lyra was, once again, floored.

Did Hawthornes just have an innate ability to read people’s mind?

Jameson continued to stare down at her as she contemplated the odds of people being born with super powers.

He chuckled, breaking her train of thoughts, “What?” She asked, sending him a glare that was purely habitual.

“I think you’re picking up on his expressions too.” Jameson said and she could tell he was holding back his laughter.

“Says the moron who was willing to be sappy for his girlfriend.” She bit right back.

Jameson let out a dramatic gasp, “I was not sappy. I personally think that was quite inspirational.” He said, placing a hand on his chest to showcase his pride.

They both stared at eachother, “So, you were incredibly sappy.” She concluded.

“Was not.” Jameson replied.

“Were to.”

“Was not.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, dimwit.” She said.

Jameson chuckled again, “Glad to know you’re worried about my sleep schedule.”

“No. I’m worried about you ruining Avery’s. The poor girl.” She said, adding her own, overly-dramatic, pitiful sigh at the end.

“That you needn’t worry about.” He said as he turned around and craned his neck to look at her. “I’ve already ruined that in more ways than one.” He finished adding a wink.

Lyra visibly cringed knowing fully well what he was implying, “If you don’t shut the fuck up, Hawthorne, I’ll make you.” She said threateningly.

Jameson laughed, “Is it bad that I don’t doubt you would?” He asked.

She smiled a wicked thing, “Absolutely.”

Jameson let out a defeated sigh as he walked towards the door, “Cmon, soon-to-be-sister-in-law, you’ll catch a cold if you stay up here and I don’t wish to be deemed responsible.” He said.

Lyra rolled her eyes and got up to exit the rooftop, she looked up at the moon one last time before turning around to follow her soon-to-be-brother-in-law down stairs.

They bickered all the way to Lyra’s room, since Jameson insisted he escort his brother’s soon-to-be wife to her room.

“Goodnight then, Jameson.” She said.

Jameson shot her a crooked grin in return before turning around to head towards his heiress.

“Oh and,” Lyra started and Jameson paused to turn around and face her.

“You’re not a bad brother, Jameson.” She said and she saw the surprise flash through Jameson’s eyes before he quickly neutralised it and gave her another smirk.

“I must be truly commendable if you noticed too.” He said, covering up his feelings. Classic Hawthorne Move.

Lyra smiled as she turned the knob to her and Grayson’s shared room, “You are.”

The last thing she saw was Jameson’s frozen figure before she shut the door. She let out a small laugh thinking back to the dazed little brother that Jameson was.

When she turned around prepared to lay down in bed and stare at her boyfriend for a while she was shocked to see Grayson, sitting up on his bed with a glass of water in his hand, and staring at her with a small smile on his face.

“You were with Jamie.” He said. Not a question.

Lyra smiled, thinking back to the conversation she had just had with her soon-to-be-brother-in-law, “I guess you could say we bonded over a certain bastard.” She replied.

Grayson let out a chuckle, his voice low from sleep. Lyra hated to admit that his sleepy tone still did things to her, even after all these months.

She walked over to him, closing the distance between them as she cupped his face and craned it upwards so they were staring directly at one another.

They stared at each other as Lyra made another mental declaration.

She hadn’t been there before. She couldn’t change that now no matter how much she wanted to, but that was fine. Because she was here now. She would help him get over his trauma. She would help his wounds heal, the way he did for her. And, even though the scars would never truly be completely gone, they would lessen, and she would make sure of it.

She would bandage those wounds with new memories, happier ones, and wait for them to give way to scars, permanent, not painful. Visible, not bleeding.

They would always be there, but they would fade. She was here now, and she would be forever.

Lyra couldn’t help the huge grin that broke out on her face as a tear rolled down her cheek. Grayson’s eyes sparkled with both worry and curiosity. She couldn’t afford to give him an explanation now. Not with words.

And so she bent down and they kissed. And this kiss was all-devouring. It was them.

No words needed to be exchanged as they layer next to each other in the dark, knowing fully well that neither of them had their eyes closed and that both of them were staring at one another.

And that was more than enough. They were more than enough.

—————————————————

OKAY. IM NOT GONNA LIE, I LOW-KEY HATE THIS ONE.

Like I really REALLY wanted to write a ff that would give some sort of origin story to my ‘Lyra and Jamie are best friends.’ head canon sosososos yea 😭🥹✋

This was TOUGH to write, I don’t like it, I honestly don’t expect anybody else to like it either, but I’m not gonna delete this much effort 😭😭🥹🥹🙏🏻🙏🏻 (it’s not beta read.)

Sorry in not advance (I forgot what the opposite of advance is— sue me.) folks.

@alwaysthefangirl , @lyrakanefanatic

Constructive Criticism 😭🥹🙏🏻

[cece693]

hii can you please write another part for “where’s the trust”!!

Where's The Trust? Pt. 3

tags: mission gone wrong, perhaps Tony set things up to get you two talking, reconciliation, second chances, bucky is a mess, heart on his sleeve, talk about feelings, yay

It was a simple decision—at least in theory. You left Stark Tower, shoving a few essentials into a duffel bag, and took off without fanfare. No tearful goodbyes, no dramatic explanations, just a quick text to Tony that you needed space and would be back eventually. It wasn’t like anyone was going to lock down the compound to keep you inside.

For weeks, you drifted. You sublet a small apartment on the outskirts of the city, a place with peeling paint and questionable plumbing but quiet nights. Alone, you tried to sort through your feelings—about Bucky, about your future, about the betrayal that still stung like an open wound. No more distractions, you told yourself, taking long solitary walks by the riverside, sipping coffee at a nearby café, occasionally practicing your combat drills in a dingy local gym.

You needed distance from the Avengers, from Bucky, from the swirling tension of compound life. But you couldn’t outrun your thoughts. Every time you tried to piece together what to do next, you heard Tony’s words in the back of your mind—don’t slam the door forever—and the ghost of Bucky’s voice pleading for forgiveness. You usually drowned it out by shadowboxing or burying your face in a pillow, wishing for the thousandth time that your heart could just switch off.

Your attempts at off-grid reflection ended abruptly when an emergency call came through. Some psycho group—remnants of HYDRA, by the sound of it—had unleashed havoc downtown. Civilians were pinned in crossfire, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were outnumbered, and the Avengers needed all hands on deck.

Even though your gut clenched at the thought of rejoining the team—seeing Steve or him—you couldn’t ignore the call. You were a hero, after all, and no amount of heartbreak would change that. Grimacing, you packed up your gear, pulled on your suit, and made your way to the coordinates Tony had pinged to your phone. A quick comm exchange told you the fight was ugly: heavily armed mercenaries, potential hostages, and a few experimental weapons nobody fully understood. Nothing like an adrenaline-soaked crisis to put personal problems on the back burner.

Downtown Manhattan was in chaos, the skyline marred by smoke plumes. You landed on the scene—courtesy of a loaned Stark hover-bike—and found the Avengers scattered across an intersection littered with burning vehicles and panicked civilians.

Tony swooped overhead in his suit, blasting at some mechanized contraption that spat lightning. Nat and Clint were flanking a group of mercenaries, systematically disabling them. Sam soared overhead, barking updates into comms. And Bucky—his presence made your pulse stumble—was mid-brawl with a burly enemy wielding some sort of energy mace. Focus on the mission, you told yourself. You forced your mind away from the tangle of unresolved emotions, drawing your weapon and slipping into the thick of it.

You fought with your usual efficiency, adrenaline fueling you. But a fraction of your brain refused to stop buzzing about the super-soldier near the middle of the battlefield—his broad shoulders, the glint of his metal arm, the memory of his desperate apologies. Not now, you thought, teeth gritted, ducking a stray bullet that ricocheted off twisted metal. You had to keep your head in the game.

Your momentary lapse in concentration cost you. One of the mercenaries, cunning and armed with a high-powered plasma rifle, seized the opening in your defenses. You heard the whine of a charging shot far too late. A blast of searing light erupted. You dodged instinctively, but it clipped your shoulder, sending you sprawling. Dazed, you tried to scramble to your feet, only to see the same merc priming another shot, aiming right at your chest. In a split-second, you braced for impact—only for a familiar figure to slam into you, shoving you sideways behind a toppled car.

“Stay down!” Bucky’s voice barked.

Another blazing shot carved a smoking hole where you’d been standing. Your ears rang, your skin prickled. If Bucky hadn’t intervened, you’d be a pile of ash.

You blinked, meeting Bucky’s wide eyes from your semi-crouched position behind the vehicle. He looked absolutely frantic, sweat and dust smudging his face, fear etched into every line. “Are you okay?” he demanded, glancing at your injured shoulder with alarm.

Before you could answer, another plasma bolt slammed into the car, making it jolt backward. The metallic screech nearly drowned out your next words: “I’m fine!" Bucky nodded once, then rolled out from behind the car to unleash a barrage of gunfire at your assailant. The merc ducked behind cover, but Bucky advanced relentlessly, forcing them to retreat.

It was a brief lull, enough for you to assess your shoulder. The scorch was painful, but you were still functional. You clutched the wound, adrenaline numbing the worst of it. You moved to follow Bucky and help finish off the threat—but the ground shuddered beneath you, and something big collapsed in the distance. You both turned just in time to see a building chunk—a literal chunk—of concrete and steel plunging from a compromised structure above.

“Move!” Bucky shouted, diving for you.

Debris rained down like meteorites. You two sprinted, but it was too fast, too big. The chunk struck the pavement with an explosive crash. Dust billowed. Something slammed into your leg; you stumbled, and Bucky grabbed you, shielding you with his body as smaller debris rained around you. When the dust settled, you found yourselves pinned in an alcove of collapsed concrete and twisted rebar—an impromptu cave that might hold or might decide to pancake you at any moment. Smoke and the acrid smell of burned metal choked the limited air.

Bucky immediately tested the edges, trying to see if there was a path out. His metal hand pressed against a slab, straining, but it didn’t budge. “Damn it,” he muttered, chest heaving.

You coughed, wiping grit from your eyes. “We’re trapped, aren’t we?”

His jaw tensed. “Looks like it. I’ll call for backup.” He tapped at his comm unit, but got nothing but static. The thick concrete overhead probably blocked the signal. He exhaled through clenched teeth.

“Guess we wait,” you said, a bitter laugh escaping you. “At least we won’t suffocate right away. The Avengers will figure something out.” Bucky looked at you, an entire storm of unresolved feelings swirling in his expression. For a split second, you both just stared, the tension almost tangible in the confined space. It reminded you uncomfortably of all the times you’d been close before—intimate, safe. Now it felt like the walls themselves might collapse under the weight of your unspoken conflict.

Bucky broke the silence first. “I—” He stopped, swallowing hard as if he couldn’t find words. Then he forged ahead. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can’t just stand here, trapped with you, and not say it. I’m sorry.”

You shut your eyes, heart twisting painfully. “Bucky, not now—”

“Yes, now.” His voice trembled, desperation cracking through. “You can punch me later if you want, but please, let me talk. Let me get this off my chest and then you can walk away. I promise I won't stop you." His words gave you pause, and Bucky took your silence as an opportunity to bear his heart.

“I love you,” he continued, voice raw. “I’ve loved you since the day you told me you believed in me—when nobody else did. That’s never changed, I swear.”

Your pulse hammered. Anger bubbled up, along with a surge of grief. “You had a funny way of showing it,” you snapped. “Letting Steve—”

“That was the biggest mistake of my life,” Bucky interrupted, voice shaking. “He means nothing to me. Whatever we had was ancient history—an ugly, confusing tangle of war and desperation. I never wanted it again. He tricked me, cornered me, whatever you want to call it. But I should’ve told you about our past. I should’ve been honest instead of lying by omission. I messed up, and I see that now.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. The raw sincerity in his voice tore at your defenses. For the first time in weeks, you saw the Bucky you fell for: loyal, determined, quietly desperate to be better than his past. And trapped here under the rubble, both of you battered and dusty, it felt like all the anger you’d been clinging to was starting to crack.

“It hurts,” you whispered finally, tears stinging your eyes. “I gave you everything, and you shattered my trust.”

He exhaled, shoulders slumping with defeat, and his tone dropped to a near-whisper. “I’ll do anything. I’ll go to Doctor Strange, Wanda—any mystic or telepath out there, I don’t care. If it takes a mindscan, memory walk, brain surgery—whatever it is—to prove I’ve never lied about my feelings for you, I’ll do it.”

Your stomach twisted. You searched his eyes—blue like stormy skies, swirling with regret and a spark of that old devotion. The sincerity in his offer rocked you. “You’d let them poke around in your head? After everything Hydra did to you?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he said earnestly, steel in his gaze. “I want you to see that I only want you. I never once thought about going back to Steve. And God knows I’d cut him out of my life a thousand times if that was what I needed to do.”

Slowly, you exhaled. You could practically feel the anger and hurt warring inside you. Part of you wanted to rail at him, to demand more apologies, more proof. But another part—maybe the bigger part—realized how much you’d missed him, how your heart still beat irregularly whenever he was near. “Promise me,” you begged, voice shaky, “Promise me it’s over with him. That you’ll never keep secrets like that again.”

Bucky reached out, fingers trembling as he carefully took your hand. He didn’t force it, giving you every chance to yank away, but you didn’t. The contact was electric, familiar, and heartbreakingly comforting. “I promise.” He squeezed your hand, his grip firm but reverent. “I’ll break every tie with Steve if that’s what it takes. Hell, our friendship is already in pieces. I just—none of that matters compared to you.”

You nodded, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “Then…okay. Let’s try again.”

It was all you could manage—your heart felt too bruised for grand gestures—but it was enough. Bucky’s expression shattered into profound relief. He let out a choked laugh, pulling you gently against his chest for the briefest of embraces. Despite the dust, the rubble, and the crisis, you melted into him just a little, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.

“I missed you,” he breathed into your hair.

You pressed your forehead to his collarbone. “Yeah,” you whispered, tears and dust mixing. “I missed you too.”

The debris above groaned ominously, making you both jolt. But before panic set in, the chunk of concrete shifted, accompanied by a burst of red energy. You and Bucky shielded your eyes as Wanda’s powers lifted the collapsing walls away, letting sunlight—and fresh air—flood into your cramped hiding spot.

“Sheesh, you two cozy in there?” came Tony’s voice through the dust as he hovered nearby in his armor. “Hate to break up the cuddle session, but we’ve got cleaning duty to attend.”

Bucky helped you to your feet, and you both crawled out, coughing in the aftermath. The rest of the team, battered but intact, converged to check on you. Nat threw you a knowing glance, raising an eyebrow as if to say, So…does this mean you two kissed and made up? You rolled your eyes but didn’t refute it, which made her smirk.

Clint patted Bucky on the shoulder, muttering something about “playing hero.” Bucky gave a tired half-smile, his attention still mostly on you, ensuring you were okay. He gently guided your arm around his shoulder to help with your wounded side—though you were mostly fine, you weren’t going to argue with the contact.

As for Steve, he stood at a distance, looking like he wanted to approach but thinking better of it when Bucky shot him a warning glance. Tony landed, faceplate retracting. He took one look at you leaning into Bucky and waggled his eyebrows in mock scandal. “So, does that mean the wedding’s back on?”

You snorted, fighting a smile. “Shut up, Stark.”

Bucky shifted sheepishly, but the relief in his posture was palpable. “Thanks for the rescue,” he grunted, changing the subject hastily.

“Don’t mention it,” Tony replied. “Seriously, though, don’t. I have an image to maintain.”

A small chorus of snorts and chuckles broke through the tension. For the first time in weeks, you felt something dangerously close to happiness bloom in your chest. There was still a lot to unpack, a lot of work to rebuild trust, but in that moment—covered in dust, injuries aching—you felt hopeful.

Bucky caught your eye, and you offered a wry smile, letting your hand linger on his metal arm. He squeezed your fingers gently, just enough to say, We’ll figure this out. Together.

Back at the tower—or what remained of it after the fight—the med staff patched everyone up. Bucky hovered near you like a protective guard dog until you told him, in no uncertain terms, that you’d be fine. He still insisted on carrying your bag up to your room, though. And maybe you didn’t protest as much as you might have a few hours earlier.

Natasha and Clint exchanged bets on whether you two would be back to “gross lovey-dovey mode” by the end of the week. Sam swore he overheard you two laughing quietly in the hallway, and Tony—ever the showman—passed around a digital poll on whether you or Bucky would crack the first real I-Love-You post-reconciliation. (You, to Tony’s chagrin, took first place by a landslide.)

[salesmancarddd]

Dear stranger

Salesman x OrphanFEM!Reader

Warning: Brief reference to a death, implied violence without graphic details, and a hint of possible kidnapping, Dysfunctional orphanage.

Genre: Fluff

Note: Salesman meets an orphan who appears unusual compared to the other kids, and when the orphanage declines his adoption request, the story takes an unexpected turn.

It was like any other day. The salesman was walking around, trying to find people to recruit for the game. Playing all day was exhausting, yet it was thrilling to see the desperate faces on people when they got the chance to win money. It was something he viewed as truly pathetic.

As he walked, he came across a playground filled with children. Some of them were playing "Red Light, Green Light," which struck him as ironic given all the things he had seen. These kids were loud and full of energy. Just as he was about to continue on his way, his eyes fell on a little girl sitting on the steps. Her eyes seemed completely lifeless, her clothes were dirty, and she was the only one sitting alone. He assumed she was in timeout, but she didn’t look like a troublemaker? or was she?

Eventually, he decided to walk away, focusing on the tasks he had at hand.

After a long day of recruiting people, he felt somewhat satisfied. He walked the same path as he had in the morning, knowing that at this hour, there would be no one around but drunk old man and junkies. When he passed the playground again, he was surprised to see the little girl still sitting there. It was a cold night, and he couldn’t understand why a child would be outside at this hour. He hesitated to approach her, but eventually, he did. He walked over slowly, and when he stood in front of her, she made brief eye contact before looking down at the ground again.

Inside the nearby orphanage, there were still lights on, and it seemed loud—like a vibrant home. He looked at the place and realized this wasn’t a school, it was an orphanage. Suddenly, everything made sense.. why the kids wore dirty clothes. But compared to the other children who were so chaotic and energetic, she seemed distant, completely cut off from everything around her.

As he knelt down in front of her, the little girl lifted her head and looked at him. He noticed how pale and dirty she appeared.

“Hey, kiddo. What are you doing out here so late? Where are your parents?” he asked.

She didn’t speak, remaining completely silent and avoiding eye contact. After a moment, he stood up.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. At that moment, she finally made eye contact and gave a little nod. He gently petted her head and said, “Stay here, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

She nodded again, and after a few minutes, he returned with a plate of hotteok to give her. At first, she kept looking at him, waiting for permission to eat.

“Eat up,” he urged.

It took her a minute to nod before she began eating. He sat beside her, watching as she devoured the food like someone who hadn’t eaten in days. He felt a mix of emotions. His job required him to remain uncaring, but he couldn’t deny that he had a soft heart for kids. He had never considered having a child, let alone adopting one. If he did have one, how would he be as a father? Could he ever love them? Could he treat them well? questions swirled in his mind.

The silence between them felt comfortable. Neither spoke. He wasn’t sure if the girl was mute, scared of him, or simply didn’t know how to talk. Regardless, he didn’t want to force anything. Several hours passed, and it was now midnight. They were still in the same spot, staring at the street nearby and a flickering light. He was deep in thought when he was suddenly snapped back to reality by a loud shout.

“Y/N!!! Where are you??”

The caregiver was yelling from the other side of the playground until she saw the girl.

“Where were you? Do you have any idea what time it is?!” she continued, approaching quickly.

“You’re in so much trouble!” she yelled, grabbing the child’s wrist harshly. The girl didn’t flinch, it was clear she was used to this treatment.

“I can’t believe these useless kids are getting on my nerves! Once we’re inside, you’re in timeout! No food—” That was when the caregiver caught sight of the handsome stranger in a suit, who was observing her. Her tone suddenly changed.

“And what’s a handsome fellow like you doing out here at this hour?” she said, tilting her head flirtatiously.

His expression shifted to an irked frown upon hearing that irritatingly flirty comment. He had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes at her audacity.

Well, aren’t you quite the talkative one, he thought, just as she stepped closer to him.

“Would you like some tea? I’m sure it would help you warm up,” she purred, leaning in closer to his face.

Why don’t you come inside?” she suggested, placing her hands on his collar. “I’m sure a handsome fellow like you doesn’t belong out here—” Before she could finish, he pushed her hands away.

“I pass,” he said politely as he walked away from her.

She was annoyed, feeling as though he had the audacity to walk away like that. Disappointed, she turned back, but the little girl was still standing behind her, watching the scene unfold. She sighs in annoyance.

As he was about to walk away, he stopped and spoke from behind her.

“I’m not surprised that people like you work in this place. It’s a shame.”

He turned around, making eye contact with the caregiver. He usually mocked these kinds of people, but after witnessing the scene with the child, he felt anger instead.

"You're truly pathetic and incompetent. I have no idea how you've managed to stay employed here for so long.”

He approached her, this time with an air of danger. His expression darkened as he leaned closer.

"Consider yourself lucky. If you were under my command, you would be gone with a snap of my fingers. Yet they keep you here, barely doing your job."

He could threaten her, but he didn’t want to take it that far in front of the child, who was still observing the situation. He gave her one last warning look before walking away for good.

“Jesus…”

she mumbled, standing there speechless. Never in her life had she felt more vulnerable, and that look he gave her was a clear warning. She decided to push it aside for now and quickly glanced at the little girl before dragging her inside, closing the door firmly behind them.

The next day, he expected to find the little girl sitting in the same spot as before. As he walked past the playground, he saw the children playing as usual, but when he looked toward the place where she typically sat, it was empty.

Just then, a loud shout broke the air, and everyone turned to see what was happening, including the kids.

“Y/N!”called one of the caregivers, and it was clear that everyone was visibly stressed. "Someone call the police!" other caregiver spoke.

That's untill...

Sike you gotta wait

[roullette4]

Do you have puzzleshipping aus you created?

[ Terrible english and poor explanation. Sorry Anon you have to deal with this.]

I certainly have a Puzzleship focused AU. It took place within the season 0 with a little tweak here and there, I also took away most of the millennium items and kept only the puzzle in this universe to keep it simple with a specific reason.

This is a soul bound or perhaps it could be considered as a contract soul, with Yami's being bound to Yugi as his shadow.

Before the contract is established, Yami is bound to the puzzle. His existence is tied to it so if it's destroy he would be lock inside of it like a prison. The sensation is horrible and unpleasant for him if it ever happens.

Until the contract is fully formed, he plays a penalty game (his extra step of killing) to keep his physical form to be able to interact with the living world. He doesn't need to be around Yugi or the puzzle 24/7 but there's a limit to the distance he could go for, its not fun if there's no consequences for him too.

So, once the contract is finally established, Yami doesn't need to keep playing his games (but he keeps doing it anyway). He would be bound to Yugi and as his shadow, so what belongs to Yugi is also belong to him. Example: his soul.

In the early stage of their relationship. Yugi was oblivious to Yami's presence for weeks, without realizing he was being followed or watched by Yami like some creepy stalker (he isn't, he is just 'observing' or that's what Yami considers).

It took yugi approximately 3 weeks to finally realised Yami presence and it was also by an accidental circumstances. The kid has more issues to deal with other than a pissed off spirit.

Yami also stayed hidden, so he is also at fault for thinking— more like assume Yugi understands the terms in completing the puzzle. His puzzle.

"Whoever dares to complete my puzzle shall be bestowed with power from the deepest abyss of all realms. In return, I shall remain in your service—until every essence of your life is drained and mine to consumed."

Yet yugi himself only see the puzzle as a game. A challenge to be completed, he never wanted power he just wanted to challenge himself and when Yami found out about this.

He was enraged, a god like him? Being considered as a mere game for a 16 year old boy? How insulting. Only a few people could solved his and this boy solved it without knowing the consequences? Ridiculous.

Okay enough talk with this, let's talk about their unhealthy dynamic. Yes, there's nothing healthy about this and I will state it from the beginning.

My Puzzleshipping dynamic in this AU would be a push and pull. Their relationship is co-dependent, fully for each other's benefits:

• Yami need Yugi to survive.

• Yugi need Yami to feel that adrenaline rush, the thrill. (He is sort of a freak here)

if you consider Yugi is OOC in this then yes, I'm forging my own Yugi for my own AU. Some things need to be changed.

Also Im giving my friend full credit for giving me the idea of naming this AU "pendant"

Dependant. A pendant, something that holds onto someone's picture and essence so tightly. To forever keep that memory close to their heart.

The person is so dear you cannot move on, you try to keep them close only to end up dying because of them.

Being killed by the same thing you cherish the most, it's like a noose ready to be used.

Thank you for reading, if you have any questions. Just put them in my inbox and I will answer with these two!

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter 5.1 | This Must Be The Place

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) Word Count: 23.9k Requested: No | Yes Warnings: Mild language, sexual content, recreational drug use, intense emotional realizations, that moment when you know there's no going back, and two people fighting against what's becoming increasingly undeniable

A Few Quick Notes: 📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing. 📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 📌 Requests: Open

Author's Note: There are moments that divide your life into "before" and "after." Moments that change the trajectory of everything that follows.

This chapter is all about that turning point. The slow realization that this isn't just a weekend fling. That connection—the kind that hits like a train and leaves you questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself.

For Joe, whose entire life has been defined by careful planning and deliberate choices, it's about recognizing that sometimes the most important things in life are the ones you never saw coming. It's about standing in a space that feels more like home than the place he's lived for years, and confronting what that might mean.

For Riley, who embraces spontaneity and lives in vibrant color, it's something else entirely. It's about the surprising vulnerability of actually caring what someone thinks—of wanting Joe to see and appreciate the world she's built. It's the unfamiliar feeling of wanting someone to stay, when she's always been comfortable with people passing through her life.

They're opposites in so many ways: his measured calculation against her joyful chaos; his carefully constructed world against her authentic, lived-in one. Neither of them came looking for this collision of worlds. Neither expected how perfectly these differences would complement each other, creating something neither has experienced before.

This chapter explores that pivotal moment when two people from completely different worlds suddenly find themselves standing on common ground—that exhilarating, terrifying space where you realize you're falling, and it's too late to stop.

I hope you feel every tremor, every aftershock, every moment of recognition as these two realize that whatever is happening between them, it's bigger than either of them anticipated.

Your comments on the last chapter absolutely blew me away. I can't wait to hear what you think of this one. 💜✨

Happy reading! It's a long one.💛🏈

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

Joe's stomach tightened as the plane began its descent into Louis Armstrong International Airport. He gazed out the window, watching the Mississippi River snake through the city, its muddy waters glinting in the late afternoon sun. A restless energy thrummed in his chest, unfamiliar and irritating. He didn't get nervous before playoff games—so why did the thought of seeing Riley again have him checking his phone every five minutes?

As the driver pulled away from the airport, Joe took in the city's transformation. Mardi Gras had claimed every surface—purple, green, and gold banners draped from balconies, beads dangled from tree branches, and storefronts glowed with festive lights.

"You picked quite a time to visit," the driver commented, maneuvering around a barricade.

Joe smirked. "Yeah. I came down a few times in college, but it's been a while."

Back then, New Orleans had been a blur—teammates, booze, Bourbon Street, bad decisions. A weekend of chaos, gone by Monday. This already felt different.

By the time they reached his hotel in the Quarter, Joe understood why his agent had pulled strings to get him a room here. The streets were packed with people staking out spots along the parade route, the city already pulsing with energy.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the car and saw the historic mansion-style hotel—balconies wrapped in twinkling lights, right in the thick of it—that it hit him.

His assistant had booked the Quarter.

Joe exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. He'd told Mark and Bill he wasn't staying anywhere this public, wasn't taking that risk. He could already hear their reactions in his head.

Not a smart move, man. Too many cameras. Too much chaos.

He could've called, had her switch him to a quieter spot Uptown. But instead, he just grabbed his bag and walked inside.

Maybe he was being reckless. Maybe a small part of him liked that.

The manager greeted him with a broad smile, all Southern charm and warm hospitality.

"Mr. Burrow, we're delighted to have you with us," he said knowingly. "We've upgraded you to our finest suite—balcony overlooking the parade route."

Joe accepted the ornate key with a nod. "Appreciate that."

The manager lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Between us, we're booked solid. But when we heard you were coming…" He shrugged. "We made it work."

Joe huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Yeah, I bet you did.

Upstairs, he stepped onto the balcony, inhaling the thick, sweet air. The hum of a streetcar rumbled in the distance, the faint strains of brass instruments floating up from somewhere nearby. The scent of powdered sugar and fried dough curled through the breeze.

He pulled out his phone.

Joe QB: Just landed. City looks wild.

Her response came almost immediately.

Riley: Wait till you see it with me. Still good for dinner tonight?

Joe QB: Absolutely. Can't wait to see you.

Riley: Rest up. You'll need your energy for this weekend!

Joe smirked, fingers hovering over the keyboard before he typed again.

Joe QB: Forgot how packed the city gets during Mardi Gras. You okay with eating at my hotel? The restaurant here looks solid.

Riley: Yeah, it's pretty crazy out right now. I've been out all day and just got home—something quieter sounds perfect.

Joe exhaled, relieved. She got it without him having to explain. Another thing about her that just fit.

Riley paced her small back porch, her fingers trailing along the worn wooden railing. She’d spent the morning out with friends, then had lunch with Egan and Marcus at their spot in the Bywater—a proper New Orleans day before the full-on Carnival chaos set in. Now, finally home, she had time to breathe. To think.

The afternoon air held that particular New Orleans quality—humid and heavy with the scent of magnolias and something sweet from the corner store down the street. Her wind chimes, a gift from her mom, tinkled softly in the light breeze, nearly drowned out by the distant sounds of Carnival—brass bands tuning up, voices calling back and forth, the occasional burst of laughter from neighbors already deep in the spirit of the season.

Joe was coming. Today.

After weeks—no, just a couple of weeks—of texts and late-night calls that had quickly become the best part of her day, he was actually going to be here. In her city. In her world.

She exhaled, trying to shake off the restless energy buzzing under her skin.

THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

Laura: So lover boy lands today, huh?

Riley rolled her eyes, though there was no one to see it.

Riley: Shut up.

Haley: You’re nervous. I can feel it from here.

Riley: I’m not nervous. It’s just dinner.

Laura: Sure, sure. Just dinner with the guy you’ve been talking to every night for like two and a half weeks. The guy who cleared his schedule to come see you during Mardi Gras, no less—when the city is packed. Totally casual.

Haley: I need details. What are you wearing?

Riley: I hate both of you. I’ll send you pics later.

Laura: Love you too. Call us tomorrow with ALL the details.

Haley: And I mean ALL of them 👀

Riley set her phone down, shaking her head. They weren’t wrong.

She was nervous—which was ridiculous.

Riley Carter didn’t get nervous about men.

She’d been on stage in front of thousands, done live TV performances without breaking a sweat. But something about Joe Burrow made her feel off-balance in a way she wasn’t used to.

She tried to focus on work, flipping through pages of song lyrics for their new album. She should be working—there were still lyrics to refine, melodies to play with. But her mind kept drifting.

Would dinner be awkward after all this time talking but not seeing each other? Would the chemistry they’d felt in New York still be there?

She glanced at the notebook beside her, pages filled with scribbled phrases, half-finished verses. She wasn’t writing about him. Not directly. But maybe, in the margins of late-night thoughts, in the quiet lines she hadn’t shared yet, he was there anyway.

By the time evening arrived, Riley had changed outfits three times before finally settling on a vintage-inspired black dress with a dramatic slit up one side. The cinched belt at her waist added just enough structure, while the fringed shawl draped over her shoulders softened the look. She layered on gold necklaces that caught the light when she moved, the perfect touch of bohemian flair.

As she slid the vintage dress over her head, Riley felt the familiar calm settle over her. This was her element—creating a first impression, a visual story. The nervousness from earlier faded with each deliberate choice, replaced by the quiet certainty that had carried her through a hundred performances.

With each discarded outfit and final selection, Riley felt herself shift from the woman who'd been pacing her porch to the one who commanded stages. Dressing had always been her armor, her ritual, her way back to herself.

She snapped a quick mirror selfie and sent it to THE DOLLS  group chat.

Riley: Final verdict?

Laura: Holy. Shit.

Haley: 10/10. You look insane.

Laura: He’s gonna lose his mind.

Riley smirked, tucking her phone away.

She pulled her hair into a loose updo, leaving a few tendrils framing her face. It was that perfect balance—effortless but intentional. Exactly what she wanted.

She had just swiped on the final touch of lipstick when her phone buzzed again.

Joe QB: Can’t wait to see you.

A slow warmth spread through her chest.

Of course, he couldn’t.

She smiled, tucking her phone into her small crossbody bag, then grabbed her keys and headed out.

Joe's hotel suite was spacious and elegant, with high ceilings, antique furnishings, and tall windows that overlooked the lively streets below. He'd ordered dinner from room service well in advance, arranging for it to be set up on a small table near the windows, complete with candles and a bottle of wine. If they weren't going out, he still wanted the night to feel special.

He'd spent more time than he'd ever admit choosing his outfit—finally landing on a black button-down with a subtle texture, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, paired with light-wash jeans. Clean, simple. Put-together without trying too hard. He wanted to look good for Riley but not like he was overthinking it.

He was nursing an Old Fashioned when a knock sounded at the door, and his pulse quickened. He'd spent the flight mentally preparing for this moment, reminding himself to play it cool—to not be as obviously affected by her as he'd been on Fallon. But all that preparation vanished the second he opened the door.

Riley stood in the hallway, and his breath caught.

Even after picturing this moment a dozen times, the sight of her still hit him like a perfect spiral to the chest.

She moved with easy confidence, her black dress dramatic yet effortless, the slit offering glimpses of long, toned legs as she walked. The fringed shawl draped around her shoulders gave her a bohemian flair that was uniquely Riley—a woman who didn't follow fashion rules but created her own. But it was her smile, warm and genuine, that had his mouth going dry.

"Hi," he said, his voice steady despite the effect she had on him.

Riley stepped in first, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, her hand resting briefly on his chest. "Hi yourself," she said, her voice warm. She glanced around the suite, taking in the details. "This place is gorgeous. Nice move with the room service."

Joe's eyes followed her as she moved further into the suite. "Glad you made it through that crowd out there," he said, stepping forward to pour her a glass of wine. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. "Red okay?"

Riley's smile widened. "Perfect. And it was worth braving the chaos to see you."

"You look amazing," he said, his tone appreciative but matter-of-fact as he handed her the glass.

"Thank you. I'm not even going to tell you how many outfits I tried on tonight, but I'm glad it was noticed."

Joe raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. "Worth every minute you spent on it."

A slight flush touched her cheeks, something that rarely happened to Riley Carter. She covered it with a quick smile, her eyes lingering on his for a moment before she gestured toward the elegantly set table by the window.

"I really do appreciate this, by the way," Riley said, gesturing toward the elegantly set table by the window. "Eating in. It's crazy out there tonight."

Joe nodded, moving toward the table himself. "I forgot how packed the city gets during Mardi Gras. Didn't want to risk dinner turning into a meet-and-greet."

Riley laughed, following him. "Yeah, nothing kills the vibe like someone asking you to sign their baby in the middle of a meal."

Joe smirked, pulling out her chair. "Has that happened to you?"

"Actually, yes," Riley admitted, settling into the seat he offered. "I was two drinks in and signed the poor kid's onesie before my manager could stop me. Mom was thrilled, though."

Joe let out a real laugh, shaking his head. "That's insane. Please tell me there's a picture."

Riley smirked, picking up her drink. "Somewhere out there, I'm sure there is. Probably framed in that kid's nursery."

Whatever lingering awkwardness melted as they settled into the easy rhythm they'd built over weeks of late-night calls and teasing texts.

The food was incredible—blackened redfish for him, shrimp and grits for her, and shared appetizers of boudin balls that reminded Joe of his LSU days. As they ate, Riley told him about her life in New Orleans—the house she'd renovated almost entirely by herself during COVID, how their recording sessions had moved to the city, her eccentric neighbor who practiced trumpet at odd hours but made up for it with homemade desserts.

"I love my neighborhood," she said with a laugh, eyes bright as she sipped her drink. "Especially during Carnival. The parades don't run through my street, but we're close enough to catch them on Magazine. And I'm taking you to Muses tomorrow night."

Joe's fork paused midway to his mouth. His expression shifted, Mark and Bill's warnings already echoing in his head.

"I wasn't really planning on hitting the parades," he admitted, setting his fork down. "The crowds, the visibility—"

"Which is exactly why I asked for your shirt size the other day," Riley cut in, eyes glinting with mischief. "I've got the perfect disguise planned. Trust me, no one's going to recognize Joe Burrow in the middle of Mardi Gras when I'm done with you."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "A disguise?"

"Oh, you're in for it. And the parade's worth it—huge floats, incredible energy, and the best part? It's an all-female krewe, so the throws are next-level. You have to catch a shoe."

"A shoe?"

"Hand-decorated high heels. It's a thing," she explained, grinning. "They're coveted."

Joe shook his head, amused. "My Mardi Gras experience is mostly a blur of Bourbon Street and bad decisions."

Riley smirked. "A couple of drunken college weekends?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, tomorrow you're getting the real experience," she promised. "And seriously, don't worry about being recognized—I've got you covered."

Joe exhaled, still uncertain. He'd always been careful about situations like this—anywhere with too many cameras, too many variables. It wasn't that he minded being seen with Riley, but the thought of losing control of the night, of getting caught up in something messy, had his guard up.

Still, when he looked at her, at the easy confidence in her smile, the anticipation in her voice, he found himself making a decision.

"Okay," he said finally, leaning back in his chair. "I trust you."

Riley's lips twitched. "You shouldn't," she teased.

As the meal progressed, Joe felt himself unwinding in a way he rarely did. Conversation flowed easily between them—her bandmates' antics in the studio, his superstitions in the locker room. She made him laugh, really laugh, and it struck him how much he'd missed that. How much he'd missed this—talking to someone who didn't expect anything from him beyond being himself.

Riley took a sip of her drink, then leaned in slightly. "I'm really happy you rearranged your schedule to come here. I know it was probably a headache. You must be booked solid even in the off-season."

Joe grinned, brushing it off. "I wanted to see you again."

Riley tilted her head, studying him. "That easy, huh?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. It was an easy choice."

She lifted an eyebrow, like she was waiting for him to elaborate.

Joe leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. "Doesn't matter how crazy things are—if I want something, I make time for it."

Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe. Or something softer.

"You haven't even been here a full day," Riley pointed out, her voice quieter now. "And during the craziest time of year, no less."

"Doesn't matter," Joe said simply. He held her gaze, unwavering. "Already worth it."

A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, and Joe felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.

They lingered over dessert—warm bread pudding drizzled with bourbon sauce—but Joe found himself more interested in Riley than the food. The animated way she spoke with her hands, the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she laughed, the thoughtful pause before she answered his more serious questions.

"What?" Riley asked, catching him staring.

"Nothing," Joe said, smiling. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how different you are from what people assume," he admitted.

Riley tilted her head, intrigued. "Different how?"

Joe hesitated. "In interviews and on stage, you're this larger-than-life personality. But when we're together, you're…"

"Less?" Riley suggested, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone.

Joe shook his head. “No. More. More real. More you.”

The tension in her shoulders eased.

"It's nice," she admitted. "Not having to be 'on.'"

Joe nodded. "Same."

He glanced toward the balcony doors. "Want to step outside? The view's pretty incredible."

Riley smiled. "I'd like that."

The balcony was small but perfect, with a wrought iron railing and an unobstructed view of the oak-lined street below. The scene was quintessential New Orleans—streetcars rumbling past, people strolling with go-cups in hand, the occasional burst of music drifting up from somewhere nearby. With Mardi Gras in full swing, the energy was heightened—revelers in costumes, masks and beads catching the light as they passed.

"This is gorgeous," Riley said, leaning against the railing while Joe poured them each a drink from the room's well-stocked bar.

“It is,” he agreed, handing her a glass of bourbon before joining her. “There’s just something about the architecture here. It’s different—has a kind of charm you don’t see in newer cities. These old houses have so much character.”

Riley took a sip, her gaze drifting across the historic homes. "Me too. When I bought my place, I could've gone for something brand new—modern, sleek, no history—but that just didn't feel like me. I wanted something with soul."

Joe studied her in the dim light, struck by how effortlessly she belonged here. She didn't just live in this city—she was part of it, woven into its rhythm.

"I can't wait for you to show me tomorrow," he said.

Riley turned to face him, warmth flickering in her expression. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She hesitated for just a moment, then seemed to make a decision. "Come back with me tonight."

Joe raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Not to stay—unless you want to. Or not. Whatever," she added quickly, suddenly flustered.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head. "That was impressively awkward."

"Yeah, well, you know what I meant," she huffed.

"I do," he said, still grinning. "And yeah, I'd like that."

They finished their drinks in easy silence, the hum of the city filling the spaces between them. When Riley set her empty glass on the small table, Joe knew she was ready to go.

"Let me grab my stuff," he said, stepping back inside.

While Joe packed, Riley arranged for a car. Ten minutes later, they were settled in the backseat of a sleek black sedan, the city lights blurring past the windows as they headed toward her neighborhood.

Joe glanced at her, noticing how she twisted the rings on her fingers. “Having second thoughts?”

Riley turned to him, moonlight casting soft shadows across her face. “No, just… wondering if this is your kind of scene.”

Joe shook his head, voice warm but firm. “Riley, I grew up in Athens, Ohio. Trust me, I’m not used to anything fancy.”

That earned him a real laugh, her shoulders relaxing. “Fair enough. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When the car pulled up in front of a narrow shotgun house painted periwinkle with coral trim, Joe felt a rush of curiosity. The ornate woodwork along the porch, the tall windows framed by salmon-colored shutters, the intricate details that stood out even in the dim glow of the streetlights—it was unlike any place he’d ever been, but somehow, it suited Riley perfectly.

The wide front porch had a welcoming, lived-in feel, with wicker chairs, a porch swing, and potted plants spilling over their containers. A soft glow shone through lace-curtained windows, and the whole place had an effortless charm, like it had been here forever, belonging to the city as much as the city belonged to it.

“This is me,” Riley said as she thanked the driver, her voice light but laced with something vulnerable.

Joe followed, taking in the street around them. Lush gardens spilled onto sidewalks, and other shotgun houses—each painted in its own distinctive colors—stood proudly, their porches strung with Carnival lights or decorated with hanging ferns. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, and a couple across the way waved to Riley as they rocked on their porch swing, plastic cups in hand.

Joe glanced back at the house. “I love it.” And he meant it.

Riley smiled, pleased as she led him up the steps. “It’s a work in progress, but it’s mine.” 

When she opened the door, Joe stepped into another world entirely. The narrow shotgun layout revealed itself as he looked down the hallway that ran the length of the house, rooms connected directly to each other, but it was the décor that caught him by surprise.

The walls were painted a deep, rich emerald green that somehow made the small space feel larger, more enveloping rather than confined. A massive ornate gold mirror dominated one wall, reflecting the warm light from vintage lamps and string lights draped across the ceiling. Everywhere he looked, there were plants—hanging from macramé holders, perched on windowsills, sprawling across bookshelves. The furniture was a collection of vintage pieces that shouldn't have worked together but somehow did—a burgundy velvet sofa covered in patterned pillows, carved wooden tables that might have come from different continents, chairs that looked like they'd been rescued from elegant homes of another era.

For Mardi Gras, she'd added purple, green, and gold accents throughout—a garland draping over the mirror, a small Mardi Gras mask display on a shelf, and a bowl filled with vintage glass beads on the coffee table. It wasn't tacky or overdone, just enough to acknowledge the season in her own stylish way.

And yet, despite all the bold colors and eclectic details, the place didn't feel overwhelming. It felt warm. Lived-in. Familiar in a way that didn't make sense.

Joe had spent years living in spaces that never felt fully his—team hotels, his modern, almost impersonal apartment in Cincinnati, the house he'd just bought but hadn't had time to make his own, the home he grew up in that hadn't felt like home since he left for college. Places that held him, but never quite held onto him.

But standing here in Riley's home, something shifted inside him—a tectonic plate of emotion he hadn't known existed suddenly moving. It wasn't just that her space was beautiful or interesting. It was that every corner of it seemed to breathe with her presence, to tell her story without a single word being spoken. Nothing was there by accident. Nothing was just for show.

"Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there."

The lyric surfaced in his mind with such clarity it was as if someone had spoken it aloud. This Must Be the Place. His dad used to play that song on Sunday mornings, vinyl crackling on the old turntable while pancakes sizzled on the stove. The song that had been playing in the background of his life's happiest, most ordinary moments—yet he hadn't thought about it in years.

Something tightened in his chest, a physical sensation to match the emotional realization washing over him. He took a deep breath, feeling strangely like he might cry, though he couldn't have explained why.

What really captured his attention was the art. Every wall was a carefully curated gallery of framed pieces—antique portraits, botanical illustrations, butterfly specimens under glass, and what looked like vintage medical drawings, all housed in ornate gold frames of different sizes and styles. The effect was both chaotic and harmonious, like walking into the home of an eccentric collector who had gathered treasures from across time and space.

"Wow," Joe said, unable to hide his genuine amazement, grateful for the chance to focus on something concrete rather than the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "This is… incredible."

Riley watched his reaction carefully, a hint of vulnerability in her posture. "It's a bit much for some people."

Joe wanted to tell her everything—that he just walked in and already felt more at home than in places he'd lived for years, that something in her careful curation of this space spoke to a part of him he'd been ignoring, that in just thirty seconds she'd managed to upend everything he thought he knew about himself and what he wanted.

But how did you say something like that without sounding unhinged? Instead, he let his eyes move over the space again, taking in the warmth, the layers of history, the unmistakable her in every detail.

"It's perfect," he said, turning to her with a smile that must have conveyed some fraction of what he was feeling, because her shoulders relaxed immediately. "It's so completely you."

And in that moment, though he couldn't have articulated it yet, something fundamental changed in him—as if entering her world had revealed a version of himself he hadn't known was possible.

"Tour?" Riley asked, gesturing down the hallway, unaware of the revelation still reverberating through him.

"Absolutely," Joe replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

She led him through the house—past the living room with its velvet sofa and record player in the corner, through a small dining area dominated by an antique table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Each room was another chapter of her story, and Joe found himself cataloging details he'd normally never notice—the worn spot on the arm of the sofa that spoke of hours spent reading there, the collection of vinyl records organized not alphabetically but in what must be some deeply personal system, the bowl of guitar picks on a side table.

Then they stepped into the kitchen, and something in Joe shifted again.

Unlike the dramatic dark walls of the living spaces, the kitchen was painted a soft sage green with open shelving displaying a collection of glassware and ceramics. A wooden dish rack sat beside the farmhouse sink beneath a window lined with small potted herbs and dried flowers hanging upside down. A linen curtain hung beneath the counter instead of cabinet doors, and an old wooden table with four simple chairs sat in the center of the room.

It wasn't just a kitchen—it was a sanctuary. The heart of this house that somehow already felt like it contained a piece of him.

His own kitchen in Cincinnati—sleek, modern, barely used—flashed through his mind. Takeout containers and protein shake bottles. A space designed for efficiency, not living. Not this... whatever this was that made his chest ache with a strange mixture of longing and recognition.

"This countertop was my one big splurge," Riley said, running a hand over the butcher block, oblivious to his internal earthquake. "Everything else I did myself, but I couldn't cheap out on this."

Joe leaned against the doorframe, steadying himself. "It's nice." An understatement. "I can see why you cook so much when you're here."

"Yeah," she shrugged, "after months on the road, I need a real kitchen."

He looked at her hands as they traced the grain of the wood—hands that wrote songs and played instruments, but also hands that had built this space from nothing. Hands that created home. The contrast with his own life—where other people arranged everything, where convenience trumped connection—felt suddenly, painfully stark.

"So, can we try cooking something in here tomorrow?" he asked, surprising himself with the question.

Riley smirked, crossing her arms. “You wanna help me?”

“Absolutely,” Joe said, stepping closer. “I don’t mind taking direction.”

"Is that right?" Riley's voice dipped slightly, a slow smile playing at her lips. "Then I guess we're cooking breakfast tomorrow. And by breakfast, I mean brunch, because I'm not getting up before nine."

"I'll adjust my schedule," Joe replied, expression serious, eyes teasing, while inside, a voice whispered that he'd adjust far more than his schedule for this woman if she asked.

The air shifted, the space between them shrinking, charged with something beyond mere attraction. It was recognition. Understanding. A terrifying sense of potential.

Riley took a step toward him, eliminating the distance between them. "I should probably tell you," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "I've been thinking about kissing you again since New York."

Joe's pulse quickened, his eyes dropping briefly to her lips. The honesty in her admission—the vulnerability of wanting something and simply saying so—struck him with unexpected force. His world was full of strategy, calculation, never showing your hand. Yet here she was, laying her cards on the table without hesitation.

"That so?" he managed.

"Mmm," Riley nodded, her hands sliding up to rest on his chest. "I've got a pretty good imagination, but I'm curious if the reality measures up."

Joe's grip tightened at her waist, pulling her closer. A lifetime of careful restraint, of measured responses, and yet with her, everything felt inevitable. "Yeah? Only one way to find out."

The first touch was electric, not just a physical spark but something deeper—as if kissing her was another form of coming home, of recognizing something essential. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her fully against him. Riley made a soft sound of approval, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as she deepened the kiss. She tasted like the bourbon they'd shared on his balcony, and something uniquely her that made his head swim.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Riley rested her forehead against his, a smile playing at her lips.

"I'd say the reality holds up pretty well," she murmured.

Joe laughed softly, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. What he wanted to say was that nothing in his imagination could have prepared him for this—not just the kiss, but this entire night, this feeling of stumbling into something that might alter the entire course of his carefully planned life.

"I'd have to agree," he said instead, the understatement of the century.

Riley stepped back, taking his hand and leading him toward the back of the house. "Come on, I want to show you my favorite spot."

He followed, like he suspected he might follow her anywhere now, this woman who had somehow, in the space of a single evening, made him question everything he thought he knew about what he wanted from life.

The back porch was as charming as the rest of the house—string lights crisscrossed overhead, providing a soft glow, and an outdoor loveseat faced a small yard where an ancient oak tree stood sentinel, its branches adorned with a few strands of Carnival beads that caught the light like stars fallen to earth. The tree had been there long before the house, before any of them, its roots deep and certain in ways Joe had never allowed himself to be.

They sat side by side, Riley with a glass of bourbon and Joe with a local beer she'd insisted he try. The night wrapped around them, the distant hum of the city mingling with the gentle tinkling of wind chimes. After a few minutes, Riley shifted closer, tucking herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. Joe's arm wrapped around her, his hand settling on her waist with a rightness that startled him—as if they'd done this a hundred times before, as if his body remembered something his mind was just discovering.

"This is nice," Joe said, feeling a kind of peace he hadn't known in years—maybe ever. A peace that had nothing to do with winning or achievement or the constant forward momentum that had defined his life. "Really nice."

"It is," Riley agreed, her voice soft in the darkness. "Sometimes I forget how much I miss it when I'm in LA. Everything there is so…"

"Polished?" Joe suggested, thinking of his own carefully constructed public image, the way he'd learned to sand down his edges, to present only what was expected.

"Exactly," Riley nodded, her hair brushing against his neck. "Here, things aren't perfect. They're real."

Joe studied her profile in the dim light, the curve of her cheek, the slight upturn of her nose, the way shadows played across her face. He was struck again by how at ease she seemed here, how she fit so effortlessly into this eccentric, beautiful neighborhood—not trying to stand out or fit in, just existing as herself. It reminded him of the feeling he'd had earlier, stepping into her house—that seismic shift inside him, that recognition of something he'd been missing without knowing he was missing it.

The constant pressure to be Joe Burrow—franchise quarterback, leader, role model—it fell away here in this quiet backyard with this woman who saw through all of that to something more essential. Something he was just rediscovering himself.

"I can see why you love it," he said, the words inadequate for the revelation behind them. "It's nothing like Cincinnati."

Riley turned to face him, a smile playing at her lips, eyes searching his. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Joe didn't even have to think about it. "Good," he said, his voice sure in a way that surprised even him. "It’s good."

The moment stretched between them, comfortable and charged all at once. When Riley leaned in to kiss him again, it felt natural, inevitable, like the resolution of a chord that had been building since they first met. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, with a sense of exploration rather than urgency. Joe's hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing along her jawline as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

There was no performance in it, no calculated move, no awareness of anything beyond this moment, this connection. For someone whose entire life had been mapped out in plays and strategies, the simple act of being present—fully, completely present—felt like its own revelation.

They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses that ranged from gentle to breathtaking, talking in between about everything and nothing. The hours slipped away unnoticed, the city quieting around them as the night deepened, as if the world was giving them this pocket of time outside its usual demands.

When their last drinks were finished, the conversation naturally turned to the day ahead.

"So what exactly is this disguise you have planned for me tomorrow?" Joe asked, curious but also aware of the familiar weight of caution returning—the reminder that outside this sanctuary, he was still Joe Burrow, with all the visibility that entailed.

Riley's eyes lit up with mischief, the soft porch light catching gold flecks in her irises. "It's Mardi Gras, baby. Nobody looks twice at anything. I'm thinking a hat, maybe some sunglasses, definitely a bandana. And beads. Lots of beads."

Joe raised an eyebrow, skeptical but feeling a new willingness to trust her, to step outside the careful boundaries he normally maintained. "You really think that'll work?"

"It will," Riley assured him, her confidence infectious. "Look, people are expecting Joe Burrow. They're not expecting some guy in aviators with a bandana over his face, looking like a tourist who's been day-drinking since noon."

Joe laughed, shaking his head, imagining himself transformed, anonymous in a way he rarely got to be anymore. "When you put it that way…"

"Trust me," Riley said, squeezing his hand, her fingers warm against his. "I know this city. And I know how to blend in when needed."

She yawned then, failing to stifle it behind her hand, and Joe glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was well past midnight. Time had become elastic, hours passing in what felt like minutes.

"Bedtime?" he asked, his voice softer now in the quiet night air, aware of a new intimacy in the simple question. 

"Yeah." Riley stretched her arms above her head, her movements slow and unhurried, comfortable in a way that spoke of absolute trust. "Today caught up with me."

Looking at her in this moment—relaxed, unguarded, beautiful in the most honest way—Joe felt that certainty again, that sense that he'd stumbled across something precious and rare. Something that might ask him to be more than he'd ever allowed himself to be, something that might require him to dismantle the careful walls he'd built around his life.

Riley stood from her chair, leading the way inside. Joe followed, still struck by how natural this all felt—being here in her space, the warmth of her presence wrapped around him like a second skin. His overnight bag was already by her bedroom door, where he'd left it earlier. The way she'd invited him had been so casual, so typically Riley, that any potential awkwardness had never even had the chance to exist.

 They moved through the house together, Riley turning off lights as they went. In her bedroom, the emerald-green walls glowed softly under the warm light of a bedside lamp. Like the rest of the house, the space was layered and lived-in—a vintage bed with an ornately carved headboard, mismatched pillows piled high, plants hanging near the window, framed art covering every inch of available wall space. It wasn't just decorated; it was curated. Every piece told a story. Every corner felt like her.

 And unlike his own bedroom—functional, minimal, a place for sleeping and nothing more—this room felt alive with meaning. He realized suddenly that he had always approached his living spaces as temporary, even after buying his house. Always waiting for the next contract, the next move, the next phase. Never fully inhabiting the present.

Riley nodded toward the far door. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to change first."

 Joe grabbed his bag and disappeared inside. When he returned, now in a T-shirt and sweatpants, Riley had already changed into sleep shorts and an oversized band tee, her hair piled into a loose bun.

The casual intimacy of it all settled over him like a revelation. This wasn't the practiced intimacy of hookups with women who wanted Joe Burrow in their bed. This was something else entirely—something honest, something that asked nothing of him but his presence.

No pretense. No expectations. Just this quiet, uncomplicated moment between them. 

When they finally crawled into bed, Riley curled into his side without hesitation, her head resting on his chest like they'd done this a hundred times before. Joe's arm wrapped around her, his hand instinctively trailing through her hair.

“This is nice,” Riley murmured, her voice already heavy with sleep.

“Very nice,” Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

The understatement nearly made him laugh. "Nice" didn't begin to cover the profound shift happening inside him—as if after years of living according to carefully constructed plans and expectations, he was discovering what it meant to simply exist in a moment without analyzing it, optimizing it, or preparing for what came next.

As her breathing evened out, Joe lay awake for a little while longer, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city outside the open window. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he felt this settled. Not just comfortable—but right.

 The thought hit him the same way it had earlier, standing in her living room, that old song playing in the back of his mind.

“Maybe I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.”

The lyrics felt like prophecy now, as if they'd been waiting for this moment to reveal their meaning to him. Talking Heads couldn't have known about a quarterback from Ohio or a singer from New Orleans, and yet somehow they'd written the perfect words for this night, this feeling.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn't set an alarm. Didn't think about practice schedules or media obligations or what came next.

He just held Riley closer, let his eyes slip shut, and let himself be. In this bed, in this house, with this woman—that felt like more than enough.

Joe woke to sunlight filtering softly through lace curtains and the distant sound of a saxophone drifting lazily from somewhere down the street. For a second, confusion hit—the unfamiliar ceiling above him, the warmth of someone tucked comfortably against his side. Then it all slid neatly into place: Riley. Her house. Falling asleep with her pressed softly against him.

He relaxed immediately, letting himself sink into the pillow, enjoying the rare, unhurried peace of the morning. There was no alarm ringing, no film study, no training session demanding his attention—just this moment, quiet and perfectly calm.

He glanced at his phone: 9:26 AM. Later than he'd slept in months, maybe longer, and somehow, he felt no rush to get up.

Riley stirred slightly, tightening her arm around his waist, pressing her face sleepily into his chest. Her hair was everywhere, tangled across her pillow, partially obscuring her face. Joe watched her quietly, noticing small details he hadn't gotten close enough to see the night before—the delicate tattoo behind her ear, the faint scatter of freckles over her nose. She looked peaceful, unguarded, completely different from anyone he'd ever known—nothing rehearsed or controlled, just effortlessly herself.

Her eyes fluttered slowly open, hazy and unfocused. "Morning," he murmured softly, brushing a stray strand of hair gently away from her cheek.

She made a muffled, sleepy noise against him. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine-thirty."

Riley groaned, pressing her face deeper against his chest. "Too early."

Joe chuckled quietly, sliding his fingers lazily through her hair. "Thought you said nine was acceptable?"

She sighed dramatically, voice muffled by his skin. "Nine is just the earliest acceptable hour. Not the one I prefer."

Despite her complaints, she didn't pull away—instead, she settled closer, relaxing comfortably against him. Her eyes opened again, softer this time, gaze steady on his face. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Best I have in forever," he admitted honestly, surprising himself with how easy it was to tell her something true.

Riley stretched lazily, catlike and comfortable, and Joe's attention sharpened instantly. His eyes drifted along the curves of her body, catching on the way her thin t-shirt had ridden up to expose a strip of smooth skin at her waist. He felt warmth spreading through him, slow and steady.

She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging playfully at her lips. "See something interesting?"

Instead of answering, Joe reached out deliberately, his hand sliding across that exposed skin with confident purpose. Riley's breath hitched audibly, her eyes suddenly fully alert.

"I've been waiting on you to make a move since New York, my guy," she said, the bluntness sending a thrill through him.

"Have you now?" Joe murmured, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Without hesitation, he shifted over her in one fluid motion, his weight pressing her into the mattress with deliberate pressure. His eyes locked with hers, taking in her surprised expression with quiet satisfaction.

"About damn time," Riley breathed, her hands immediately sliding up his back, pulling him closer.

Joe dipped his head, claiming her mouth with the same decisive confidence he brought to everything that mattered. No hesitation, no uncertainty - just clear intent. Riley responded immediately, arching beneath him, a small sound of approval escaping her.

He broke away just enough to see the challenge and desire flickering in her eyes. "Better late than never, right?"

"Just shut up and kiss me again," Riley laughed softly, tugging at his shirt impatiently.

Joe grinned and kissed her again, deeper this time, lingering until he felt her melt beneath him. When she tugged at the hem of his shirt again, he sat back just long enough to strip it off, tossing it aside with casual confidence.

Her eyes widened appreciatively as she took him in, openly admiring. "Jesus Christ, you're hot," she breathed, fingers immediately tracing the contours of his chest without hesitation.

Joe laughed under his breath, genuinely flattered by her candor. She wasn't shy, wasn't careful—just honest in a way that felt incredibly refreshing after years of carefully managed interactions.

He dipped his head again, kissing along her neck, letting his teeth graze her skin in a way that made her gasp. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and he looked at her with quiet intent. Riley immediately lifted her arms, allowing him to pull the shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

He sat back slightly, just looking at her—no clever remarks or practiced compliments, just taking her in. Riley flushed slightly under his gaze but made no move to hide herself, bold and confident even now. When she reached up to touch him again, Joe caught her wrists, pinning them gently but firmly above her head, a playful smirk forming on his lips.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips.

Riley bit her lip, looking up at him with eyes full of playful defiance. "Okay, baby," she teased softly, testing his grip slightly. "You're in charge."

His free hand traced a deliberate path down her throat, between her breasts, across her stomach, watching her reactions with focused attention. Riley was unlike anyone he'd been with before - completely unfiltered in her responses, every reaction genuine and unguarded.

When he finally released her wrists, Riley immediately reached for him, running her fingers appreciatively down his chest. Joe leaned down, kissing her deeply before trailing his mouth lower, following the path his hands had taken. Her hands slid into his hair, guiding him with a directness he found incredibly arousing.

"Joe—shit," she whispered sharply, urgency rising in her voice. "Stop fucking teasing me, please."

He glanced up, meeting her eyes with a slight smirk. Without breaking eye contact, he hooked his fingers into her shorts, slowly pulling them down her legs. Riley lifted her hips to help, kicking them off impatiently once they reached her ankles.

She was completely bare beneath him, her breathing uneven, body fully open and unguarded in a way that set his blood on fire. Rather than asking permission, Joe simply read her reactions, confident in his ability to understand what she wanted.

He pressed kisses up her inner thighs, feeling her muscles tense with anticipation. When he finally tasted her, Riley's breath caught sharply, her hips arching off the bed, fingers gripping his hair to guide him exactly where she wanted.

"Oh my god," she gasped breathlessly, completely unrestrained in her pleasure, pulling him deeper into the moment with her honesty. "Right there, don't stop."

He had no intention of stopping. The way she responded to him, open and vocal about exactly what she wanted, was unlike anything he'd experienced before.

"Fuck," she whispered raggedly, voice breaking slightly as she tugged urgently at his hair. "Joe— right now."

He moved back up her body, eyes meeting hers. Riley reached blindly for the nightstand, knocking something aside before finding what she needed, pressing a condom urgently into his palm.

"These need to go first," she said, tugging impatiently at his sweatpants.

He shifted, trying to pull them off without breaking contact, but they caught around his ankle. After a brief struggle, he kicked them free, nearly toppling off the edge of the bed in the process. Riley's soft laugh made him smile despite himself.

"Smooth," she teased, laughing softly.

"Shut up," he murmured, kissing her quickly to silence the laugh, though he loved the sound of it.

Joe positioned himself above her, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance. "Look at me," he said, his voice low with desire but steady with certainty.

Their gazes locked as he pushed into her slowly, groaning softly as pleasure shot through him. Riley's breath caught sharply, legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back as she adjusted to him.

"You good?" he asked, his voice rough but controlled.

"So fucking good," Riley gasped, matching his intensity effortlessly. "Don't you dare stop."

Joe began to move with deliberate, deep thrusts, quickly finding a rhythm that had Riley gasping beneath him. He could feel her getting close, feel the way she tightened around him, and he wanted nothing more than to watch her come apart.

"Fuck," he groaned roughly, his own control slipping. "Come for me—I got you."

She came apart instantly, body shuddering as she cried out his name, her complete surrender pulling him over the edge right after. He buried his face against her neck as his own release overwhelmed him, feeling a connection that went beyond the physical.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, breathing ragged, slowly settling back into themselves. Joe pulled her against his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns across her back.

"Well, shit," Riley finally murmured breathlessly, smiling up at him. "Worth the wait."

Joe laughed softly, feeling completely relaxed. "Glad you approve."

She tilted her head up, eyes bright and playful. "Definitely five-star review—though you might want to work on stamina."

Joe groaned dramatically, shaking his head. "Annnnnnddd she's already talkin' shit."

She laughed warmly, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest. "Can't let you get cocky. Besides, we have plenty of time to practice."

Joe smiled, pulling her closer. "Guess I'd better clear my schedule."

"Maybe your schedule could use a little chaos," she said softly.

He pressed a gentle kiss against her forehead, breathing her in. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Maybe it could."

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at him. The amusement in her expression remained, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability that made his chest tighten.

 "Just so you know," she said, her voice quieter now, "I don't usually do this."

Joe arched a brow, unable to resist teasing her just a little. "What, sleep with guys you just met?"

Riley rolled her eyes. "Not the part you wanna focus on, dumbass. This." She gestured vaguely around the room, then at herself—bare, open, here in her most private space.

 And Joe understood immediately. It wasn't about the sex. It was about the fact that she'd let him in—into her home, her sanctuary, into parts of herself she didn't share easily.

"Riley," he said, his hand finding her face, thumb tracing along her cheekbone with a gentleness that surprised even him. "I know what this means. And I'm not taking it lightly." His voice was steady, certain in a way few things in his life had ever been. "This is..." He exhaled, searching for words adequate to the feeling expanding in his chest. "Fuck, I don't even know how to explain it. But it's not just a hookup for me either."

She held his gaze, and he could see her usual guardedness flickering—like she wanted to believe him but wasn't used to letting herself. He wondered how many people had failed to see the real Riley beneath the stage presence, how many had treated her as less than the remarkable person he was discovering.

Then, finally, she smiled.

Not the practiced, camera-ready one. Not the confident, teasing one.

A real smile. Just for him. And in that moment, Joe knew he was in trouble of the very best kind.

Through the window, they could hear the distant sounds of the city waking up—people laughing, music starting, the rhythm of Carnival day beginning. But here in her bed, wrapped in each other, they existed in their own world, one where footballs and microphones and public personas had no place.

Joe turned his head toward her, letting his eyes move over her face, her lips, the wicked little gleam returning to her eye. Then, smirking, he said, "I'd say we should probably run that back later. Just for confirmation purposes."

Riley burst out laughing. "Confirmation purposes?"

"Scientific method," he said with a straight face. "Need multiple trials to verify results."

Riley shoved at his chest, still laughing. "Wow. Who says romance is dead?"

And as her laughter filled the room, Joe realized he'd never felt so completely himself with anyone—no calculation, no performance, no carefully constructed image. Just Joe and Riley, finding something unexpected and precious in each other.

Joe woke again later to the warmth of mid-morning sun streaming through the lace curtains and the enticing scent of coffee drifting from somewhere in the house. He blinked, disoriented for a moment by the emerald walls and unfamiliar ceiling. The space beside him was empty, the sheets still carrying Riley's scent.

A glance at his phone confirmed what the quality of light suggested—it was nearly noon. He smiled, remembering Riley's insistence that she wouldn't be up before nine. Apparently, she'd meant it.

He stretched, feeling pleasantly relaxed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, then pulled on his sweatpants and t-shirt before following the twin lures of coffee and Riley toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house, bathed in golden light that filled the space with a honeyed glow. Outside, the sounds of Carnival celebrations were in full swing—music from a few streets over, the occasional burst of laughter, the distant thump of drums. Joe paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of Riley moving around the space with practiced ease, filling an old-fashioned percolator with coffee grounds.

She wore his Bengals t-shirt—the one he'd pulled from his overnight bag last night—the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her hair was piled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She looked like she'd been awake for maybe fifteen minutes, still soft around the edges, and something tugged in Joe's chest at the simple intimacy of catching her in this in-between state.

"Breakfast for lunch?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Riley glanced up, a slow smile spreading across her face when she saw him. "Breakfast is a state of mind," she replied, her voice still rough with sleep. 

"Hey, babe, can you grab some mugs?" she asked, the term of endearment slipping out so naturally neither of them commented on it, though Joe felt a quiet thrill at the sound of it on her lips.

He pushed off the doorframe and reached for the open shelving. He pulled down two mismatched mugs—one with a delicate floral design, the other an old Mardi Gras souvenir with faded purple and gold lettering.

"These work?" he asked, setting them on the counter beside her.

Riley glanced over and grinned. "Perfect." She poured the coffee, handing him one before hopping up onto the counter, her legs swinging slightly beneath the hem of his t-shirt as she took a careful sip.

Joe leaned against the opposite counter, watching her. There was something almost surreal about being here in this kitchen with this woman, as if he'd stepped into someone else's life—a life with more color, more texture, more spontaneity than his own carefully managed existence. And yet it didn't feel foreign. It felt like discovering a room in a house he'd lived in for years but somehow never noticed.

"So, about that breakfast you promised me…" he said, his voice teasing.

Riley held up a finger, eyes closed as she took another slow sip of coffee. "Let me get through a couple of sips first, and then we'll get started."

Joe huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Not a morning person, huh?"

Riley cracked one eye open. "Not even a little bit. And it's technically afternoon, which just proves my point."

He watched her morning ritual with fascination—the way she cupped the mug with both hands, the small sigh of contentment after each sip, how her entire body seemed to wake up gradually, bit by bit. It was nothing like his usual mornings of alarm clocks, protein shakes, and immediate workouts. This slow unfolding of a day was something he'd forgotten how to do, if he'd ever known at all.

"Alright, I'm ready," Riley finally declared, setting her mug down with purpose.

She hopped down from the counter and moved to an old record player in the corner of the kitchen. After flipping through a stack of vinyl, she pulled out a weathered Allen Toussaint album, a small smile playing on her lips. "Perfect breakfast music," she declared, setting the needle down carefully.

The warm, crackling sound of New Orleans funk filled the kitchen, and Riley swayed slightly, her body instinctively finding the rhythm. Joe marveled at how music seemed to flow through her, as natural as breathing. She moved to the refrigerator, hips still swaying subtly to the beat.

"What're you in the mood for?" she asked, peering inside. "Traditional breakfast or something more fitting for Mardi Gras?"

"Whatever you've got," Joe said, moving to stand behind her, his hands settling lightly on her hips, drawn to her like gravity.

Riley looked over her shoulder at him, smirking. "Not an answer, Burrow." There was something about the way she said his last name—half teasing, half intimate—that made his skin warm.

"What's fitting for Mardi Gras?" he asked, genuinely curious, wanting to learn her world.

"Well," she said, turning in his arms to face him, "we could make king cake. Traditional Mardi Gras breakfast. Or we could do biscuits and gravy like my Papa used to make."

"King cake sounds interesting," Joe said. "But I'm guessing that takes a while?"

"Good guess." Riley ducked under his arm and opened a lower cabinet, pulling out a mixing bowl. "Let's do Papa's biscuits. They're quick, and they go great with coffee after a... busy morning." The slight blush on her cheeks made Joe smirk, memories of their earlier activities sending a pleasant warmth through him.

She began gathering ingredients—flour, butter, buttermilk, salt—lining them up on the counter with practiced efficiency. Joe watched her hands, fascinated by their sure movements, the same hands that had traced patterns on his skin just hours before.

"My grandfather taught me this recipe," she explained, measuring flour into the bowl. "Said no one should leave his house without knowing how to make a proper biscuit."

"Was he a chef?" Joe asked, genuinely interested in the pieces of her history she was sharing.

"No, just a man who believes food is love," Riley said, a softness in her voice that spoke of deep affection. "He said anyone could follow a recipe, but it took heart to make something worth remembering."

Joe nodded, thinking of his own grandfather's lessons about football—not just the mechanics, but the heart behind the game. "I get that."

He watched as she cut cold butter into the flour with two knives, her movements quick and confident. "Can I help?"

"Sure," Riley said, sliding the bowl toward him. "Just finish cutting this butter in until it looks like coarse crumbs."

Joe took over, mimicking her technique with a natural precision that surprised them both.

"Not bad, mister," Riley nodded approvingly as she finished. "Now we add the buttermilk."

When the dough was finally ready, Riley stepped aside. "You mix while I get the bacon started."

Their shoulders brushed as they traded places, the small kitchen bringing them into constant contact. Joe took over the biscuit mixture, studying the consistency of the dough as Riley moved to start the bacon.

"Gentle with it," she instructed, glancing back at him while arranging strips in the cast-iron skillet. "Biscuits need a light touch. Just fold it together—don't knead it like bread."

Joe nodded, his hands moving with surprising confidence as he applied her advice. His fingers worked the dough with measured precision rather than the heavy-handed approach most beginners used.

Riley turned from the stove to check his progress, ready to offer more guidance. But as she watched his careful movements, her expression shifted to surprise. "Wow. You're actually... perfect at this. First try?"

Joe shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I pick things up quickly." His movements remained deliberate, handling the dough with the same focused attention he might give to studying game film. "It's all about touch, right? Knowing exactly how much pressure to apply."

When the dough was finally ready, Riley showed him how to pat it out and cut perfect circles with a juice glass. The biscuits went into the oven, and they moved on to the eggs.

“How do you want your eggs?” Riley asked.

“Mmm, I don’t care,” he replied, shrugging.

Riley glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s not an answer. Most people have pretty strong opinions about their eggs.”

Joe shrugged, eyeing the ingredients she had laid out. "Everything else you're making looks so good, I'm pretty sure I'll be happy with however those eggs turn out."

"Scrambled it is," she agreed, whisking the eggs with vigor. "Can you grab the cheese from the fridge? And the hot sauce?"

They moved around each other in a seamless dance—Joe reaching for ingredients while Riley manned the stove, their bodies constantly finding excuses to touch. Riley bumped her hip against his as she reached for plates; Joe's hand rested briefly on the small of her back as he passed behind her; fingers brushed as they transferred items from counter to table. It was choreography they were creating together, learning each other's rhythms in real time.

"Papa always said you could tell if a relationship had potential by how well you cooked together," Riley said, grating cheese into the eggs as they began to set in the pan.

The casual mention of "relationship" hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging it directly, but both aware of its weight.

"And how are we doing?" Joe asked, flipping the bacon one final time.

Riley glanced up at him, a smile playing at her lips. "Not bad, Burrow. Not bad at all."

The song changed to a more upbeat track, and Riley's hips swayed to the rhythm as she stirred the eggs. Without thinking, Joe slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into a gentle sway that matched the music.

Riley laughed, but she didn't pull away, instead leaning back against him as she continued cooking. "Careful there, mister. I might burn breakfast."

"Worth the risk," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, realizing he meant it in ways that extended far beyond breakfast.

By the time they finished, the kitchen counter was laden with perfect golden biscuits, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs laced with melted cheese, and sliced fresh fruit that Riley had produced from the refrigerator at the last minute.

"This might be the best breakfast I've ever made," Riley declared, surveying their handiwork as she pulled two plates from the cabinet.

"We make a good team," Joe observed, the simple truth of it settling comfortably between them, carrying implications neither was quite ready to voice.

They loaded their plates and settled at the small kitchen table, knees touching beneath it. The first bite of a biscuit—still warm, slathered with butter and honey—had Joe groaning in appreciation.

"Told you," Riley said with obvious satisfaction. "Papa's recipe never fails."

"These are incredible," Joe agreed, reaching for another. "Better than any restaurant."

"Of course they are," Riley said with mock offense. "You think I'd serve you mediocre biscuits after this this morning?"

Joe nearly choked on his coffee, but recovered with a laugh. "Definitely raised the bar."

Riley propped her bare feet up on the empty chair, comfortable in the silence that settled between them. Then she nodded toward the bacon on his plate. "You gonna eat that?"

Joe pushed the plate toward her. "Go for it."

She snagged the piece, taking a bite with obvious satisfaction. There was something disarming about her straightforwardness, her lack of pretense. She simply asked for what she wanted—whether it was his bacon or his presence in her bed—with a refreshing directness that he found both foreign and appealing.

"So what was college Joe Burrow like?" she asked suddenly. "Same perfect poster boy, or did you ever actually get wild?"

Joe raised an eyebrow. "You really want to know?"

"Obviously," Riley said, leaning forward, her eyes bright with curiosity that seemed genuine rather than performative.

"Let's just say I wasn't always this..." He gestured vaguely at himself, searching for the right word.

"Buttoned-up?" Riley suggested.

"Careful," Joe corrected, the distinction important somehow. "There was this one time after we beat Oklahoma in the playoffs. The whole team ended up at this bar in Athens. I climbed on top of the bar, did some kind of victory dance that ended with me falling into a table of drinks."

Riley's eyes widened with delight. "No way. Please tell me there's video."

"If there is, my agent's buried it deep," Joe said with a grin.

"I think there's more college Joe hiding in there than you let on," Riley teased.

Joe smiled, thinking briefly of his more structured days with Olivia, how different things had been then versus his more recent casual encounters. "The wild nights were definitely there, just... selective. Reserved for big wins and bigger losses." He shrugged. "What about you? Any embarrassing stories you'd rather keep off social media?"

Riley laughed. "You want embarrassing? Just YouTube 'Riley Carter stage fall compilation.' It's a tragic collection of my greatest hits—and by hits, I mean me hitting the floor."

"There's a compilation?" Joe asked, already reaching for his phone.

"Oh yeah," Riley nodded, wincing. "Chicago, I thought there was one more step than there actually was. Seattle, I tripped over a monitor. Nashville, someone threw a bra that I stepped on and went down like I'd been shot." She counted them off on her fingers. "My personal favorite is Denver, where I actually fell into the drum kit. Pete never lets me forget that one."

"And there's video of all of these?" Joe asked incredulously.

Riley groaned, putting her hand over his phone. "Unfortunately, yes. Multiple angles. The Denver one is particularly cinematic—you can actually see the moment I realize I'm going down. The look on my face..." She shook her head. "Pure terror, followed by the cymbal crash heard 'round the world."

Joe laughed, genuine and unreserved. The sound filled the small kitchen, and Riley found herself smiling too, even at her own expense. It struck him that he rarely laughed like this anymore—without calculation, without awareness of how it might be perceived.

"But seriously," Riley said, pushing her empty plate aside after they'd both stopped laughing, "if you want to hear about my real adventures, we had this van when we first started touring. Complete death trap. No AC, exhaust leaking into the cabin, and the passenger door would only open if you kicked it in exactly the right spot."

"You named it, didn't you?" Joe asked, somehow knowing this about her already.

Riley grinned. "The Beast. Spray-painted it on the side ourselves. That thing survived two full tours somehow, held together by duct tape and prayers."

"Where'd it finally die?"

"Middle of nowhere, Wyoming," Riley said, shaking her head at the memory. "Three in the morning, all of us sleeping in shifts because we couldn't afford hotel rooms. Pete was driving, hit a pothole, and the whole undercarriage just... gave up. We had to wait six hours for a tow, sitting on the side of the road passing a bottle of Jack back and forth to stay warm."

"Sounds miserable," Joe said, but his eyes were bright with interest, captivated by this glimpse into her journey, so different from his own carefully managed ascent.

Riley shrugged. "It was, but also kind of perfect? Like, we were broke as hell, but it was the four of us against the world. And somehow people still showed up to those gigs, even though nobody knew who we were."

Joe nodded, understanding what she meant. Some of his best memories were from before the fame, when it was just about the game and the team, not the brand or the expectations.

"So," she said, reaching for her coffee, her tone shifting slightly, "the band's touring again this summer. We're starting with some smaller intimate venues across the West Coast."

Joe nodded, his expression shifting as reality began to intrude on their bubble. "How long?"

"About two months for the smaller dates," Riley said, watching his reaction carefully. "We wanted to do these more intimate venues first - kind of a treat for the core fans who've been with us from the beginning. Just clubs and theaters, keeping it raw."

"Cincinnati's not exactly on the way to anywhere," Joe said, his tone light but the question underneath obvious.

Riley tilted her head, studying him. "I've heard they have these things called airplanes now. Revolutionary technology."

Joe smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Training camp starts in July."

"Look at us," Riley said, leaning back in her chair. "Already trying to figure out the logistics."

"Is that bad?" Joe asked, something vulnerable in the question.

Riley considered this, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "No," she said finally. "This is just... unexpected."

The word hung between them—unexpected. This connection, this comfort, this sense of rightness in each other's presence. None of it had been planned, none of it fit neatly into their separate lives, and yet here they were, sharing biscuits and bacon and something neither was quite ready to name.

Riley took a final sip of her coffee, eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug. "So, what do you want to do with the rest of our day? The parades don't start until later, but I could show you around my neighborhood if you want. There's this amazing record store a few blocks over, and the best po' boy shop in the city."

Joe smiled, but she caught the slight hesitation in his eyes. "That sounds great, but..."

"You're worried about being recognized," Riley finished for him, understanding immediately.

He nodded. "Yeah. Especially here." He didn't need to elaborate—they both knew his LSU history made him practically royalty in Louisiana.

"Fair enough," she acknowledged. "But we can keep it low-key." She stood and moved to a drawer, pulling out a plain dark bandana. "This and some sunglasses should help for a quick neighborhood walk. Nothing suspicious about a guy covering his face during Mardi Gras. Basic tourist move."

Joe took the bandana from her, considering it. "This enough, you think?"

"For a walk around the neighborhood? Should be," Riley said, though her tone carried a hint of uncertainty. "We'll save the full disguises for the parades tonight. For now, keep your head down, avoid purple and gold anything, and let me do any talking if someone approaches."

Joe nodded, his expression still cautious but willing to try. "I'd like that—seeing your neighborhood through your eyes."

"Good," Riley said with a decisive nod. "Let me just get changed, and we can head out. The record store owner keeps a stash of rare vinyl behind the counter for me, and I want to see if he's got anything new."

The simple prospect of walking through her neighborhood streets, just the two of them experiencing ordinary moments together, felt unexpectedly appealing—even with the risk. No cameras, no expectations—just Joe and Riley, discovering each other's worlds one small piece at a time.

"Put that on," Riley said, nodding toward the bandana as she headed toward her bedroom. "And maybe lose the Bengals shirt too. We're going for anonymous here."

Joe grabbed the bandana from the counter and eyed it skeptically before folding it diagonally. He slipped off his Bengals shirt, replacing it with a plain gray tee from his suitcase.

"Better?" he asked, tying the bandana around his neck, ready to pull up when needed.

Riley emerged from her bedroom in green and white striped wide-leg pants and a vintage black Misfits t-shirt, her hair tucked beneath a plain black cap. Her gingham tote bag hung from her shoulder, and gold rings glinted on her fingers as she assessed him with a critical eye, head tilted slightly.

"Almost." She reached up to adjust the bandana, her fingers brushing against his neck. "There. Now you just look like a tourist trying too hard to blend in, which is perfect. That's exactly what we want."

"That's not exactly a compliment," Joe said with a wry smile.

"It wasn't meant to be." Riley grinned, adjusting her tote bag. "Ready for the Riley Carter exclusive neighborhood tour? Limited time offer, far superior to those overpriced French Quarter walking tours."

Outside, the day had bloomed into perfect New Orleans weather—warm but not yet stifling, the air thick with moisture and the scent of magnolias from a neighbor's yard. The street was quiet compared to the bustle of the Quarter, though Carnival energy hummed just beneath the surface. Beads draped from tree branches caught sunlight as they swayed in the light breeze, and the distant thump of drums suggested a small second line forming somewhere nearby.

Joe pulled the bandana up over his nose as they passed a group of neighbors drinking coffee on their porch. They waved at Riley, curious eyes lingering on Joe for just a moment before returning to their conversation.

"See? Easy," Riley said, bumping her shoulder against his arm. "Nobody cares who you are here. They're too busy living their own lives."

As they turned the corner, an older woman with silver locs piled atop her head called out from her porch.

"Riley Carter! Where've you been hiding, girl?"

Riley's face lit up as she changed course, pulling Joe toward the mint-green shotgun house. "Ms. Josephine! Just busy with the album. How are you?"

The woman's keen eyes shifted to Joe, not missing how Riley's hand was still linked with his. "Can't complain. And who's this?"

"This is Joe," Riley said simply. "He's visiting for Carnival."

Ms. Josephine's eyes narrowed slightly, then widened with recognition that made Joe tense. But instead of saying anything about football, she just smiled knowingly.

"Well, any friend of Riley's is welcome here." She gestured toward the house. "Antoine was just asking about that Bill Withers record he lent you."

"Tell him I've got it safe," Riley assured her. "I'll bring it by before I head to LA."

"You coming to Sunday's gumbo gathering?" Ms. Josephine asked. "Antoine's making his famous file gumbo."

"Wouldn't miss it," Riley said, though Joe noticed the subtle acknowledgment in her eyes that he'd be gone by then. Their weekend together had a clear expiration date that neither wanted to mention.

They walked a bit further down the street, with Riley occasionally pointing out neighborhood landmarks—the corner store where the owner still kept a tab for regulars, the tiny coffee shop that served the best chicory blend in the city, the house where a famous jazz musician had lived in the 1950s.

"And that's Ms. Bellamy's place," Riley said, gesturing to a butter-yellow house with elaborate gingerbread trim. "She's been here since before Katrina, knows everyone's business, and makes a praline so good it'll make you cry."

As if summoned by her name, the statuesque woman appeared on her porch, arranging Carnival decorations with mathematical precision. She spotted Riley and gave a small nod of acknowledgment, her eyes scanning Joe with unmistakable curiosity before returning to her task without comment.

"That's basically a hug from Ms. Bellamy," Riley whispered with a smile. "She doesn't waste words on just anyone."

"You know all your neighbors?" Joe asked, genuinely surprised. In Cincinnati, he knew his security guard by name and occasionally nodded to the couple down the hall, but that was the extent of his community.

"Not all, but many," Riley said. "It's different here. People sit on their porches, talk across fences. It's how I stay grounded when everything else gets crazy. These people don't care about streaming numbers or tour dates—they care if I remembered to bring back their casserole dish or if I'm taking care of that rose bush Edith gave me."

Joe watched her as she talked, her face animated with genuine affection for this place and its people. He tried to imagine a version of his life with this kind of community, this sense of belonging to something beyond the team and his career. It was both foreign and strangely appealing.

"What?" Riley asked, catching his contemplative look.

"Nothing," Joe said, then reconsidered. "Actually, it's just... this isn't what I'm used to. Where I live, privacy means isolation. Here, it seems like privacy and community coexist somehow."

Riley nodded thoughtfully. "That's it exactly. People here respect boundaries, but they also show up when it matters." She pointed to a bright turquoise house across the street. "When Katrina hit, Mr. Jerome there took in seven neighbors and their pets. Nobody had to ask—he just did it. That's New Orleans."

They rounded a corner, and the quiet residential street gave way to a small commercial strip—a neighborhood bar with its doors already open, a plant shop spilling greenery onto the sidewalk, and at the end of the block, a weathered storefront with "RESURRECTION RECORDS" painted in faded red letters above the door.

"Fair warning," Riley said as they approached the record store. "Elvin is a character. Local legend, played with Buddy Guy back in the day. He's going to tell you at least three outrageous stories that are probably true, offer you something to drink that's definitely illegal to serve without a license, and try to sell you records you didn't know you wanted."

"Sounds like my kind of place," Joe said, genuinely intrigued. This was as far from the sterile, corporate music stores he occasionally visited as he could imagine.

Riley's hand found his, fingers intertwining naturally. "Just remember, follow my lead. And whatever happens, do not—under any circumstances—mention LSU."

Before Joe could ask why, she was pulling him through the door, a bell jingling overhead as they stepped into another world entirely.

The bell jingled as they stepped inside Resurrection Records, and Joe's senses were immediately overwhelmed. The store was smaller than it looked from outside, every inch of space utilized to the point of controlled chaos. Vinyl records filled wooden crates that lined the walls and created narrow aisles throughout the shop. The air smelled of dust, incense, and vinyl – a combination that was somehow comforting despite being entirely foreign to Joe's usual environments.

From behind a counter cluttered with vintage audio equipment, a tall man with salt-and-pepper dreadlocks tied back in a loose ponytail looked up. His weathered face broke into a wide grin when he spotted Riley.

"Well, if it isn't the prodigal daughter herself!" His voice was deep and gravelly, the kind that only decades of whiskey and cigarettes could produce. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about your old friend Elvin."

"Never," Riley said, making her way through the cramped space to give him a quick hug over the counter. "Just been in the studio cave. You know how it goes."

"That I do," Elvin nodded, then shifted his attention to Joe, eyes narrowing with open curiosity. "And who's the stranger?"

"This is Joe," Riley said casually. "Joe, this is Elvin Baptiste, legend of the New Orleans blues scene and keeper of vinyl treasures."

Joe stepped forward, hand extended. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Elvin studied him for a moment, taking in the bandana and sunglasses with obvious amusement before shaking his hand. "Any friend of Riley's..." he began, then paused, his grip tightening slightly on Joe's hand. "Wait a minute. I know you from somewhere."

Joe felt the familiar tension seize his shoulders. Riley shot him a quick, reassuring glance before turning back to Elvin.

"He just has one of those faces," she said smoothly. "Joe, why don't you look around while Elvin shows me what he's been holding for me?"

Understanding the escape route she was offering, Joe nodded and drifted toward the nearest bin of records. Behind him, he could hear Elvin's voice drop as he leaned in to speak to Riley.

"That's not just some guy, is it?" he whispered, though not quietly enough.

"Elvin," Riley's tone carried a gentle warning. "Not today, okay?"

There was a pause, then Elvin's laugh. "Your secret's safe with me, Riley-girl. Now, about those imports I promised you..."

Their voices faded into the background as Joe began flipping through albums, relaxing into the anonymity of the task. He moved methodically through the bins, not really searching for anything specific but enjoying the tactile experience of thumbing through the cardboard sleeves, studying the artwork of bands he recognized and many he didn't.

Near the front of the store, he noticed a small section labeled "STAFF PICKS" in hand-painted letters. Curious about what kind of music the eccentric Elvin might recommend, Joe wandered over. The collection was eclectic—everything from obscure jazz recordings to punk albums to what appeared to be world music from regions Joe couldn't even identify.

And there, propped front and center, was Talking Heads' "Speaking in Tongues."

Joe's entire body went still. The exact album. The exact song.

With hands that suddenly felt clumsy, he pulled the record from its place of honor. The sleeve was worn at the edges, but the album itself was clearly well-preserved. He flipped it over, and his eyes immediately found what they were searching for in the track listing: "This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)."

The room seemed to recede around him, the chatter and clattering of vinyl fading to a distant hum as he stared at those words. It wasn't just any Talking Heads album. It was the album. The one with the song that had materialized in his mind the moment he stepped into Riley's house, the one his father had played on those Sunday mornings when everything felt right with the world.

"Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there..."

The coincidence was too perfect, too precise to be random. Joe wasn't superstitious—his entire career was built on practice and preparation, not luck or fate—yet standing here, holding this specific record in this specific store in this specific city with this specific woman... it felt like the universe was trying to tell him something.

He glanced over at Riley, still deeply engaged with Elvin at the counter, completely unaware of the cosmic joke or profound message or whatever the hell this was that had just landed in Joe's hands.

The intensity of his reaction frightened him. This wasn't how Joe Burrow operated. He didn't assign mystical significance to old records. He didn't experience emotional earthquakes in dusty shops. He didn't believe in signs from the universe.

And yet.

Everything about his time with Riley had been peeling back layers he hadn't known existed. The way her house had instantly felt more like home than his own carefully designed apartment. The way her chaotic, vibrant life made his structured existence seem hollow by comparison. The way she filled spaces—physical and emotional—with meaning and history and warmth.

He'd been haunted by that damn song since he walked into her house. And now here it was, literally in his hands, as if it had been waiting for him.

Joe tried to rationalize it away. Talking Heads was a popular band. This was probably one of their most famous albums. Of course it would be in a record store. Of course Elvin might select it as a staff pick. There was nothing supernatural about it.

But the explanation did nothing to quell the tremor that ran through him, the sense that something fundamental was shifting in the bedrock of his carefully constructed life.

Even with Olivia—who he'd genuinely loved during those years together—he'd maintained the walls that separated Joe Burrow the quarterback from Joe the person. She'd ended things not because they didn't love each other, but because she'd wanted more of him than he'd been willing to give, more than football allowed him to give. Or at least, that's what he'd told himself at the time. Looking back now, he wondered if it had been his choice all along—football hadn't built those walls; he had.

He'd spent years building those defenses around himself—the disciplined quarterback, the calculated public figure, the man who left nothing to chance. But in less than twenty-four hours, Riley had somehow slipped past all his defenses, not by force but by simply showing him a different way of being. A life full of color and history and connection. A life where things didn't have to be perfect to be meaningful.

And here was this record, this physical manifestation of the feeling that had overwhelmed him in her living room. This tangible proof that the earthquake he'd experienced wasn't just in his imagination.

Joe became aware that his heart was racing, his palms sweaty against the cardboard sleeve. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he'd accidentally revealed something deeply private in public. Glancing around, he was relieved to find that no one was paying him any attention—he was just another customer browsing records.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. This reaction was irrational, disproportionate. It was just a record. Just a song. Just a coincidence.

Except he knew it wasn't. Not really.

This moment, this discovery, was crystallizing something he'd been feeling since he first walked into Riley's world—a longing for something he hadn't known he was missing. A recognition that the life he'd built, for all its success and discipline and achievement, lacked the very thing Riley seemed to create effortlessly around her: a sense of belonging. Of home.

The realization was devastating in its simplicity. He, Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback with the carefully curated public image and meticulously organized life, was homesick for a place he'd never been. For a feeling he'd only experienced in fragments—in his childhood home on those Sunday mornings, and now, inexplicably, with Riley.

It wasn't just that he was attracted to her. It wasn't just that he enjoyed her company or admired her talent or found her intriguing. It was that being with her felt like remembering something essential he'd forgotten. Something about who he could be, who he maybe was supposed to be, beyond the uniform and the expectations and the constant performance.

Joe looked down at the album in his hands, realizing his grip had tightened to the point where he might damage the sleeve. He forced himself to relax, to breathe normally, to appear outwardly calm even as his internal landscape was being completely reconstructed.

He had to buy this record. It didn't matter that he didn't own a turntable. It didn't matter that he had no practical use for it. It didn't matter that bringing this physical manifestation of his emotional revelation back to Cincinnati would be like carrying a live grenade into his carefully ordered existence.

He had to have it. If only to remind himself, when he inevitably returned to his real life, that this place, this feeling, this possibility existed.

"Hey, find something good?"

Joe nearly jumped at the sound of Riley's voice beside him. She was looking at him curiously, her head tilted in that way he was already beginning to recognize as her trying to read him.

"Yeah," he said, holding up the album with a certainty that contrasted with his internal turmoil. "This one."

Riley's eyes dropped to the album in his hands, and for a heart-stopping moment, Joe thought she would somehow see everything—the connection to the song that had played in his head in her house, the seismic shift happening inside him, the terrifying vulnerability he suddenly felt.

Instead, she just smiled. "Talking Heads, huh? Solid pick. That one's a staple."

The comment landed harder than it should have. Of course it was.

"I don't even have a record player," Joe admitted, keeping his tone even.

Riley lowered her sunglasses slightly, studying him. "So why buy something you can't even play?"

Joe looked down at the album, thumb tracing the edge of the sleeve. He considered what to say, but some revelations weren't meant for sharing. Not yet.

"Just feels right," he said simply, with the quiet confidence that came naturally to him on the field but rarely off it. "I'll figure out the rest later."

Riley held his gaze like she wanted to push for more, but after a beat, she just nodded. "Fair enough."

With a grin, she nudged him toward the counter. “Come on, Elvin’s pouring us a drink while we settle up. But take it easy—one’s plenty. Any more, and we’ll be on our asses before the parade even starts.”

Joe followed her to the counter, the record clutched in his hand like a talisman. He'd come to New Orleans expecting a brief escape from his routine, a pleasant weekend with a woman who intrigued him. He hadn't expected to find himself contemplating the fundamental architecture of his life, questioning choices he'd made so automatically he hadn't even recognized them as choices.

And he certainly hadn't expected to find himself holding a physical manifestation of that questioning in the form of a decades-old record.

As Elvin poured them each a finger of amber liquid in mismatched glasses, Joe stole another glance at Riley—her easy confidence, the way she belonged so naturally in this cluttered, chaotic space. The way she seemed to belong everywhere she went, not because she blended in but because she carried her sense of self so completely.

That was what he wanted, he realized. Not just her, though he wanted that too with an intensity that surprised him. But what he truly coveted was her rootedness, her ability to be fully present in her life, to create meaning and connection wherever she went.

The record in his hand was a promise to himself. A reminder that another way of living was possible. That somewhere beneath the carefully constructed edifice of Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, there was just Joe—a person capable of feeling at home, of belonging, of recognizing when something mattered beyond all reason or practicality.

But as he placed it on the counter and reached for his wallet, there was no hesitation in his movements. Whatever this meant, whatever shift was happening inside him, he was embracing it head-on.

He'd come to New Orleans to visit Riley, but he was discovering himself in the process. And that revelation, more than any Talking Heads album or cosmic coincidence, was what truly shook the foundations of his world.

After leaving the record store, Riley suggested they grab a drink before heading back to get ready for the evening's festivities. For now, Joe was keeping a low profile with just the essentials—mirrored aviators and a bandana he could pull up if needed. His head was still buzzing slightly from Elvin's homemade bourbon, a potent concoction the old man had insisted they sample before making their purchases.

"A little liquid courage for the record collector," Elvin had called it, winking at Joe as he'd carefully wrapped the Talking Heads album.

Riley was still in her green and white striped wide-leg pants and vintage Misfits t-shirt, her hair tucked up in a messy bun under a plain black cap. Her black sandals clicked against the pavement as they walked, the gingham tote bag now containing their record store haul swinging at her side. The gold rings on her fingers caught the afternoon sunlight as she gestured down a side street.

"There's a place around the corner," she said, tugging him away from the more crowded streets. "Little dive bar that tourists never find."

They weaved through growing crowds of revelers, many of whom were already in various stages of costume despite the early hour. The energy in the Quarter was building steadily, street performers setting up on corners, vendors arranging displays of masks and beads, the scent of food and alcohol mingling in the humid air.

Joe was still processing what had happened in the record store, the strange convergence of past and present that had left him feeling both unmoored and somehow more grounded than he'd been in years. He found himself gripping the small paper bag containing the Talking Heads album a little too tightly and consciously relaxed his hand.

"Here," Riley said, stopping in front of an unassuming door tucked between a voodoo shop and a vintage clothing store. The weathered sign simply read "The Jimson Weed" in faded paint.

Inside, the bar was dim and cool compared to the increasingly humid afternoon. Old cypress beams crossed the ceiling, and the walls were covered in local art and faded photographs of musicians who'd played there over the decades. A small stage in the back corner suggested live music happened regularly, though at the moment only a Blues playlist filled the air.

The crowd was sparse—a few locals at the bar nursing drinks, a table of what looked like visiting college students, and an older couple in the corner sharing a plate of something that smelled delicious.

Riley slid onto a barstool, and Joe took the one beside her, careful to keep his profile turned away from the door. The edge of Elvin's bourbon was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a pleasant warmth and a slight loosening of the constant vigilance he maintained in public places.

A tattooed bartender with a shaved head approached, his face breaking into a genuine smile when he spotted Riley. "Well damn. Riley Carter emerging from hibernation."

"Hey, Marcus," Riley said, leaning across the bar to bump fists with him. "You know I can't stay away from your Sazeracs forever."

Marcus's eyes shifted to Joe, curious but not intrusive. Joe tensed slightly, waiting for the flash of recognition, but it never came. Instead, Marcus just extended his hand. "Any friend of Riley's is welcome here."

"Thanks," Joe said, shaking it firmly. "Joe."

"You caught Elvin's special reserve, huh?" Marcus asked, noticing the record store bag. "Man's been bottling that stuff since before I was born. Still haven't figured out what's in it."

"Pretty sure it's at least 90 proof," Riley said. "Joe here needs something to take the edge off."

"Say no more," Marcus nodded, already reaching for glasses. "Two Sazeracs coming up."

As he moved away to prepare their drinks, Riley turned slightly toward Joe, her knee bumping his under the bar. "You've been quiet since the record store," she said softly. "You okay?"

Joe met her eyes, momentarily thrown by her perceptiveness. "Yeah, just... processing. The record thing. It was unexpected."

"The vinyl bug bites hard," Riley said, clearly misinterpreting his introspection. "First it's one album, then suddenly you're installing custom shelving to hold your collection."

Joe nodded, grateful she hadn't somehow intuited the deeper significance. "I'll have to borrow your turntable sometime," he said, the suggestion carrying more weight than he'd intended.

"Anytime," Riley replied, something flickering briefly in her expression that made his chest tighten.

Marcus returned with their drinks—amber liquid in rocks glasses, each garnished with a twist of lemon peel. As he set them down, his eyes flickered to Joe's face, recognition dawning in them.

"Enjoy," he said simply, then paused before moving away. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Hey man, my cousin's a huge Bengals fan. Just wanted to say that playoff run was something else."

Joe tensed, his fingers tightening on the edge of the bar.

Marcus seemed to read his discomfort immediately. "Don't worry," he said with a casual shrug. "We get musicians, actors, all kinds through here. House rule is everybody gets to drink in peace."

"Appreciate that," Joe said, relaxing slightly as he reached for his glass.

Riley shot Marcus a grateful look as he moved away to help another customer. "Told you," she said quietly. "Marcus is good people."

Joe took a sip of his drink, the flavor complex and strong—rye whiskey, bitters, and something sweet with a hint of licorice that cut through the lingering taste of Elvin's moonshine. "Damn, that's good."

"Told you," Riley said, taking a sip of her own. "Man's a wizard."

"You hitting Muses tonight?" Marcus called from further down the bar where he was pouring a beer.

"Wouldn't miss it," Riley replied. "Got a spot near Napoleon and St. Charles."

"Smart," Marcus nodded. "Garden District's gonna be a nightmare this year. Heard they're expecting record crowds."

Joe watched as Riley surveyed the room, seemingly relaxed but with a constant awareness that he recognized from his own experiences with fame. Even in minimal disguise, she was careful—monitoring exits, tracking who entered, keeping her back to the wall. It was subtle, probably unconscious, but he noticed because he did the same things.

"So how long have you been coming here?" he asked, genuinely curious about this piece of her history.

Riley traced the rim of her glass with one finger, smiling at some private memory. "Since before anyone knew who I was. This place is special—one of the last real local spots that hasn't been completely overrun. Marcus has owned it for twenty years, keeps the tourists out by never advertising and charging too much for domestic beer."

"Smart strategy," Joe nodded, respecting the intentionality behind it.

"The band played our first real gig here," Riley continued, her voice softer now. "First place that ever paid us actual money instead of just free drinks."

"How'd that go?" Joe asked.

Riley laughed, the sound warm and unreserved. "Complete disaster. We were so nervous, Pete broke two strings in the first song, Andy was late because his car broke down, and I forgot the lyrics to our opener—just stood there humming until the second verse." She shook her head at the memory. "But the crowd was drunk enough not to care, and Marcus kept booking us anyway."

Her expression turned thoughtful, and she glanced toward the small stage. "He saw something in us before anyone else did. Before we even saw it in ourselves, really."

There was something about the way she said it—a quiet gratitude, a recognition of how far she'd come—that made Joe want to know everything about her journey. Not the version in press releases or interviews, but the real story, with all its struggles and triumphs.

"Your turn," Riley said, nudging his arm. "Tell me something about Joe Burrow that isn't in the ESPN highlight reel."

Joe took another sip of his drink, buying himself a moment. What exactly did he share with her? The Talking Heads album was still weighing on his mind—This must be the place. If he wanted to be known, truly known by her, he needed to offer something real, not the carefully curated anecdotes he saved for media days.

Home is where I want to be...

The lyric circled in his head, reminding him of what had drawn him to Riley in the first place—her authenticity, her ability to be fully present in her life. She'd been honest with him, sharing stories of her early struggles without polish or pretense. Maybe he owed her the same.

"I worry sometimes," he said finally, his voice quieter but steady. "About how long I can keep doing this. The knee, the appendix..." He looked down at his drink, turning the glass slowly between his fingers. "Every time I come back, I tell everyone I'm not thinking about it. That I'm just focused on the next game, the next season. But sometimes, late at night, I do think about it."

Riley watched him, not rushing to fill the silence, giving his words the space they deserved.

"Football's all I've ever wanted," Joe continued. "But lately I've been wondering what comes after. What I'm going to be when I can't be that anymore." He shook his head slightly. "Sorry, that got pretty heavy for afternoon drinks."

"Don't apologize," Riley said, her expression serious but warm. "That's real. Every performer thinks about the shelf life of what we do. My voice won't sound like this forever. Your body won't move like that forever. It's normal to wonder what's on the other side."

Joe nodded, relieved by her understanding. "Yeah, exactly. Most people think we're crazy to worry when we're at the top of our game. But that's exactly when it hits you—knowing it can't last forever."

"So what's the answer?" Riley asked. "What does Joe Burrow do when he hangs up the cleats?"

He laughed softly. "That's the million-dollar question. Coaching, broadcasting—those are the expected routes. But I don't know if that's me."

"What about something completely different?" Riley suggested. "You strike me as someone who could excel at just about anything you set your mind to."

"Maybe," Joe said thoughtfully. "Wouldn't that be something? To completely reinvent myself?" He straightened, shaking off the momentary weight of contemplation. "Anyway, that's probably more than you bargained for when you asked for a fun fact about me."

Riley shook her head, her eyes holding his. "No, it's exactly what I wanted to know. The real stuff." She raised her glass. "To second acts and new beginnings—whenever we need them."

Joe clinked his glass against hers, feeling a strange lightness. He'd never spoken those fears aloud, not even to teammates who shared the same unspoken anxieties. Yet here in this dim bar, with a woman he'd known for barely a day, he'd found the words.

"Enough about uncertain futures," he said with a smile. "Tell me about this parade you keep promising will change my life."

Riley's eyes lit up, and as she launched into a detailed explanation of the Muses parade traditions, Joe found himself simply watching her—the animation in her gestures, the genuine enthusiasm in her voice. In her presence, even his deepest worries seemed less daunting, more like challenges to be met than shadows to be feared.

After their second drink, Riley checked her phone and straightened. "We should probably head back soon," she said. "I still need to get ready, and you haven't even seen your parade disguise yet."

"On a scale of one to complete transformation, how extreme are we talking?" Joe asked.

Riley's smile turned mischievous as she slid off her stool. She dropped several bills on the bar—far more than their drinks cost, Joe noticed—and gave Marcus a quick hug. "That should cover us and a little extra for the tip jar," she said.

Marcus shook his head with a smile. "Always too generous, Carter."

"Consider it an investment in my future drinking," she replied with a wink.

Joe observed this small interaction with interest. Another glimpse of her character—the casual generosity, the way she treated service workers not as invisible background characters but as important parts of her story.

As they stepped back into the late afternoon sunlight, the streets were noticeably more crowded than before. Joe pulled his bandana up as a precaution. The energy had shifted—more costumes appearing, music louder, the atmosphere charged with anticipation for the evening ahead.

The two Sazeracs had left a pleasant warmth in Joe's chest, just enough to lower his usual guard. As they navigated through clusters of tourists already adorned with beads and masks, he found himself walking closer to Riley, their hands occasionally brushing until she finally caught his with her own, intertwining their fingers naturally.

"I'm good," he said, squeezing her hand. "Just forgot how hard a Sazerac hits. And whatever the hell Elvin gave us probably didn't help."

"Not used to real drinks, huh? Too busy chugging protein shakes?" She bumped her hip against his.

Joe scoffed, his free hand landing on her waist. "Please. I could outdrink you and still wake up for a workout before you even thought about getting out of bed."

Riley raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh, is that right?" She squeezed his hand, tilting her head. "Don't play with me, sir. You do not want that smoke."

The casual touches, her fingers linked with his, the easy banter—it all felt at once new and strangely familiar, as if they'd known each other much longer than a handful of hours.

As they turned onto Riley's street, the residential area slightly calmer than the main drags, Joe found himself surprisingly eager for what came next. His thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand as they walked, a gesture so natural he didn't even realize he was doing it until he felt her respond with a gentle squeeze.

"Alright," he said as they climbed her porch steps, reluctantly releasing her hand so she could unlock the door. "Transform me."

Inside, the late afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, creating patterns across the wooden floors. The record from the store sat on her coffee table, a physical reminder of his earlier revelation. Joe found himself staring at it, almost disbelieving of how much had shifted within him in just one day.

"Make yourself comfortable," Riley called over her shoulder as she disappeared into her bedroom. "This might take me a few minutes."

She paused at the doorway, turning back to catch his eye. "No passing out on my couch, mister."

"No promises," Joe replied with a lazy smile, though he was far from actually drunk—just comfortable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

He settled onto her couch, the worn velvet somehow more inviting than his own pristine furniture back home. The combination of Elvin's bourbon and Marcus's Sazeracs had left him pleasantly buzzed, his usual hyperawareness softened around the edges.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself simply exist in this space—this house that had somehow felt like home from the moment he'd stepped inside. The distant sounds of Carnival filtered through the open windows, but in here, in Riley's world, there was a stillness that felt sacred somehow.

"Ta-da!" Riley's voice broke through his reverie.

Joe looked up and froze. She'd completely transformed in the thirty minutes she'd disappeared into her room. A light purple wig framed her face—not a vibrant electric color, but a softer lavender that somehow looked surprisingly natural despite being obviously fake. Her face glittered with gold and purple sparkles concentrated around her eyes and cheekbones, making her features shimmer in the light. But it was the outfit that really caught his attention—a black crop top that exposed just enough skin to be interesting without being too revealing, paired with sequined shorts in alternating bands of purple, gold, and green that caught the light with her every movement. She'd paired the look with her black high-top Converse, a leather jacket slung over her arm.

"Damn," was all Joe could manage.

Riley grinned, giving a theatrical twirl. "Now you."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into her bedroom, where she'd laid out his disguise on the bed—a purple snapback with a fleur-de-lis embroidered on it, mirrored aviators, and a bandana in Mardi Gras colors. There were beads too, lots of them, and a white t-shirt with "Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler" printed across the front.

"Subtle," Joe said dryly.

"The beauty of Carnival," Riley said, handing him the shirt, "is that nobody looks at faces. Everyone's staring at costumes, masks, floats. The more you blend in with tourists, the more invisible you become."

Joe changed quickly, pulling the shirt over his head. Riley stepped closer, reaching up to adjust the hat on his head. Her fingers brushed his temple as she worked, warm against his skin. They stood close enough that he could smell her perfume mingling with the faint scent of the bourbon they'd shared. He found himself fighting the urge to pull her closer, to close the small distance between them.

"There," she said, her hands lingering at the sides of his face as she stepped back slightly to examine her work. "How's it feel?"

Joe looked at himself in her full-length mirror, hyper-aware of her standing just behind him, her reflection meeting his eyes in the glass. Between the hat pulled low, the aviators, and the bandana that he could pull up when needed, he was essentially anonymous. He looked like every other out-of-towner in the city for Carnival.

"Weird," he admitted. "But good weird."

"Perfect. Egan texted—they're already at her place with drinks flowing. Six, maybe seven people."

Joe hesitated, something tightening in his chest. "They all know who I am?"

"I may have mentioned I was bringing someone," Riley said with a casual shrug. "And Egan may have figured out who you are. She's smart like that."

Joe felt his shoulders tense. So much for anonymity. Mark and Bill's warnings from their last conversation replayed in his head.

"Look, we're not trying to kill your vibe here," Mark had said, that forced casual tone he used when he was actually concerned. "But it's Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Joe. The whole city is one giant party, and Riley Carter isn't exactly known for taking it easy."

Bill hadn't even attempted to be subtle. "Her world is different, man. We've all seen her Instagram. Those afterparties go until sunrise. That crowd lives for that shit. One video of you getting wild with her friends, and suddenly we're not talking about your comeback season anymore—we're explaining why you're doing tequila shots at 3 AM."

Joe had brushed them off then, but their words hit differently now. The Riley he'd spent the morning with—cooking breakfast, showing him her neighborhood—seemed miles away from the party girl they'd described. But maybe he was about to see that other side of her, the rock star who thrived in chaos and crowds.

"So much for anonymity," he finally said, his tone more resigned than angry.

"Hey," Riley said, stepping closer, her eyes clear and confident. "These are my people. They've had my back through everything. They know how to keep things quiet."

Joe nodded, but couldn't shake the uneasiness. Every new person who recognized him was another potential leak, another possible viral moment. And if things did get wild tonight—well, Mark and Bill would have a field day with the I-told-you-so's.

"We don't have to go," Riley offered, reading his expression. "We can head straight to the parade spot."

"No," Joe said, making a decision. "I want to meet your friends. Just..."

"Just be prepared to slip out if it gets weird," Riley finished for him. "I get it. We'll have an escape plan."

Twenty minutes later, they were walking through streets that had transformed completely from earlier in the day. The energy was electric now, people in various states of costume filling the sidewalks, music pouring from every direction, the air thick with the mingled scents of food, alcohol, and anticipation.

Joe had the bandana pulled up over his nose and mouth, the hat low over his eyes. He looked like dozens of other revelers—anonymous and unremarkable in the sea of Carnival preparations. But beneath the disguise, his mind was racing. These were Riley's people. Her world. And he was about to walk right into it.

"Nervous?" Riley asked, glancing at him as they turned down a side street away from the main crowd.

"A little," Joe admitted. There was something about her that made it easy to be honest when he'd normally deflect. "I'm not great with new people to begin with. Add in the whole..." he gestured vaguely at himself, "...this thing, and yeah. A little nervous."

"If it helps, they're more nervous about meeting you," Riley said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Egan's been texting me non-stop. 'What's he like? Is he cool? What should I not mention?'"

Joe raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "What did you tell her?"

"That you're just a regular guy who happens to throw a football really well. And that if anyone says anything about the Kansas City game, I'll personally remove them from the balcony."

That got a real laugh out of him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Appreciate that."

As they approached a faded blue double shotgun with a wide front porch already filled with people, the bass of music thumped from inside. Bottles clinked, laughter erupted, and Joe caught the unmistakable scent of something that definitely wasn't tobacco. He inhaled slightly, a small smile playing at his lips. Off-season had its perks, after all, and it's not like he was getting drug tested tomorrow. Still, Mark's voice nagged in his head: Just be smart about it, man. No phones, people you trust, no exceptions.

Riley seemed to sense his hesitation, her hand finding his and giving it a quick squeeze. "Two hours, max," she promised. "Then we hit the parade. And if you want to leave sooner, just say the word."

Joe nodded, squeezing her hand back before reluctantly letting go. In Cincinnati, nobody touched him casually like that. He was already missing the contact.

They climbed the steps, and a woman with a short undercut and colorful tattoos spotted them immediately, breaking away from a conversation to rush over, drink sloshing precariously in her hand.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, hugging Riley tightly. She pulled back to examine the wig, nodding with approval. "Love this color on you. Different vibe from last year's blue situation."

"Thought I'd change it up," Riley said, adjusting the wig slightly. She turned to Joe with a look that said ready? "Egan, this is Joe. Joe, Egan—my oldest friend in New Orleans."

"Hey," Joe said, keeping his voice casual pulling the bandanna down. He'd perfected the art of the neutral greeting after years of meeting strangers who already knew everything about him.

Egan's eyes sparkled with recognition, but she played it cool, leaning in to give him a quick hug that caught him off guard. "Nice to meet you," she said at a normal volume, then lowered her voice to add, "Your secret's safe here, promise. We're not the type to blast stuff on social media."

"Appreciate that," Joe said, relaxing slightly at her obvious discretion. Maybe this wouldn't be the disaster his team had predicted.

"Come on," Egan said, leading them toward the door. "Everyone's inside. Fair warning—Tomas brought his infamous punch, and Jeremy is already three drinks in and talking about the Saints' defensive line, so maybe steer clear unless you want to debate NFL strategy all night."

Riley shot Joe an apologetic look, but he just shrugged. "I can talk defense with the best of them."

"That's what I was afraid of," Egan said with a laugh. "Get ready for the football interrogation of your life. He's been preparing his takes all day since I told him you were coming."

Joe couldn't help but smile at that. At least he'd be on familiar territory talking football, even if everything else about this night was uncharted waters.

As they stepped into the crowded house, the door closing behind them, Joe instinctively pulled the bandana down from his face. Out there, in the streets of New Orleans, he needed to be anonymous. But in here, among Riley's trusted circle, he could just be Joe. The air was warm, thick with conversation and music—the rich aroma of good bourbon mingling with something savory cooking in the kitchen, the subtle notes of perfume and cologne, and the unmistakable sweet scent of good flower hanging in the air. This was a long way from his quiet place in Cincinnati, and somewhere between terrifying and exhilarating.

A tall guy with long hair pulled into a messy bun spotted them from the kitchen doorway and called out over the music. "Carter! Get over here! The jungle juice is going fast!"

"That's Tomas," Riley explained, tugging Joe toward the kitchen. "His jungle juice is legendary, but I've seen it take down people twice your size."

As they navigated through the crowd, Joe felt the weight of curious glances but was surprised by how normal it felt. No one was making a big deal of his presence. No phones appeared, no one asked for selfies. Riley's friends greeted him with casual nods or quick introductions—like he was just another friend she'd brought along.

In the kitchen, Tomas was pouring something purple from a massive crystal bowl into mismatched cups. The sweet, fruity smell barely masked what had to be at least three different kinds of liquor.

"The man of the hour," Tomas said, looking up at Joe with an easy grin. He extended his hand. "Good to meet you, man. I'm Tomas."

"Joe," he replied, shaking the offered hand. "That looks intense."

"Family recipe," Tomas said proudly, ladling two cups. "Great-grandfather was a bootlegger during Prohibition. So, that fourth-quarter conversion against Baltimore? Man, that was something else. The way you read that defense—"

"Right?" Joe replied, immediately animated. "They showed blitz but I could tell by the safety's position they were dropping into coverage. It was all about that pre-snap read."

Riley gave Tomas a look that said now you've done it, but she was smiling. Joe took a long sip of the jungle juice, the sweetness barely concealing the serious kick of alcohol.

A guy in a Saints cap who'd been listening from the edge of the kitchen stepped forward eagerly. "So that's how you knew? I've been arguing with my buddies about that play for weeks."

"You must be Jeremy," Joe said, extending his hand. "Egan mentioned you're the Saints expert around here."

"Guilty," Jeremy admitted with a grin, shaking Joe's hand firmly. "Been obsessing over our defensive schemes all season."

"Actually, your coordinator's making some interesting adjustments," Joe said, comfortably leaning against the counter. "That Tampa-2 variation he ran against the Rams was pretty innovative."

Jeremy's eyes lit up. "You noticed that? Most people missed it completely. The way he disguised the coverage pre-snap was brilliant."

"Damn, that's good," he said, genuinely impressed.

"Told you," Riley said, nudging him with her shoulder. "Tomas makes it once a year, just for Mardi Gras."

A woman with long braids appeared at Riley's side, nudging her with an elbow. "You gonna introduce us, or what?"

"Joe, this is Jen," Riley said. "We went to music school together before she abandoned me for law school."

"Best decision I ever made," Jen said, her eyes moving to Joe with open curiosity. "Your girl's a nightmare to tour with."

“Okay, rude,” Riley said, taking a sip of her drink. “I am a delight to tour with.

Jen snorted. “Sure. If your definition of delight includes panic-packing and losing your phone daily.”

Joe turned to Riley, amused. “That sounds… about right.”

Riley just shrugged. “I like a little chaos.”

The guy in a beanie passed by, already smoking. He paused, offering it to Riley with a casual nod.

Riley took it smoothly, inhaling and holding for a moment before passing it to Joe without comment or question. No big deal.

Joe took it with the same casual confidence he brought to everything else. Off-season had its perks, after all. He inhaled with practiced ease, the familiar routine more muscle memory than conscious thought. The tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying in his shoulders melted away as he exhaled low and slow.

He passed it back to Riley, who took another pull before returning it to its original owner. The entire exchange happened with the ease of people comfortable in their choices – no hesitation, no side glances for permission or approval. Just adults making their own decisions.

The conversation around them hadn't even skipped a beat, Jeremy still deep into breaking down some defensive formation with the same enthusiasm as before.

Joe settled back, feeling the pleasant warmth beginning to spread through him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't calculating risks or considering optics. He was just... here. Present. And it felt good.

Joe felt himself settle.

Maybe it was the jungle juice, maybe the weed, maybe just the hum of the night, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about who might be watching.

He wasn’t thinking about the headlines, or the cameras, or Mark and Bill’s warnings.

"So Joe," Jeremy said, leaning forward, "what are you guys looking at in the draft this year? Our mock drafts have you taking that offensive lineman from Alabama."

"Oh God," Riley groaned. "Please talk about something else besides football. We'll never make it to the parade."

But Joe was already engaged, comfortably settling into the topic. "We definitely need to strengthen a few positions," he said, casually confident in his standing with the organization. "I've been watching film on some of the top receiving prospects. Our front office knows I have thoughts."

Jeremy leaned forward, clearly impressed. "They actually let you weigh in on draft picks?"

Joe shrugged, but there was a quiet assurance in the gesture. "It's my offense. They want to make sure whoever they bring in fits what we're building. I was in the draft room last year."

"That's how it should be," Jeremy said, clearly thrilled with this insider perspective. "When you've got a franchise quarterback, you build around what works for him."

Joe gave a slight nod, taking a sip of his drink. "And honestly, that Alabama lineman you mentioned? Wouldn't hate that pick."

As they were preparing to leave for the parade, Joe found himself in a final conversation with Jeremy and Tomas. The three had moved from defensive schemes to debating the league's best venues, finding common ground despite their team loyalties.

"Man, I still haven't made it to a game in Cincinnati," Tomas admitted, finishing his drink. "The atmosphere looks incredible on TV though."

"You should come out next season," Joe said without hesitation, pulling out his phone. "Here, put your numbers in. I'll set you guys up with tickets."

Jeremy's eyes widened. "Seriously? That would be insane."

"Absolutely," Joe nodded, his tone matter-of-fact as he handed his phone to Tomas. "Good seats too, not nosebleeds. And I can get you both field passes before the game."

"That's... damn, thanks man," Tomas said, clearly surprised by the genuine offer as he typed in his number and passed the phone to Jeremy.

"Riley's friends are my friends," Joe said with an easy confidence. "Just let me know which game works for you."

Riley, returning from saying goodbye to Jen, caught the end of the exchange. The pleased surprise on her face told Joe everything he needed to know - he'd just breezed through an important test he hadn't known he was taking.

"Already stealing my people, Burrow?" she teased, sliding her arm through his.

"Can't help it if they have excellent taste in football," he replied with a half-smile, tucking his phone away.

Twenty minutes later, Egan clapped her hands over the music. "Alright, parade time! Muses waits for no one!"

A flurry of movement followed—jackets thrown on, drinks drained, beads tossed over heads, masks adjusted. Someone passed Riley a silver sequined mask, and she slid it into place effortlessly, her eyes flashing behind it.

"We better move," Jeremy said, downing the last of his drink. "Last year Egan left me behind when I took too long."

"She's not joking about the parade waiting for no one," Joe observed, already on his feet and adjusting his bandana. He pulled his cap lower, ready for what came next.

Riley appeared at his side, eyes bright with excitement. "You ready, babes?"

Joe looked at her, taking in the way she vibrated with energy. The way the city felt alive around her, like it moved in sync with her heartbeat. He nodded, already moving toward the door. "Let's go."

As the group spilled onto the porch, the night swallowed them whole—music spilling from open doors, the distant wail of a brass band tuning up, strangers laughing like old friends. Joe stepped confidently into the current, making his way through the crowd with Riley's hand in his, no longer feeling like a visitor but like someone who belonged in this moment.

The parade route was already packed three-deep when they arrived, but Egan navigated with confidence toward a small section that had been impossibly preserved amid the chaos.

"Trahan family real estate," Riley explained, catching Joe's questioning look. "Egan's family has been claiming this exact spot for generations. I've been watching Muses with them since we were in high school."

A cluster of people waved as they approached—a mix of ages and styles that somehow fit together seamlessly, like most things in New Orleans. Joe recognized the easy familiarity of a group that had history together, the kind of connections that ran deeper than occasional meetups.

"Finally!" called a woman who had to be Egan's mother, their features mirroring each other. "We've been fighting off spot-stealers for an hour!"

"Worth the wait though," Riley called back. "We brought reinforcements."

The introductions were casual, unforced. Val and her husband Marco, Egan's parents Marie and Louis, a couple of cousins whose names blurred together. Nobody made a big deal about who Joe was, though he caught the flash of recognition in their eyes. Here, he was just Riley's guy, which felt both strange and surprisingly comfortable.

"So you survived Tomas's jungle juice," Val said, handing Joe a red Solo cup filled with something that smelled like whiskey and fruit juice. "That alone earns you parade privileges."

"It was touch and go for a minute," Joe admitted, taking a sip. Good bourbon, not the cheap stuff.

Marco appeared with a flask, topping off Joe's cup. "Insurance against the wait," he explained with a wink. "Muses runs on New Orleans time."

Riley slipped her arm through Joe's, leaning into him. "Marco's family has been in the Quarter for four generations. His grandmother used to tell us stories about the prohibition-era tunnels under his building."

"Some of them are still there," Marco said proudly. "Though now they're mostly full of old Mardi Gras props and my aunt's preserves."

Joe found himself drawn into their easy conversation, the kind that flowed without the weight of expectation. Nobody asked him about football strategy or his rehab progress. Nobody treated him like Joe Burrow, franchise quarterback. He was just another body in the crowd, anonymous behind his bandana, free to soak in the moment without performing for anyone.

A roar went up from further down the route, and the energy of the crowd instantly shifted, people pressing forward in anticipation.

The energy in the crowd was electric, the anticipation crackling through the streets like a live wire. Riley's grip on Joe's hand tightened, her eyes locked on the approaching float.

"Here we go," she said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. She glanced up at him, noticing his bandana had slipped slightly. Without a word, she reached up and adjusted it, making sure it covered his features properly. Then, with a quick smile, she rose on her toes and pressed a quick kiss against the fabric over his lips.

Joe blinked in surprise, feeling the warmth of her lips even through the bandana.

Joe glanced down at her, the excitement in her expression making his chest feel weirdly tight. He'd never seen anything like this—felt anything like this. He wasn't just watching Mardi Gras; he was in it, part of it, woven into the chaos like he belonged.

When the float got closer, Riley waved, calling up to one of the masked riders. Beads flew in every direction, but Joe could tell she was tracking something else entirely—the real prize.

"Every year since I was a kid," she said, voice raised over the noise, "I've made it my mission to catch a shoe."

Joe glanced down at her, amused. "And how's that been going for you?"

She shot him a look. "I have a collection, thank you very much."

Still, he could tell she wanted this one.

And when a glittering shoe sailed just out of her reach, Joe didn't hesitate. "Getting you a shoe," he said decisively, gripping the backs of her thighs before she could protest and lifting her onto his shoulders in one smooth motion.

Riley let out a surprised laugh that turned into a whoop of delight as she settled her weight against him. Her thighs tightened around his neck, her hands bracing on his head for balance.

Joe planted his feet wider, holding steady as the next float rolled up. The women onboard were throwing wildly now, and he could feel Riley's excitement vibrating through her legs.

"Hey!" she yelled, waving both arms. "Right here!"

One of the masked riders spotted her, held up a glittering purple shoe, and sent it flying in a perfect arc.

Riley reached up and snatched it out of the air like she'd been waiting for that exact moment her whole life.

Her triumphant scream was loud enough to make Joe's ears ring, but he couldn't stop smiling as she pumped the shoe in the air like a championship trophy.

"We got one!" she shouted, and the people around them cheered, caught up in her infectious joy.

Joe shook his head, grinning. "That was all you."

She didn't hesitate before throwing her arms around his neck.

Neither did he before pulling her in.

As the parade continued, the crowd surged and compressed around them. Joe maintained his position with the same calm awareness he showed in a collapsing pocket, creating a small space for Riley without seeming to exert effort. His hand rested comfortably at the small of her back, guiding her through the masses with subtle, assured movements.

Joe scanned the crowd, quickly spotted a better viewing angle for the next float, and guided Riley toward it with a light touch at her back - decisive but never controlling. They arrived just in time to catch the front of the next procession.

When a flask made its way through their group, Joe took measured sips - enjoying himself but maintaining his characteristic control, even in celebration. Riley tucked herself against his side when the crowd pressed in closer, and Joe's arm draped over her shoulders as they swayed to a brass band.

The parade energy built as floats continued to pass. Joe caught several strands of beads tossed his way with the same easy precision he showed on the field - one-handed catches that drew appreciative cheers from nearby revelers. He draped them casually around his neck, collecting quite a collection as the night went on.

At one point, Riley reached up and selected one particularly vibrant strand of purple beads from his collection. With deliberate slowness, she removed it from around his neck and then looped it back, her fingers lingering at his collar, a touch that said more than words could. Their eyes met briefly in the carnival lights, a moment of connection amid the chaos.

The night continued to unfold around them, and Joe moved through it with the same quiet confidence he brought to everything else - present, engaged, and completely at ease in this new experience.

A hand appeared in his peripheral vision, offering him a flask. He took it, nodding in thanks before taking another swig.

"You surviving?" Tomas asked, grinning as Joe handed it back.

Joe followed his gaze to Riley, who was still showing off the shoe to Egan, her whole face lit up. He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Something like that."

Tomas smirked, tipping the flask toward him in a lazy salute. "Good. Would've been a shame if we had to carry you out."

Joe huffed a laugh, tapping his cup against Tomas's flask before the other man wandered off. Something warm settled in his chest—something weightless.

When Riley reappeared at his side, still clutching the shoe like it was made of gold, she looked up at him, her hand sliding into his like it had been there all along. "You good?"

Joe took in the music, the crowd, the easy way she fit against him.

"Yeah," he said, meaning it completely. "I really am."

The parade's final float disappeared around the corner, leaving behind streets littered with beads, empty cups, and the lingering notes of brass bands. Riley's friends were already making plans, voices overlapping in the post-parade high.

"Egan's cousin knows the bartender at Vaughan's," Val announced, waving her phone. "Says he can get us in the back door, skip the line."

"Definitely hitting that," Tomas agreed, slinging an arm around Marco's shoulders. "You two coming? The night is still young!"

Riley glanced at Joe, her eyes slightly unfocused from the bourbon they'd been passing around. She leaned into him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his ear.

"What do you think? After-party at Vaughan's? Or..." she trailed off, the unspoken alternative hanging between them.

Joe felt the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his system, his inhibitions softened just enough to be dangerous. He looked down at her, at the way the streetlights caught in her eyes, at the purple beads still looped around her neck.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said, meaning it completely.

Riley studied him for a beat, then turned back to the group. "I think we're gonna pass," she announced. "It's been a big day for the out-of-towner."

Egan's eyebrows shot up, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "I bet it has."

"Text me tomorrow," Val called as Riley grabbed Joe's hand, tugging him away from the group. "Details required!"

"No promises!" Riley shouted back, already pulling Joe down a side street that would take them toward her neighborhood.

They made it half a block before Riley stumbled on a broken piece of sidewalk, pitching forward with a surprised laugh. Joe caught her around the waist, his own balance not exactly steady.

"Whoa there," he said, overcorrecting and nearly sending them both into a parked car. "I think we might be a little drunk."

"A little?" Riley snorted, leaning heavily against him. "I passed 'a little' somewhere between Tomas's jungle juice and Val's flask."

Joe steadied them both, one arm firmly around her waist. "Maybe I should carry you."

"You absolutely should not," Riley said, poking him in the chest. "You're as drunk as I am. We'd both end up in the gutter."

"I'm a professional athlete," Joe protested, puffing out his chest dramatically. "My balance is impeccable."

To demonstrate, he attempted to walk a straight line down the sidewalk and immediately almost veered into a streetlamp.

Riley doubled over, laughter echoing off the old buildings. "Oh yeah, very impressive, Burrow. Gold medal performance."

Joe straightened up, flashing a sheepish grin. “In my defense, that lamppost came out of nowhere.”

"Clearly," Riley agreed, rejoining him and slipping her arm through his. "Maybe we should support each other. Safety in numbers."

"Teamwork," Joe nodded seriously. "Smart."

They made it another block like that, weaving slightly but mostly upright, exchanging snippets of conversation that dissolved into laughter. Joe couldn't remember the last time he'd been this relaxed, this unconcerned with who might be watching or what tomorrow's headlines might say.

Riley stopped suddenly, almost toppling them both. "Wait. Important question."

"Hit me," Joe said, steadying himself against a wrought-iron fence.

"Are you hungry? Because I'm suddenly starving, and there's this place that makes the best drunk food in the city just around the corner."

Joe realized he hadn't eaten anything substantial since before the parade. "I could definitely eat."

"Follow me," Riley said, tugging him down another street. "But fair warning—I'm about to ruin all other late-night food forever."

Three blocks and several near-falls later, they stumbled up to a tiny window built into the side of a brick building. A handwritten sign advertised "NOLA's Best 2AM Eats" despite it being nowhere near 2AM.

The man working the window nodded at Riley like he saw her every weekend. "The usual, Carter?"

"Times two," Riley confirmed, leaning heavily against the counter.

Five minutes later, they were walking again, this time with paper boats filled with what Joe could only describe as the most perfect drunk food he'd ever seen—crispy fries smothered in a spicy crawfish sauce and melted cheese.

"Oh my god," Joe mumbled around a mouthful. "This is incredible."

"Told you," Riley said, looking smug as she popped a sauce-covered fry into her mouth. "Local secret. Tourists never find this place."

They ate as they walked, pausing occasionally to steady themselves or to savor a particularly good bite. At one point, Riley reached over with her thumb to wipe a spot of sauce from the corner of Joe's mouth, the casual intimacy of the gesture making his heart stutter.

"You know what's nice?" Riley asked as they turned onto her street, their food long finished. "This. Just walking home like regular people. No cars, no security, no schedule. Just...wandering."

Joe understood what she meant. For people like them, spontaneity was usually the first casualty of fame. "It's been a minute since I've just wandered anywhere."

"Me too," Riley admitted, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Tour life is hyper-scheduled. Every minute accounted for."

"Same with the season," Joe said. "Even the 'free time' isn't really free."

Riley hummed in agreement. They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the connection between them needing no words.

"We're here," she announced eventually, stopping in front of her house. She fumbled with her keys, dropping them once before successfully unlocking the door.

The door to Riley's house flung open with excessive force, followed by the sound of her laughter bouncing off the walls. Joe stumbled in behind her, catching the doorframe to steady himself as he kicked the door closed with his foot.

This time when their lips met, there was no bandana between them.

The kiss was clumsy at first—both of them still unsteady from the night's revelry, finding new equilibrium in each other's arms. But what they lacked in coordination, they made up for in enthusiasm. Joe backed Riley against the wall, nearly knocking over a small table in the process. They broke apart, laughing.

"Maybe we should slow down," Riley suggested, her words slightly slurred. "Before we break something valuable."

"Good plan," Joe agreed, though his hands remained firmly on her waist. "Responsible. Smart."

Riley pressed her palms against his chest, gently pushing him back. "Stay right here. Don't move."

"Not going anywhere," Joe promised, swaying slightly as he watched her navigate the dimly lit hallway with exaggerated care.

Riley returned with two glasses of water, pressing one into his hand. "Drink this. Future you will thank present you."

"Future me is a smart guy," Joe agreed, downing the water in several long gulps.

Riley watched him over the rim of her own glass, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer. "Today was fun."

"Mmm," Joe hummed in agreement, setting his empty glass on a nearby table. "Best parade ever."

"Told you," Riley said, a hint of pride in her voice. "Muses is special."

Joe stepped closer, crowding her against the wall, his hands finding her waist again. "You're special," he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

Riley's breath caught, her eyes darkening as she looked up at him. "That's the bourbon talking and other stuff."

"Nope," Joe said, popping the 'p' sound. "That's just me talking. Bourbon's just making it easier to say."

Riley laughed softly, setting her water aside to loop her arms around his neck. "Is that right?"

Joe nodded solemnly, his face close enough that she could smell the sweet, woody scent of bourbon on his breath. "I've been wanting to tell you all day. You look... incredible. Like something out of a dream."

Riley’s fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck, her expression softening. “Look at you, with the smooth talk,” she murmured, but the way her eyes softened gave away how his words affected her.

Joe’s lips curved into a small, almost hesitant smile as his hand slid up her back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Riley breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t felt this way in… maybe ever.”

Something shifted in Joe’s gaze, the teasing edge giving way to something deeper. He searched her eyes, his own more serious now. “Me neither,” he admitted, his tone low and honest. “Not even close.

”Their mouths met in a kiss that tasted like bourbon and desire, sweet and hot and demanding. Riley pressed closer, her body arching into his. The Muses shoe she'd been clutching all night finally fell forgotten to the floor as her hands found better things to hold onto.

"Too many clothes," she complained, tugging at the buttons of his costume jacket.

"Agreed," Joe murmured against her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "This outfit is... complicated."

Riley laughed breathlessly, pushing him back slightly. "Come on."

They stumbled down the hallway, shedding pieces of their costumes as they went—his jacket in the hall, her skirt pooling at the doorway, his shirt somewhere near the foot of the bed. By the time they fell onto the mattress, they were both down to their underwear, skin flushed with alcohol and desire.

Joe hovered over her, his eyes taking in the sight of her against the tangled sheets, hair splayed around her like a golden halo. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, the words slipping out before he could think.

Riley's eyes softened, her hands coming up to frame his face. "So are you," she whispered.

Their lips met again, the kiss deeper, slower, full of something neither was quite ready to name. Joe's hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, fingers hooking in the waistband of her underwear. Riley arched into his touch, a soft sound escaping her throat.

"Joe," she breathed, the single syllable holding a question and an answer all at once.

"Right here," he replied, understanding perfectly.

The rest of the world fell away—the sounds of distant revelry filtering through the window, the scattered pieces of their costumes marking a trail to the bed, the knowledge that tomorrow would bring complications and distance. For now, there was only this—her body against his, the taste of her on his tongue, the way she said his name like it was the only word worth saying.

Later—much later— they lay tangled together, bodies cooling in the night air. Joe pressed lazy kisses along Riley’s shoulder, missing once and landing on the pillow instead.

She giggled, rolling toward him. “We should get some water.”

“Probably,” Joe agreed, but made no move to get up. His arm flopped dramatically over her waist. “My legs don’t work.”

Riley poked him in the ribs. “It’s my house. Guest gets the water.”

“I just ran a marathon,” he countered, gesturing vaguely at the bed. “Need electrolytes.”

She snorted. “Three minutes is not a marathon, Burrow.”

“Felt like one,” he mumbled into her hair, already half-asleep. The bourbon, the parade, and their enthusiastic—if chaotic—activities had finally caught up with him.

Riley sighed, giving in as she slipped out from under his arm. “Fine, lazy. I’ll get the water. Future us will thank me.”

“Future us are suckers,” he muttered, still mostly out of it.

She just smiled, shaking her head as she padded toward the kitchen, already imagining him half-asleep when she got back.

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was Riley shifting closer, her head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, her body fitting against his like a missing puzzle piece.

Home, he thought hazily as consciousness slipped away. This feels like home.

[societyfolklore]

Dangerous Notes – Part 8

Title: Dangerous Notes – Part 8

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Singer!Female Reader

Fic Summary: Reluctantly agreeing to fill in for her sick friend at a prestigious jazz club, The Armoury, Reader finds herself thrust into a world of old-world glamour and unknown danger. The club’s enigmatic owner, Bucky Barnes, has set his sights on making her a permanent fixture on his stage-and in his life.

Chapter Summary: Bucky arrival at your coffee meeting with Pietro – you have no where left to run.

Word Count:  3.3k

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI,Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Possessive/Obsessive behaviour, Violence, Smut (eventually)  Chapter Warnings:  Emotional tension, anxiety, power dynamics, possessiveness, subtle coercion, smoking

A/N: Hope we all enjoy this months extra chap- slightly less intense.. Also song ref:  When They Ask About You · Kitty Kallen

The coffee shop was warm, the low hum of conversation blending with the scent of freshly ground beans. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of espresso, mingling with the subtle sweetness of pastries on display behind the glass counter. You wrapped your hands around the ceramic mug, seeking comfort in its warmth, though it did little to settle the storm still churning inside you.

You’d told Kara you were fine. Maybe talking about music with Pietro would help. But the more you sat there, the more you realized that part of you still wanted to perform at The Armory- you couldn’t put that part of you away just yet. That was the part that unsettled you the most.

Across from you, Pietro sat too casually, draping himself over the chair like a man who had all the time in the world. His smirk was knowing, confident, like he knew you’d show up all along, and that thought made irritation prickle at the back of your neck.

You seemed to now be part of a world where everyone else carried themselves with certainty. Pietro, Bucky, even Yelena- none of them hesitated, none of them looked out of place. Meanwhile, you felt like the only one who noticed how uneven the ground under your feet was, how nothing ever quite settled right when you let yourself think about it too hard. You weren’t sure if that made you the fool in the room or the only one still willing to question things.

“You’re made of stronger stuff than everyone gives you credit for,” he mused, eyes scanning your face like he was reading a book only he could understand. “Maybe it’s not steel in your spine.” He studied you for a moment before nodding, as if approving his own observation. “You’re the willow in the wind. You bend, you don’t break. Solid roots in the ground.”

You blinked at him, trying to work out exactly where the compliment was in that.

His teasing was light, he wanted to reassure you, be the  balm to the wounds Bucky had left with his yelling. Something to soothe. Pietro took another slow sip of his coffee, his gaze still fixed on you, his tone softer now.

“He’s got your feathers all ruffled, yea'? All ova a little volume.”

Your fingers tightened around your mug, the ceramic suddenly feeling too fragile in your grip. “Most bosses don’t yell at their staff like that.”

Pietro hummed, unconcerned. “Most bosses aren’t in 'is line of work.”

You exhaled sharply. “And what work is that exactly?”

He set his cup down with an easy grin, tilting his head like he was considering whether or not to answer.

“Songbird, you’re just visiting us. Best to keep a greater perspective yea'? Sometimes questions are asked, but the answers aren’t wanted.”

His words settled over you like an anchor, heavier than you wanted them to be. Pietro was some version of a Cheshire cat, always smiling, always full of riddles, and for once, you weren’t in the mood for his games.

You sighed, gaze dropping to your tea, watching the faint swirls of steam rise from the cup. But before you could gather another thought, movement at the door made you freeze.

The world seemed to slow for half a second as your eyes locked onto the figure stepping inside. The easy atmosphere of the café suddenly felt constricted, the space shrinking, the noise fading into a dull hum behind the steady drum of your pulse. The blood seemed to rush out of your face, draining from your fingers, leaving them cold against the ceramic mug. Your stomach clenched, breath hitching, as if your body had recognized him before your mind could fully process his presence. A chill worked its way through your limbs, even though the café was comfortably warm.

"Pietro-" 

Your fingers instinctively reached across the table, gripping Pietro’s hand, not out of affection but warning. He didn’t flinch, only let out a knowing chuckle, his lips curling at the edges like he had expected this. His gaze flicked to the door before landing back on you, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Songbird,” he murmured, patting your hand still in his before he moved it away. “He’s not going to take off your head again.”

Bucky didn’t shove his way through the shop. He didn’t need to. The crowd seemed to part for him instinctively, an unseen force shifting the air, recalibrating the entire room around his presence. He moved with that effortless authority, the kind that made people sit up straighter without realizing it.

He didn’t look at Pietro first. He looked at you. Though Pietro seemed to be oddly comfortable around a man who had been indirectly threatening him via you the night before. 

“I didn’t think you’d come if I let him tell you.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or pissed at Pietro for setting you up.

Bucky pulled out the chair across from you.

“Am I sitting down?” The words were smooth, oddly polite. No hint of the temper you'd seen last night. But before you could find a reason to deny him, he was already lowering himself into the seat.

On que Pietro pushed back from the table, stretching lazily as he stood. You must have looked panicked as his hand patted your shoulder. With a reassuring smile, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes, tapping one loose before tucking it between his lips.

"Won’t go too far, Songbird. We still have music to talk about."

He flicked the lighter open with a metallic clink, the small flame casting a brief glow over his features before he snapped it shut. "Gonna step outside for a smoke." His voice was light, casual, as if the tension suffocating the air at your table didn’t exist.

You watched your safety net walk right out the door .

Now it was just you and Bucky.

The silence between you stretched, thick with everything left unsaid. It wasn’t just silence; it was weighted, full of unspoken things that neither of you were quite willing to acknowledge yet. The café around you continued as normal, the clinking of cups, the soft murmur of conversations, but it all felt distant- muffled, as though this moment had its own gravity, pulling everything else into the background.

“So you’re coming back then.” His voice was even, it wasn't even a question, apparently everyone else knew your head better than you did. Though his words were sure you couldn’t tell if he was surprised by it or annoyed that his trip might have been wasted. There was a flicker of something behind his gaze.. He wasn’t just making small talk. He was feeling out your response, calculating something in real-time.

You shifted in your chair, trying to regain some footing, you wanted to come across bolder, like his words hadn't made you want to run for the hills only hours ago. Before just looking at your tea.

“… Kara’s still too sick.”

Bucky nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth twitched- just slightly.

 “Ahh. Should get someone to send her flowers. Maybe even get the chicken to make her something so she doesn’t have to cook.”

The casual remark threw you off. It was such a stark contrast to the man who had stormed into your dressing room last night, all raw tension and frayed control. You weren’t sure how to respond. He was playing it cool now, acting as though nothing had happened, as though his words hadn’t clung to you through the night. As though he hadn’t nearly snapped.

You exhaled slowly, glancing down at your hands where they sat curled on the table.

“That’s… thoughtful.”

Bucky sighed then, rubbing a hand along his jaw. There was something in the movement, something restless, like he was working through a thought he hadn’t decided how to express yet.

“I shouldn’t have growled at you.”

The words sat between you, rawer than you expected. Not an excuse. Not a justification. Just fact. It wasn’t a grand apology, but it was something- more than you had expected, honestly.

You blinked, caught off guard, before your lips curled in a half-smile, half-scoff. Unable to stop the snark from creeping out of you.

“Oh really? Did you need a whole day to work that out, or just- ”

“Gonna let a guy apologise or not?” His voice was steady, but there was something behind it, something that sounded almost... regretful? It wasn’t regret in the way most people expressed it. It wasn’t an apology you were meant to absolve him for. It was more like an acknowledgment, a quiet admittance that maybe, just maybe, he had handled things wrong. That alone felt like it would be a rare thing coming from him.

He looked at you then, fully looked at you, and for the first time, it wasn’t just intensity- it was something quieter, something searching. Like he was trying to understand you as much as he was trying to be understood.

"I appreciate you say that." You weren't entirely sure you wanted to forgiven him but you could meet him part way with this.

Bucky tapped his fingers lightly against the table, the rhythmic sound filling the space between you. His gaze flicked over you, unreadable, but there was something behind it- something quietly assessing, like he was taking note of every detail.

“You looked tired today.” His voice was softer than usual, but that didn’t make it any less unsettling. It wasn’t the words themselves that unnerved you- it was the fact that he had noticed.

Your stomach twisted at the unexpected observation. The question had caught you off guard, slipping through his usual confident control with something dangerously close to concern. "What?"

His eyes didn’t waver, and there was something different in his expression- not quite kindness, but a certain consideration that felt out of place on him. "Long day?"

It shouldn’t make something tighten in your chest. It shouldn’t feel like concern. And yet, it did. There was no teasing in his tone, no smugness in his posture. Just a quiet, unexpected observation that made you feel strangely exposed.

“I… I didn’t sleep well.” The words came out flat, intended to be a jab, a reminder of how his actions had affected you. But even as you said it, you weren’t sure if it landed the way you intended- because he didn’t smirk, didn’t brush it off. He just watched you.

Bucky just nodded, slow and deliberate. "Well you are burning the candle at both ends." His voice held a weight to it, like he knew more than he was saying, like he'd spent too many nights doing the same thing himself. “Can’t imagine most school teachers are staying up late every night.”

You scowled the reaction more defensive than anything else. "Some of us work during the day. Bills to pay, rent due. Not something I imagine you have to think about." You wanted to push him back into his usual persona, the one that didn’t bother asking questions like this.

“Not anymore.” His voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact, as he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He set it on the table between you, the weight of it almost audible as it landed.

You eyed it warily, suspicion curling in your gut. "Umm... what is that?"

“Part of my attempts to make amends,” Bucky mused, sliding it across the table with a practiced ease. "Or just an incentive. Depends on how you look at it." His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something more deliberate beneath it.

You didn’t touch it, refusing to even glance at the contents. Your mind going back to that conversation in his office. "I don’t do bribes.” You wanted the words to sound firm, but they came out quieter than you intended.

“No, you don’t.” His smirk was barely there, more thoughtful than amused. "Think of it as… covering the inconvenience. You're valuable to me. Doesn’t seem fair for you to be running yourself into the ground. When I could take the burden.”

Your stomach tightened, an uneasy weight settling low. "What inconvenience?" You already knew the answer, but you needed to hear him say it.

“You taking the week off from that school of yours.” His fingers drummed against the table, slow and deliberate. "Resting your voice. Sleeping in. Making sure you don’t fall apart on me halfway through a set. Until Kara gets better.”

You glared, your fingers twitching against your lap. "I have bills, you can’t  just decide that for me."

“And now you don’t have to worry about them this week,” he countered smoothly, his fingers flicking to the envelope as if this was the simplest thing in the world. "Take the week off. Can’t have you looking like a wreck on my stage, now can I? Bad for business."

You didn’t take the envelope. Your hands curled into fists in your lap, the fabric of your coat bunching under your grip.

“Go on, Doll.” He picked up the envelope again, holding it out between two fingers like it was inevitable. "Not going to bite ya. Unless you ask real nice."

He didn’t look like he’d take no for an answer, and you hated yourself for the way your fingers reached out before you could stop them. The envelope was heavier than you expected.

“I- ” You swallowed hard, unsure of how to refuse something that had already been decided for you.

“If you want, I’ve got a Doc on staff that’ll write you a note.” He was watching you too closely now, like he was cataloguing every small shift in your expression.

Of course, he did. You set the envelope onto the table, hoping that would be the end of it, but Bucky wasn’t finished. He reached forward, plucking it up with an ease that sent a shiver down your spine before  her pulled open your coat slipping it into the inner pocket. He didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he lingered just long enough to make it clear- this wasn’t an offer. It was an expectation.

You stiffened before he leant back in his chair.

“Your tea’s getting cold, drink up.” He offered, and you found yourself complying, lifting the cup up to your lips while Bucky’s hand moved to the music sheets on the table.

He flipped past the arrangement you’d been working on to the other you'd wanted to add, and you instantly felt self-conscious. Your grip on the cup tightened, your lips pressing against the rim as if the act of drinking could shield you from his scrutiny. You watched him pause to look at the sheets underneath, your stomach twisting with unease. It was one thing to perform, to sing in front of an audience where you could disappear into the music, but this- having him quietly examine something you had worked on, something personal- felt far too exposing. 

It’s an old one. Kitty Kallen’s When They Ask About You.

His expression shifted, something amused curling at the edges.

“Good choice…” Kara had said Bucky had a preference for 'old songs,' so why were you surprised that he knew it? His fingers lingered on the title, tapping lightly against the paper, as though the song itself stirred something in him. “You like this one?” he mused, his voice lower, almost thoughtful.

You hesitated before answering. “I like all of her catalogue, bit of a fan.” You remembered your mother playing her records when you were younger, before she got sick. When the only sounds in the living room had been the soft scratch of the vinyl, the warmth of nostalgia curling around you like an old embrace. The song always held a bittersweet place in your memory, tied to a time when things were simpler, when music was just music and life wasn't cruel. 

“Me too.” His agreement came without hesitation, but there was something in the way he said it, low and steady. You glanced at him, expecting maybe a smirk, something teasing. But there was no humour in his expression, only a quiet kind of understanding.

Bucky shifted slightly, his fingers still grazing the edge of the sheet.

“Songs like this…” He exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking down to the lyrics as though he was reading them for the first time, though you suspected he knew them by heart. “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

“No, they don’t.” You murmured, watching him more than the paper now. You weren’t sure why it caught you off guard- the idea of Bucky Barnes appreciating something sentimental, something with depth. But it did. It made him seem more human, less untouchable.

For the first time since he sat down, it didn’t feel like he was studying you or playing some calculated game. It felt like you were just two people who understood something about a song, something about what it meant to listen to music that lingered long after the final note.

He gave one last look at the sheet before finally setting it back down. “Put this one in." 

You found the feelings you'd been having all day melt away looking at the expression on his face. There was something about the way he held your gaze, something quieter than before, less guarded. It was so easy to find his eyes disarming. And yet, there was still tension, like a thread left untied between you. It always lingered. You expected him to say something more, something sharp or teasing, but instead, Barnes just stood, adjusting the lapels of his coat with slow, methodical movements.

“Well, I’m sure you and… Mr. Euro have things you wanna talk about.”

His voice had shifted back to something distant, something unreadable. You watched as he slid the sheet music back towards you with an almost absent motion, as if the moment that had passed between you had never happened at all. It was frustrating, the way he could shift between warmth and detachment so seamlessly, as though he had a switch he could flip at will. The moment before was broken now, slipping away like something half-remembered.

He stepped back from the table, rolling his shoulders as if shaking something loose, and then with one final glance at you, he murmured, “I’ll see you in a few hours, D- ”

A pause. A beat. Then he corrected himself.

“Songbird.”

You just nodded, barely registering his words, not even processing the way he had almost said something else. Not even catching that he had slipped into using the name Pietro had taken to calling you.

By the time you thought to say something, to gather your thoughts into something cohesive, he was already moving through the café, the crowd parting around him instinctively, just like they had when he arrived. The door swung shut behind him, leaving the space around you feeling oddly empty despite the bustle of the shop.

You were left waiting at the table, your eyes tracked Bucky as he walked back out the door, Pietro now leaning on the car waiting for him.  The younger man tipped his hat at Barnes before coming back inside, sliding back into the seat Bucky just left.

“Well,” he muses, taking a sip of his coffee. “See? That wasn’t terrifying at all.”

You exhale shakily. “You were outside.” 

“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t watching out for you." 

You don’t answer. You’re too busy trying to figure out everything that had just happened. Why did you always feel like you'd been through in quicksand when around Barnes? 

Pietro, wanting to pull you back out of your head, pushes the music sheet back towards you again. “Come back, little bird.” Pietro clicks his fingers, tapping the pages. “Let’s talk about these instead of 'im, alright?”

“Yeah. Course.” You clear your throat, sitting back up in the chair as Pietro starts making comments, tapping out rhythms and offering changes, all while you feel the weight of the money now tucked into your jacket pocket.

What had you just let happen? You were supposed to be getting out, not deeper in.

[userluhna]

MEET AGAIN

hwang junho x f!reader

warnings: none! just cute childhood friends

words: something like 1.8k?

a/n: hi! i’m completely new on tumblr and this is my first fic. if you guys like it i will keep posting! please be kind, english isn’t my first language i’m trying my best :) feel free to ask any questions or to help me improve my work (or my account since i don’t know anything!) this fic isn’t focus on the squid game itself if i’m being honest but it still exists in this timeline (?man idk if it’s proper english here.) anyway, enjoy :)

it was late. so late.

you could barely stand. your feet ached, your body exhausted after a long shift.

you glanced up at the clock: 7:23pm

you wanted to go home so badly. to curl up with your little cat, wrapped in the coziness of your apartment. but there were still 30 minutes left before you could leave.

the small coffee shop was almost empty, just two students who had been there since 11 in the morning, working on their laptops. they occasionally came up to you with polite smiles, ordering new drinks.

you were almost done for the night, cleaning the last cup on the counter and wiping down the coffee machine. you loved working here—it was a cozy little shop, filled with bright light in the afternoon and soft golden hues in the evening. but because it had been raining all day, it felt like one of those long, winter days. you were so tired, having been up since 7 am, with only a short break to eat before coming back to work.

fortunately, it wasn’t always like this. but since it was spring break, most of the students who usually worked with you had gone back home, far from the big city.

the soft chime of the bell above the front door pulled you from your thoughts.

a tall figure stepped inside.

you didn’t want to turn around. if you did, you’d have to get everything dirty again and put things back in place.

but you did.

“good evening! what can i get you?” you asked, turning away from the sink where you were washing your hands.

and then you saw him.

almost unrecognisable.

maybe because he was taller, stronger. maybe because his features were sharper, his hair darker. maybe because it had been years.

too long.

“hi,” he said, his voice deeper than you remembered. “i’d like an espresso, please. no sugar.”

he didn’t look at you. he was focused on his wallet, searching for some cash. but you stood there, speechless. tilting your head slightly, waiting for him to catch your gaze. to recognize you.

you hoped he would.

that he hadn’t forgotten you.

“there you go.” he finally looked up, handing you the money with a polite smile.

you blinked, still unable to say anything. maybe he had forgotten. it had been nine years, after all.

still, you hoped.

you took the money and handed him his change, turning around to make his coffee in silence. you hadn’t expected to run into him. not today. not ever.

you knew that coming back to the place where you grew up meant running into people from your past. but him?

you slid the small cup of hot espresso toward him. considering the time, you assumed he wouldn’t stay.

you smiled.

“there you go.”

he was already looking at you.

“have a great evening,” you said softly, hesitant.

you didn’t say anything more. maybe he didn’t want to talk. maybe he didn’t even remember you.

“thank you, you too,” he said, turning toward the door.

you looked around—the students had left. it was just the two of you now. for a few seconds.

maybe for the last time.

he stopped. halfway to the door. then, slowly, he turned back to you.

“god, you aren’t going to say anything, are you?” he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

you were still standing behind the counter, mouth slightly open, frozen.

he walked back toward you, smiling. you let out a short sigh, a small smile forming on your lips.

“i thought you had forgotten me.”

“you?” he scoffed, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “how could i?”

you giggled, resting your hands on the counter and leaning slightly forward.

“hwang junho,” you said softly. “how are you?”

your voice sounded amused, teasing. all the exhaustion from earlier seemed to fade, replaced with excitement.

“i’m good. and you?” he glanced around the empty shop. “do you have a minute now? we could talk.”

you followed his gaze.

“yeah, of course.” you glanced at the clock. “do you want to stay here or… i don’t know, walk?”

your question felt stupid the moment you asked it. the rain was still pouring outside, the sound of it tapping against the windows.

“we can walk,” he said, grabbing his umbrella from the entrance. “we can share it. i don’t mind.”

you nodded, taking off your apron and slipping into your jacket. the shop was already clean and locked up, so you could leave. you turned off the lights and closed the door behind you.

the two of you walked in silence for a while, sharing his umbrella.

“so,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence, “how have you been? when did you come back?”

you could tell he was holding something back. maybe some frustration. or a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

you looked at him, however he wasn’t, he kept his gaze forward, lips pressed into a thin line.

“great! i came back three years ago,” you said. he nodded, saying nothing.

but you knew why. you could sense it—the frustration, the quiet pain.

“i’m sorry,” you blurted out.

he stopped walking. so did you. his gaze finally met yours, eyes dark and tired, full of unspoken questions.

“i should have come to see you. i mean, i wanted to, i really did, but-“ you hesitated, “i didn’t know how. or what you would—”

his hand found your shoulder, stopping you mid-sentence. you knew there wasn’t a good excuse. and he knew it too.

“it’s okay,” he said firmly. but there was no anger in his voice. “i mean i understand, i didn’t come to see you so-“

“but you didn’t know i came back.” you interrupted him.

his head tilted slightly, a small, knowing smile forming on his lips.

he knew.

you pressed your lips together, sighing as you looked away.

“i’m doing okay,” you said, “i love working at the coffee shop, even though it takes a lot of energy. i have an apartment not too far from here. i live alone.”

you said without thinking

“i mean, it’s not an invitation or anything. like, you can come if you want, since it’s raining, but—”

he laughed. you missed his laugh.

“okay,” he said, amused. “it’s fine. we’re grown-ups.”

“yeah, we are.”

so you walked together, sharing stories from the years you spent apart.

when you arrived, you stepped inside first, taking off your shoes. junho did the same, glancing around your apartment.

“it’s cute,” he said, as he made his way in. “it looks like you. you decorated it well.”

you smiled. it was strange, letting him back into your space. letting him back into your life.

“i really did want to see you when i came back,” you admitted, taking two glasses from the cabinet. “but we barely talked for two years before that. i thought you’d moved on. that you didn’t care anymore. but i did go to your house once but no one was there? it was strange.”

“oh, yeah,” he leaned against the doorframe. “we moved out a few years ago. after inho left.”

“when he moved out?”

“y/n,” he looked at you deeply.

you didn’t know. of course you didn’t. “he disappeared.”

you froze.

“what?” your voice wavered. “is he okay? are you?”

you knew how close they were, how much they meant to each other, how much they cared. you saw all of that. you all cared for each other. you spent hours with them.

so he told you. about inho’s wife. the unborn child. the sickness. the blame. and then, nothing.

he didn’t tell you about the games, about what he saw on the island. he didn’t tell you how tired he was searching for this place. he didn’t tell you about the coma, about the trauma. he didn’t tell you what inho had become.

the questions lingered in the silence, but you didn’t ask. maybe you weren’t ready to know. something had changed in junho. he was different.

and maybe you, too, were different.

but for tonight, it didn’t matter. for tonight, you let the questions sit.

hours passed as the two of you sat on your sofa, talking. he let you ask anything you wanted, so you did. you told him about the six years you spent studying and travelling in england—how your english improved, the people you met, how your sister found love and settled in scotland. in the end, you decided to return to korea, missing the place where you grew up, the comfort of familiar streets and faces.

he told you about graduating as a police officer, how he was good at it, even though the search for his brother left him exhausted.

it was comforting. for both of you.

but it was getting late, and you could feel it in your body. so could junho.

he stood, and you followed. “can we see each other again?” you asked.

“i thought you wouldn’t ask.”

“oh, come on. i know you’re going to miss me.”

“yeah, sure. you’re going to miss me,” he teased.

he walked to the front door, putting his shoes back on. you stood there, close to him.

“do you still have my number?”

“of course, junho,” you said softly.

something about the way you said his name made him pause. maybe even shiver. he looked away, afraid you might notice.

“great.” his hands reached for your shoulders, hesitating only for a second before wrapping around you.

within a moment, you were in his arms, your head resting against his chest. your arms found his waist, holding him close.

“thank you,” he murmured, his head resting on top of yours. you didn’t say anything. you just smiled, sinking into the warmth of his embrace.

he pulled away, offering you one last smile before stepping outside. you waved at him with a soft smile.

when the door finally closed behind you, you let out a slow, deep breath.

tonight felt good.

[starryschemer]

Shattered Odds - (Chapter Six)

Pairings: Salesman x reader, Jun-Ho x reader Summary: Gi-hun finds himself in a high-stakes game with not only his life, but the life of someone he cares deeply about. You. Can Gi-hun outsmart the salesman? Or will the odds catch up with him?

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Dark Themes, Mentions of Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Pet Names, Strong Language, Kidnapping, Slight Smut.

Taglist: @aesthetic-winchesters Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Chapter Six: Falling into his web Word Count: 2,507

The door creaked open, slow and deliberate. The change in the atmosphere told you exactly who had just come in. The Salesman. Before you spoke, his presence filled the room. His approach was heard by his shoes tapping the floor in a more casual rhythm. The familiar scent of cologne-dark and suffocating. “Well,” he mocked. “You look terrible.” You didn’t respond. Your ankles are still tightly bound digging into your skin. You were accustomed to the pain it brought now. He crouched down in front of you. “You know,” he spoke with a softer tone. So unlike him. “This doesn’t have to be so difficult.” Still you refused to speak. He clicked his tongue in amusement. “Suit yourself.” With intention, he began to untie your ankles, fingers working through the knots with an infuriating patience. The rope came loose and fell limply to the floor. The pressure was off your skin and you could let your breath go quietly out. “That better?” he asked. You glared at him. “No.” He chuckled to himself. “Always so difficult.” Standing up straight, he reached for something that had been neatly draped over the chair. The instant when you saw it, your stomach churned. A dress. Emerald green. Satin. Beautiful and expensive. “I’ve picked it out for you,” he said almost as if it were a casual suggestion. “We are going out tonight.” The words slapped you across the face. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” He met your eyes, and spoke. “Yes you are.” You leaned forward slightly. “Are you ser-.” “Oh I am very serious Y/N,” he interrupted smoothly. He said it so softly, so calmly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “And if I say no?” His eyes darkened and a small smile curved on his lips. “Then I will hurt you.” “You’ve got ten minutes to change,” he continued, laying the dress on the bed next to you. “And if you aren’t when it’s time….well, I’ll have to change you myself.” You froze in shock. “Please tell me you’re joking.” His head tilted. “Try and see.” Your heart pounded in your chest. “Get out.” He blinked. “I beg your pardon?” “I said GO AWAY,” you yelled, jumping off the bed, beginning to shove him out the door. “Bold tonight. I like this side of you.” The Salesman let you push him out. It was like a game with him. He was still laughing when you slammed the door in his face. “Five minutes,” he called through the crack. “Or I'm coming back in.”

You puffed your breath out hard, heartbeat in your chest. Your eyes returned toward the dress hanging on the bed. It was beautiful. The kind of thing you might have worn out to a good dinner. But this wasn’t a nice dinner. Far from it. With trembling fingers, you took your clothes off, before pulling the dress over your head. It clung close to your waist, the smooth texture like water. In the mirror you couldn’t recognize yourself. Almost on cue, the door opened. The salesman leaned against the door frame, his eyes running over you. Slowly. Behind your back, a hot flush began to crawl. “Seriously?” He did not answer. His gaze hung on you, a little too long--so long you wanted to take a slap at him. “Can we get this over with?” You snapped, putting your hands around your chest. He laughed softly, and moved off the door frame. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so reserved.” You shot him a glare. “I’m not reserved. I’m pissed.” Another laugh — warm and amused, as though he'd found you endearing. "A real spitfire," he pondered. "It's almost funny."

You sucked air through your teeth, having to bite back the impulse to throw something at him. He took your hand gently--too lightly--and ushered you down the hallway. A sleek black limo, gleaming faintly under the dim street lights, waited outside. The Salesman held open the door for you. “After you, my dear.” You slipped inside, sitting stiffly as he followed close behind. The door clicked shut, knowing that you couldn’t escape.

Beneath you the car hummed.  The leather seat was still cool against your back, but you didn't really mind that nearly as much as you did the tension. You just stared out the window. Your jaw was clenched. The silence was thick, until it was broken by him. “You’re quiet,” murmured the Salesman beside you. You didn’t look at him. “I am not in the mood to talk.” “Mm,” he said. His eyes flickered towards you, resting his hand close to you. “Are you sure about that?” You clenched your lips together. “Besides,” he went on, his tone was thick with amusement, “A thank you would be nice. I’m taking you out after all.” You rolled your eyes. “Oh, what a great relief.” At that he laughed, the sound low and warm. "Isn't it Y/N?"

Your glare intensified. "I didn’t fucking ask for this."

He tilted his head thoughtfully. "I just wonder Y/N… has anyone ever been as nice to you as I am?"

You felt your heart begin to flutter violently in your chest.

“I bet Gi-hun didn’t,” he mocked. “What did he ever do for you, really? Buy you a cheap takeout? Walk you home? Abs-.” You turned to him. “Shut up.” His grin broadened. “Oh? Was that a sore spot?” “No,” you said. “I am just sick and tired of your voice.” Just as the Salesman was about to speak, the car slowed down. “We’re here Sir.” the driver spoke.

You opened the door and slid out of the leather seat. The cool air immediately hits your skin, making you feel much more exposed. The Salesman walked in front of you, extending his hand and giving a slight nod. You put your hand in his, his touch felt like fire against your skin, making every nerve in your body tingle. 

Hand in hand, you walked through the grand double doors. The restaurant was full of wealth that was felt in every corner. Gold chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, spotless white tablecloths. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive wine, sizzling steak and delicate sauces--flavors reserved for those who never had to look at a price before ordering. 

The Salesman glided you through the dining room as if he owned it. You took a seat after the waiter bowed slightly, but still could not feel comfortable enough to relax across from the Salesman. His eyes were never for a moment turned from your face. You started looking over the menu as the waiter approached. Before you could speak he took over.

"Filet mignon, medium rare," he said smoothly. "For the lady, the same. A bottle of Château Margaux." He glanced at you, his smirk deepening. “I could have ordered it myself, you know.” you spat. “Oh I know.” he hummed, as he took a sip of water.

Before you could, something hit you. You felt something or someone watching you. You searched around the restaurant until you saw him. Jun-ho. He was standing at the far side of the restaurant, a camera pointed towards the Salesman and you. He was recording you. You held your breath. Jun-ho’s gaze was on you, his eyes held something unspoken within them. An unspoken message. He then mouthed. “I’m here for you.” Panic started to clutch its way into you. The Salesman noticed this of course. You saw it, his head was turning in the direction that Jun-ho was in. If he looked now, if he saw Jun-ho, it would all be ruined. 

You acted before thinking. You tugged his tie towards you before slamming your lips upon his. The whole of his body went stiff for a moment under the sudden shock. For the first time, you found him losing his control, his power. His sharp breath, the way his hand gripped hard on the table. But then. He reacted. In a flash, his hand cradled the back of your neck, deepening the kiss like he was taking back the control. A little groan rumbled deep in his chest. You didn’t let yourself think much about it. You just needed time to keep him occupied, to distract him. When you finally pulled away, breathless, his eyes were much darker than before. “My, my Y/N” he whispered, voice deeper. “That was…..unexpected.” You forced out a smile, hoping that he didn’t notice you shaking. “I just-” “That was very straightforward of you. I like this side of you.” 

The nausea hung heavy in your throat.

But it worked.

Looking back, Jun-ho was nowhere to be found. It worked, you distracted him. 

Jun-ho walked out of the restaurant with his phone in his ear. His fingers grew tight around it as the call went through. After two rings, the voice of Gi-hun answered it. 

“Have you found Y/N yet?” Jun-ho unlocked his car and hopped in. His eyes glanced at the restaurant. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s with him. I got a video.” Gi-hun’s voice sharpened. “Did he hurt her?” Jun-ho hesitated. He watched you all night, studied your reactions, every hint of your emotions. “Not on her body anyway.” A long pause passed. “What are we going to do then? We need to save her.” “I’ll keep an eye on them,” Jun-ho spoke. “Find out where he lives. Then we can talk about a plan on how to bring her out.” Another long pause. “Good,” Gi-hun said. “But don’t take any risks. We both know how dangerous the Salesman is.” “Noted.” Jun-ho hung up the phone, his vision narrowing as he watched the restaurant doors swing open. You and the Salesman were walking back to the car. After you both got in, Jun-ho turned on his car. It was only after the car drove away that he cautiously merged with the traffic and set off down the road. He tried to be invisible, maintaining just the right distance behind.

The car hummed beneath you,the city lights flash by, gold and red streams streaking across the tinted windows, but you hardly notice. Your eyes were locked on the rearview mirror, watching Jun-ho driving behind you. The harder you stare the more paranoid you get, a reminder that you weren’t free. The Salesman, however, was relaxed. He was reclined beside you in the back seat, one hand over the leather seat behind you, and the other was drumming on his knee. His gaze started to flicker to the mirror. He was too damn sharp. You couldn’t let him know. Without thinking, your hand moved out, brushing on his as an attempt to distract him. “You keep looking back. Is someone getting paranoid?” you teased. His eyes snapped back at you in an instant. He looked over you slowly for a time, before his lips curling into a slow smirk. “Paranoid?” he repeated, his voice laced with amusement. “No….just curious.” “About what?” you snarled. His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned in. “How someone so stubborn could kiss me like that.”

His words hit you like a physical blow. Memories of it flooding your mind. You hated how it made your heart race at the thought of it. “Let it go,” you whispered under your breath, looking away from him. “But why should I?” he teased, “I really enjoyed it.” “Of course you fucking did.” “And I’m guessing some part of you did too. You did kiss me first after all, and in public no less.” As the words sank down into you deeper than you cared to acknowledge your breath caught in your throat. "I did it to shut you up," you throw an angry look at him and your face grows hot.

On his roughly chiseled face, he relaxed just a little. Those eyes did not quite follow. Their amusement was too devilish. "And you are a lousy liar.”

You gritted your teeth, wanting to slap the shit out of that annoying face. “I wonder…” He leaned closer. “So if I keep talking, will you kiss me again?” “I swear to god-” you began, your voice rising in anger. Before you could finish your sentence, he moved. His fingers shot through your hair, forceful and sudden. Yanking your head to the side. His breath was on your ear, making the hair rise on the back of your neck. Slowly you felt their lips brushing the pulse on your neck. At first so lightly, just a caress; yet it was enough. It sent waves of shock through your body, every little touch another barb in your heart so soft, so tender—like he was branding you.

He started to gain control, beginning to kiss you harder now. More purposeful. More possessive. Your legs locked up but the pulse still pounded. Your body suddenly felt as if it was enveloped by nothing else but him, it was tortuous, but it felt so good at the same time. Before you could even recover, you felt his hand going down your back, pulling you closer to him. That was the breaking point. You lost it. “Get OFF ME!” You pushed him backwards, taking every bit of force in your body to shove him back. However he was stronger. He gripped both of your wrists, staring into your eyes, his gaze dark, almost impressed, like he was enjoying you fighting him back. “Aw, what’s wrong?” he teased. “You seemed to enjoy it be-” Your fist collided with the side of his head. Hard.

"Fuck!" The curse was sharp and raw, and he jerked back, holding the side of his skull in pain. For a moment, you vaguely wondered if any harm had been done and found comfort in the knowledge.

You fought your way over to one side of the seat, pressing your back against the door panel, chest heaving as you gulped for air. The silence between you was intense, almost suffocating, and only broken by your ragged breathing.

He began to laugh. It was low and dark. “You nasty bitch,” he said. Your fists were clenched tight. “If you try and touch me again,” you growled. “I’ll fucking break your nose.”

He wiped his face, still grinning. “You really think that would stop me?” His voice was smooth. “It will just make me want to ruin you even more than now.”

At the vile taste of bile rising in your throat, your stomach twisted still further with rage.

"You're fucking disgusting," you shot back, fury ringing in every word.

"And you…" He leaned in once more, his voice was lower, more intense. "You're fascinating."

The disgust that flooded you wouldn't be stopped, although you weren't about to back down.

"Go to hell," your voice was sharp.

His grin turned to a wider stretch, eyes glittered with something dangerous. "After you my dear.”

Still your heart raced–dumping adrenaline through your veins.

And as the car sped through the night, Jun-ho's car was still following, hidden somewhere invisible in the shadows behind.

At least... so far, they didn't know.

A/N: if you want to be tagged in the next chapters or have any suggestions on what should happen in the series please comment them below.

Credit for divider: omi-resources