#instead of placing them where you think they should be and letting them learn to give in | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 15 days ago

Text

Glass Houses

Toto Wolff x journalism student!Reader

Summary: you never expected one of the most powerful men in Formula 1 to let you see behind his carefully constructed facade, but when professional boundaries blur into something dangerously personal, you discover that some stories change the writer just as much as they reveal the subject

You are trembling. Not visibly, not enough for anyone to call attention to it — but your hands won't stay still, no matter how tightly you clasp them in your lap. You’ve ironed your blazer three times, pressed the hem of your trousers flat until it looks like you’re interviewing for a job on Wall Street instead of … this.

This is worse than a job interview. This is Toto Wolff.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” the receptionist says, politely. “You’re here to see Mr. Wolff?”

You nod, trying to smile. “Yes. For an interview.”

She gives you a badge. Visitor. Black text, white background. Innocuous. Still, it feels like you’ve been tagged. Like you’re being let into a place where you don’t belong.

“This way,” she says, already turning.

You follow her through white corridors and immaculate glass doors, past framed photographs and that impossible silver car on display, real enough to touch. The closer you get, the drier your mouth becomes. You try to swallow.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t smile. Just lifts his eyes to you — quick, assessing, cool — and gestures at the chair across from his desk.

"You must be Miss Y/L/N," he says. Austrian lilt, velvet edge.

You sit.

His office is huge. Quiet. Expensive without trying. The kind of space that’s designed to make you feel very, very small.

You set your recorder down between you. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”

He shrugs lightly. “You caught me on a generous day.”

That smile is small. Measured. You can’t tell if he’s joking.

You clear your throat. “You’re aware the piece is psychological in focus. Not just your role at Mercedes, but your views on leadership … decision-making … power.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re comfortable with that?”

He pauses. “I agreed, didn’t I?”

Your cheeks burn. “Of course. I just — most people decline. Especially when they see the outline.”

He raises one brow, curious. “And why did you choose me?”

You hesitate.

“Because I thought you wouldn’t say yes.”

He looks at you, properly this time. Head tilted. As if you’ve said something unexpectedly sharp and he’s not sure if you meant it.

You press on. “You control the narrative. Publicly. Always. That’s interesting to me.”

“You want to know what’s under the surface,” he says slowly. “Behind the press conferences. Behind the Team Principal?”

“Yes.”

He considers that. Then finally leans back in his chair, legs stretched long beneath the desk.

“Then ask.”

Your pulse spikes. You hit record.

***

“Do you think leadership is isolating?” You ask.

You’ve barely started and already your questions are sharper than they should be. You should ease in. But something about the way he looks at you — like he’s already bored, like you have ten seconds to prove you’re worth his time — makes you push.

Toto exhales. Slowly. “Yes,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because people expect strength, not doubt. Confidence, not hesitation. If you show anything else, it’s weakness. And weakness is expensive.”

You write that down. “Is that what you believe, or just how the world works?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Does it matter?”

You glance up. “To me, it does.”

Something in his eyes changes. Just for a second. A flicker. A pause. Then he nods, once. “Yes. It matters.”

You hold his gaze. “So what do you believe?”

“That everyone doubts. The difference is whether or not you can keep moving anyway.”

There’s something heavy in his voice. Not performative. Not packaged for soundbites. Just … human.

You soften. Just slightly. “When did you learn that?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. For the first time, he looks like he’s thinking, not managing.

“When I lost something important,” he says quietly. “And had to keep going as if I hadn’t.”

You blink.

He doesn’t elaborate.

You don’t push.

Instead, you ask, “Do you think grief and leadership are connected?”

“Always.”

“How?”

“Because loss tests who you are. And leadership demands you keep leading through it.”

You nod. Then, quieter. “Is it harder when no one sees that you're grieving?”

His eyes lift to yours again. Dark. Unreadable.

You’re not sure why you asked that.

You just know it came from somewhere real.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he says your name. Softly.

“Y/N.”

It’s the first time he’s said it. The way he says it — like a foreign word he’s trying out on his tongue — makes something in your chest twist.

You look up, startled.

He exhales, sits back. “You ask different questions.”

“Different how?”

“Less interested in the company line. More interested in the cost.”

You try to smile. “That’s what the thesis is about.”

He doesn’t smile back. “You’ll do well.”

You tuck your hair behind your ear, unsure what to say.

He looks away. Glances at the recorder. “What else?”

You check your notebook. “Are you ever afraid of failing?”

That gets a reaction. A blink. A pause. And then, for the first time, a genuine, unguarded laugh.

“Every day.”

You laugh too, surprised. “Seriously?”

“Of course.” He shrugs. “Fear is a good motivator.”

“But not a good leader.”

He looks at you again. Longer, this time.

“No,” he says. “Not a good leader.”

***

The interview goes longer than you expect.

You came with twenty questions. You end up asking forty. He answers most of them. Not all. But he gives more than you thought he would.

You stop recording when your phone buzzes with the time.

“I should go,” you say. “I’ve already taken up too much-”

“It’s fine.”

You stand. He does too, slowly, unfolding from his chair like someone who forgets how tall they are until they’re towering over someone else.

He holds out his hand. “Thank you.”

You take it. His grip is firm. Warm. You let go first.

“Will you need another meeting?” He asks, neutral.

You blink. “Only if you’re willing.”

He watches you. “I’m willing.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll send you the questions ahead of time.”

He nods. “Good.”

You gather your things. He walks you to the door.

Just before you leave, he says — so low you almost miss it-

“Smart move, choosing me.”

You turn. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just smiles, a little — tight, unreadable.

“Because now I can’t stop wondering what you’ll ask next.”

***

Outside, the wind hits your face.

You walk across the parking lot like you’re in someone else’s shoes. Not because you’re floating. Not because it was a dream.

Because it was real.

Too real.

The way he looked at you. The way he said your name. The things he didn’t say.

You tell yourself it was professional.

You open your notes, already typing. Already outlining the next meeting.

But somewhere, in a corner you don’t admit to, something in you hums with the memory of his voice.

“Y/N.”

***

You meet again.

And again.

The second interview was supposed to be one hour. It stretches to two and a half. The third? You lose track of time entirely until your phone buzzes with a text from your flatmate asking if you’re alive. You smile down at the screen. Apologize. Tell her you’ll explain later.

You don’t.

Because how do you explain this?

That every time you walk into Mercedes HQ, you feel it. That thrum beneath your ribs. Like your body recognizes something before your mind does.

He’s always already there. Waiting. Composed. Jacket off, sleeves rolled up just enough to look casual, deliberate. His office is glass and steel and perfect, but he’s always just slightly undone.

He never rushes you. Never interrupts. But he watches.

Every time you speak, every time you write something down — he watches like you might say something that undoes him entirely.

Sometimes you think you already have.

***

“You said in our last meeting that grief tests who we are,” you say, eyes flicking down to your notes. “What did it teach you?”

Across from you, Toto leans back. He’s quieter today. It’s raining outside. You think the gray suits him.

“That I’m not as strong as I thought I was,” he says.

You look up.

He’s staring out the window, not at you. “People say time heals everything. But that’s bullshit. Time just teaches you how to function with something missing.”

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t expect you to.

Then he looks at you. Slowly. And his voice drops. “I was fifteen when my father died. Forty-six when my wife did. The first loss showed me fear. The second-” His voice hitches. “-the second one taught me silence.”

Your throat tightens.

He exhales, steadies himself. “You wanted honesty. That’s what it looks like.”

You nod, almost whispering. “Thank you.”

***

After that, something changes.

He doesn’t just answer your questions. He starts asking them back.

“You always listen this closely?” He says one afternoon, after a long pause.

“Yes,” you say. “I like when people surprise me.”

“Do I?”

“Constantly.”

He smiles. Really smiles. It’s rare. It knocks the air out of you.

Another time, he asks, “Why journalism?”

You blink. “Because I never liked being told what a story was. I wanted to find it myself.”

He nods, quiet for a beat. “You’re good at it.”

You flush, unprepared. “Thank you.”

He glances at your recorder. “You can quote me on that.”

***

You notice things.

That he keeps snacks in a drawer and pretends not to notice when you steal one. That he fiddles with the edge of his cufflink when a question hits too close. That he listens — really listens — even when your voice wavers or your thoughts scatter.

You notice, too, that he touches you.

Not much. Not inappropriately. Just-

A hand on the small of your back when he’s leading you through the hallways.

Fingers brushing yours when he hands you coffee. He makes it how you like it now, without asking.

And his eyes. They always linger half a second too long. Not enough to confirm anything.

But enough that it’s undeniable.

***

“You’re not dating that guy, are you?”

The question is sudden. Sharp. You’re packing up your things. He says it so casually you almost don’t clock it.

You blink. “What guy?”

“The one you mentioned. From the coffee shop. The one with the … what was it? The mustache?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why? Are you pro- or anti-mustache?”

His lips twitch. “Very anti.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Then no. I’m not dating him.”

He nods once. Too quickly. Looks away.

You stare at him. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“You sound like you do.”

His jaw clenches. “You sound like you want me to.”

***

Your flatmate says you’re obsessed.

You deny it. You say it's for your thesis. You say it’s all research.

But your voice shakes when you say it.

At night, you listen back to the recordings. Not to analyze them. Not really.

Just to hear him say your name. Just to feel that heat again — low, dangerous, electric.

You're in deep.

You don’t know when it happened.

Only that you’re already too far gone.

***

The draft takes a week.

You write it in a blur of black coffee and sleepless nights. Every word feels like an incision. You go back, edit, rewrite. It’s not just about leadership anymore. It’s about him. The version no one sees.

It’s him when he says, “I don’t believe in balance, only in trade-offs.”

It’s him when he admits, “I don’t celebrate wins. I just feel relief.”

It’s him when he breaks, just slightly, and then puts himself back together mid-sentence.

You send it.

Then you wait.

***

He doesn’t reply for two days.

You pace your flat. Reread every paragraph. Convince yourself he’s offended. Or worse — he feels exposed. You debate sending a follow-up email. Decide against it.

Then your phone buzzes.

Voice Note from Toto Wolff – 0:12

You play it. Heart pounding.

His voice is low. Rougher than usual.

“This is not a profile. It’s a mirror. And I don’t know if I can let you hold it up again.”

That’s it. No sign-off. No explanation.

You replay it three times.

You don't know if he’s angry or if he’s hurt.

You just know you feel like you’ve touched something you weren’t meant to touch.

And you don’t know how to let go.

***

The next meeting isn’t scheduled.

But you go anyway.

He lets you in without a word.

There’s no small talk. No recorder. You don’t even take out your notebook.

You just sit there, both of you in silence.

He pours you coffee. Black. No sugar. Just how you drink it now.

You take a sip.

He sits across from you. Leans back in his chair. Watches you like he’s trying to decide whether to say something that could change everything.

“Why did you write it like that?” He asks finally.

You meet his eyes. “Because it’s true.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You saw too much.”

“I only wrote what you gave me.”

“That’s the problem,” he says. “You saw what I didn’t mean to show.”

You swallow. “And now?”

“Now I don’t know if I can go back to how things were before.”

You don’t move.

He leans forward. Slowly. Hands clasped.

“I’ve let journalists into this office before. I’ve told my story before. But you-” He stops. Breathes in. “You see me. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You say nothing.

You’re afraid if you speak, the dam will break.

Then he says your name. Just once. Soft, low, careful.

It shatters you.

“I shouldn’t feel this,” he says. “But I do.”

Your voice barely holds. “Me too.”

He stands.

So do you.

There’s a pause. Long enough for the air to thicken with what neither of you should be feeling.

Then he reaches out.

Not to touch you. Not yet.

Just close. So close. His hand hovers near yours, and the space between you hums like static.

“This … can’t happen,” he murmurs. “You’re here to write.”

You nod.

“But I keep thinking about you,” he admits. “In the middle of meetings. At night. I hear your questions in my head.”

You whisper, “You’re in my writing. Even when I try not to let you be.”

He exhales.

“You make me want to be honest,” he says. “And I don’t know if that’s a gift or a threat.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” you say.

“I know.”

“And I’m not trying to cross a line.”

“I know that too.”

“But it’s already blurred, hasn’t it?”

He steps closer. Just a breath away now.

“It has.”

***

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch.

You just stand there, both of you aching with it.

And when you finally leave — when you walk back out into the rain, skin flushed, heart wrecked — you know nothing will ever be the same again.

Not the thesis.

Not the story.

Not you.

Not him.

And part of you hopes, deep down, that he’ll press play on the recording later. That he’ll hear the question you never asked aloud.

What do you do when the story you’re writing changes you?

You wonder if he knows the answer yet.

You wonder if you do.

***

He calls it research.

“You should see it for yourself,” Toto says, voice clipped and professional over the phone. “The paddock. The pressure. It’s different in person.”

You say yes too quickly. Try to sound casual. You pack too carefully. You bring your recorder, your notes, your carefully worded questions. You bring your best pretense of objectivity. But when you step into the Silverstone paddock Friday morning, everything in you tenses like a wire strung too tight.

It’s all sharp corners and white heat — mechanics moving in precise formation, engineers buried in data, reporters circling like birds of prey. But you’re not here for the spectacle.

You’re here for him.

And he’s already watching you.

***

You feel his gaze before you see him. It skims over your spine like touch. When you turn, he’s talking to one of the strategists, but his eyes flick to you, just for a beat. Then gone.

You’re given a pass. A headset. A folding chair beside his in the garage. The team is polite — respectful even — but wary. Like they’ve been warned.

You try to disappear into the role. Ask questions. Take notes. Stay out of the way. But there’s something in the air now, and it isn’t just tire smoke.

Bono looks at you too long. Bradley offers you coffee with a question behind his smile. George hugs you when she sees you. Warm. Familiar. Too familiar?

It’s subtle, but you know the look.

The engineers talk to you like you’re glass. As if you’ll shatter if they say the wrong thing. As if they already suspect what you’re trying not to name.

***

Dinner is at the team hotel. One long table. Bottles of sparkling water, laughter that doesn’t reach the eyes. Toto sits across from you. Always across. Never beside. Like he knows that one inch closer would be too much.

You don’t talk about the piece. Or the late nights in his office. Or the way he said your name like it hurt.

You talk about lap times. Sector data. Strategy calls.

And then he asks, casually, “Still stealing chocolate from my drawer?”

You glance up.

He’s smiling.

You smile back, but your chest aches. “Only the dark ones. I know you won’t fight me for those.”

Someone else is talking, but you can’t hear anything above the pulse in your ears. You look down at your plate. When you glance back up, he’s still looking at you.

You excuse yourself early. Say it’s fatigue. Say you need to review notes.

You lie.

***

Qualifying is a blur of tension. Russell barely makes Q3. Kimi misses it entirely by four-tenths. Toto doesn’t yell. He rarely does. But the silence between radio calls is sharp enough to cut.

You stand beside him in the garage. He leans over your shoulder to point something out on the screen and your breath catches. His hand brushes your back. Just for a second.

You flinch.

Not away. Toward.

You catch Bono watching you. You look down and pretend you don’t see.

***

Saturday night.

You can't sleep.

Your feet ache from the endless hours of standing. Your dress shoes are on the floor somewhere. You forgot you’d even taken them off. You’re pacing the hallway barefoot, the concrete cold under your skin.

You tell yourself it’s just proximity. Just adrenaline.

But your knuckles still tremble when you raise your hand.

Three knocks.

And then silence.

You don’t know what you expect.

You almost walk away.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Toto. Barefoot. Hair damp from the shower. Wearing a soft black T-shirt and grey sweatpants like he’s not one of the most powerful men in motorsport. Like he’s just-

A man.

He stops breathing when he sees you.

You’re in a sundress you barely remember packing. Thin straps. Loose at the hem. You didn’t wear it for him. Not exactly. But you didn’t not wear it for him either.

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

And then, quietly — too quietly — you whisper, “I can’t keep doing this.”

His eyes are dark. Not angry. Just unreadable.

Then he says, “Then don’t.”

And he steps back.

“Come here.”

***

You move like you’re sleepwalking. Past the threshold. Into the quiet. The door shuts behind you with a soft click that sounds like surrender.

You don’t kiss.

Not at first.

You just look at him.

And he looks at you like you’re something holy he isn’t allowed to want.

Then he cups your face. Gently. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

And he kisses you like a man who’s been starving.

It’s not rushed. Not frantic. It’s slow. Deep. His lips soft but insistent. His hand cradles the back of your neck like you’re breakable. His thumb brushes your cheek, reverent.

When he pulls away, you’re shaking.

So is he.

His forehead rests against yours.

Neither of you speaks.

Then he lifts you — easily, like you weigh nothing — and carries you to the bed.

But nothing else happens.

No clothes are removed. No lines crossed.

He just lies back, pulling you into his chest. Your face pressed under his jaw. Your body curled into the heat of him. His hand finds your back. Strokes gently, again and again.

You breathe.

He doesn’t speak.

Because if he does, it’ll ruin everything.

***

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. You don’t know.

You feel him exhale. Long. Shaky.

And then, quietly, “This is wrong.”

You lift your head.

Look at him.

He’s staring at the ceiling. Like if he looks at you again, he won’t be able to stop.

“Then why does it feel like the only thing that’s right?” You whisper.

His eyes close.

His arm tightens around you.

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

***

Later, you think you’ll remember the details.

The soft thud of your heartbeat against his ribs.

The way he murmurs your name once, barely audible, like it’s a confession.

The warmth of his fingers tracing slow, mindless patterns on your spine.

Not sexual. Not yet.

Just heat. Just need. Just two people holding onto something they shouldn’t want.

But can’t help needing.

***

You fall asleep like that.

In his arms.

In the one place you know you can’t stay.

And when morning comes-

You don’t know if it will break you.

Or save you.

But you know one thing for sure.

You’re already his.

And there’s no going back.

***

It starts with a photo.

One frame.

That’s all it takes.

You don’t even see it at first. You wake up late on a Wednesday — halfway through editing the third chapter of your thesis, a stack of annotated transcripts beside your laptop — and your phone is already vibrating like it’s alive.

Six missed calls. Two from your academic advisor. Four from numbers you don’t recognize. Your heart drops.

There’s a link in your inbox. No subject.

You click.

It’s a candid. From Silverstone. Saturday, after qualifying. You’re off to the side in the garage, headset askew, scribbling something in your notebook. It would be an ordinary photo if not for one thing.

Toto is looking at you.

And not just looking — watching. Like he’s not in a garage surrounded by cameras and mechanics and engineers. Like the world has narrowed into a single point.

You.

The caption is innocuous. “Who is the mystery woman Toto Wolff can’t take his eyes off?” But the comments aren’t. The reposts aren’t. The speculation isn’t.

The angle of his stare. The hand on your back. The shadow of something private, something wrong.

They don’t have evidence. But they don’t need it.

All they need is the look.

***

The email from the university comes that afternoon. Formally worded. Cold.

We would like to meet to discuss potential concerns regarding professional boundaries and journalistic ethics as they pertain to your thesis and its subject.

The department head doesn’t smile when you walk into her office. She doesn't offer tea.

She folds her hands. She uses words like “impropriety,” and “power dynamic,” and “potential misconduct.” She asks if you’ve declared any conflicts of interest. If you understand how this could jeopardize the validity of your research.

You want to scream. But you don't.

You sit straight. You say, evenly, “There is no romantic relationship. I’ve adhered to all ethical guidelines. My thesis stands on its academic merit.”

But you see it in her eyes.

She doesn’t believe you.

***

Toto doesn’t call.

You almost don’t blame him.

He’s probably in damage control mode. Strategizing statements. Blocking questions from press. Calculating how to make this disappear before the FIA catches wind of it. That’s what he does, isn’t it?

He controls the narrative.

You try to finish your edits. But your eyes blur after two paragraphs. You don’t sleep. You cancel the next interview session and tell the department you’re finalizing the manuscript.

You don’t tell them the truth.

That you can’t look at Toto without seeing what the world saw. Without wondering if you ruined everything. For him. For yourself.

***

The summons comes Friday morning.

No subject line. Just a message.

We need to talk. Today. My office.

Your stomach drops.

You don’t eat. You barely dress. You show up at Mercedes HQ with your credentials around your neck and your hands cold from gripping the steering wheel too tight.

You walk through the corridor with the same borrowed confidence you wore on the first day. Only now, it feels heavier. Tarnished.

You knock once.

His voice. “Come in.”

You do.

He doesn’t stand.

He doesn’t smile.

He just looks at you, jaw tight, fingers laced in front of him like he’s holding something back. And for the first time, you don’t feel seen.

You feel examined.

You sit across from him. Not too close. Your throat is tight.

“I assume you’ve seen it,” you say.

He nods. Quiet. Almost clinical.

“And?”

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s measured. Controlled.

“There’s press coverage. Not just gossip columns. The board saw it. The FIA’s aware. I’ve had conversations I wish I hadn’t.”

You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t leak it.”

“I know.”

Silence.

Long. Suffocating.

Then, “Your department called me.”

Your stomach twists.

“They asked if you had been … coerced. If I had compromised your thesis. If I abused my position.” His jaw clenches. “Do you know what that does to a reputation?”

You flinch.

He notices.

Regret flickers in his eyes. But he doesn't soften.

“I told them no. That there was nothing inappropriate. That everything was above board.”

You blink. “Is that what it was?”

Toto doesn’t answer.

You look at him then. Really look. He’s tired. Stubble along his jaw. Lines under his eyes. A man coming apart at the seams and trying to hide the fray.

Your voice is quieter now. “Toto …”

“No,” he says. Sharper than before. “Don’t.”

You straighten. Swallow it down.

He exhales, long and hard.

Then he says it.

“I think we need to end this.”

It takes a second for the words to register. When they do, your chest caves in.

“What is this?” You ask, desperate. “What exactly are we ending?”

He hesitates. And that hurts more than anything.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Firm.

“We can’t risk your education. Your career. This thesis was supposed to be your launchpad, not your liability.”

You try to keep your voice from cracking. “And what about you? Are you just protecting me or are you protecting yourself?”

That does it. He looks at you then. Really looks.

“I’m protecting both of us.”

You stand. Slowly. Dignified. You don’t let him see the tremble in your knees.

“What we had-”

“We had nothing,” he says.

Flat. Icy.

But he won’t look at you when he says it.

***

You leave without a word.

You don’t cry in the parking lot. You don’t scream. You just sit behind the wheel, your fingers gripping the leather like it might anchor you to something real.

You drive home in silence.

You open your thesis file.

You finish it in two days.

The words blur sometimes, but your fingers don’t stop moving. The voice you use is cool. Detached. Clinical. You remove anything that could be interpreted as personal. Strip the emotion. Sharpen the analysis.

It feels like bleeding.

You don’t go back to Brackley. You return your press pass by mail. No note.

You don’t hear from him again.

***

The day your final grades come in, your inbox lights up with department congratulations. You’ve officially graduated top of your class. First in the cohort. Your thesis is being nominated for an award.

You stare at the email for a long time.

Then you close the laptop.

No celebration. No champagne.

Just silence.

***

People ask where you’re going next. Internships. Fellowships. Maybe a PhD?

You say you don’t know yet.

That’s a lie.

You know exactly where you’re going.

Anywhere away from him.

***

But at night, sometimes-

You still feel his hand on your back.

Still remember how it felt to be held like something precious.

Still hear the voice note he never deleted.

“This isn’t a profile. It’s a mirror. And I don’t know if I can let you hold it up again.”

And now?

You’re holding it alone.

And the reflection’s never looked colder.

***

Hamburg greets you with cold wind and steel sky, the kind that reminds you of edges — not soft ones, but the kind that cut.

You’re wearing black. Clean lines. Sharp tailoring. Your coat cinches at the waist and flares like resolve. There’s a pin at your lapel, a quiet symbol of the academic award you won last month. You almost didn’t accept it.

But here you are.

The summit center is glass and chrome, designed for impact, for optics. You sign in, smooth your hands over your notes, and let the words you’ve written be your armor. You're ready. Or you’ve told yourself that enough times it doesn’t matter.

You glance at the name placards arranged on the long table set across the stage.

Third from the left: Toto Wolff.

You pause.

Your breath doesn’t catch. Not exactly. But it does something.

He’s already seated when you walk onstage, dressed in charcoal grey, cuffs rolled just above his wrists, arms folded. Looking every bit the man you spent months studying.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not when you approach the moderator. Not when you take your place three chairs down. Not even when your voice is checked on the mic.

But you feel him.

That gravity.

It hasn’t lessened.

***

The panel begins. The Psychology of Control in High-Stakes Environments.

The first question goes to an ex-NATO strategist. The second to a startup CEO with bright sneakers and well-rehearsed charm. You wait your turn, hands folded, posture perfect.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” the moderator says. “As a recent scholar whose work explored the psychological mechanisms behind leadership, what do you think control actually costs?”

You breathe in.

Then you speak.

And when you do, the words come out clear. Unshaken.

“I think control is a myth sold to people in power to make them believe they’re safe. But leadership isn’t about control. It’s about clarity. And clarity means looking at the truth, even when it makes you bleed.”

There’s a pause.

And then-

Toto turns.

It’s subtle. Slow.

But the moment his eyes meet yours, it’s like someone’s taken the air out of the room. You finish your thought without flinching. You don’t look away.

“True leaders,” you say, “aren’t the ones who maintain power. They’re the ones who choose vulnerability in spite of it.”

His gaze doesn’t leave yours for the rest of the panel.

***

The applause is distant.

Polite. Intellectual.

You walk offstage surrounded by suits and nods, questions about publishing, mentorship, upcoming lectures. You answer what you can, gracefully. You shake hands. You smile when it’s required.

You don’t see him.

You don’t need to.

You felt him.

But when you slip into your coat in the green room, there’s something tucked in the inner pocket. Small. Folded.

A note.

In his handwriting.

My house has too many windows, but you’re the only one I ever let look in. Come if you still want to.

There’s an address in Northamptonshire.

A date.

A time.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Then you fold it back into your coat like something sacred.

***

You don’t sleep the night before you go.

You don’t even pack a bag. Just your coat. Your keys. Your name in your chest like something unfinished.

You drive through rain and nerves. Past roundabouts and green stretches of nothing. His house is half-hidden by trees, modern lines softened by time. You park. You sit for ten whole seconds in the silence of your car.

And then you go to the door.

You raise your hand.

You knock.

It opens before you can drop it.

And there he is.

Toto.

Not the CEO. Not the strategist. Not the face in press conferences.

Just a man in an open collar and sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy, eyes wrecked with something that might be hope or fear or both.

You say nothing.

Neither does he.

Not at first.

His hand twitches at his side. Like he wants to reach for you. Like he can’t.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says.

You blink up at him. “I wasn’t sure either.”

A beat.

“Do you want to come in?”

You nod.

He steps back.

You cross the threshold.

The house is warm. Understated. Shadows stretch along wood floors. There’s a piano you didn’t expect in the corner, half-lit.

“I didn’t know what to write,” he says quietly behind you. “I wanted to say more.”

You turn. “Then say it now.”

His jaw tightens. He takes a breath. Then another.

“I am not a man who gives halves,” he says, slow. Careful. “Everything in my life, I’ve built by knowing exactly what to control. What to contain. What to hide.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I thought I could do that with you too. I thought I could fold this thing away. Tell myself it was temporary. That I could manage it like a race strategy or a business deal.” His voice breaks just slightly. “But I couldn’t.”

Silence.

He looks at you like you hold something breakable in your hands.

“I’ve learned something since you left,” he says. “That control means nothing if it costs you the one thing you can’t replace.”

You swallow.

Your voice is soft. “What did it cost you?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“You.”

The air goes still.

Then — slowly, carefully — you step forward.

Just one pace.

He watches the movement like it’s something sacred.

Then another.

And when you finally reach him, he still doesn’t touch you.

“I’m not here for a half, either,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I’m not the same girl who walked into your office in borrowed shoes.”

He lifts a hand, not touching, just hovering. “I never wanted you to be.”

You exhale.

And then, finally, he reaches for you.

One hand on your cheek. The other finding your waist like it’s home.

And you step into his arms like you never want to leave.

***

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It’s full.

Full of what was unsaid, what was survived.

He holds you like a vow. Your face against his chest, his hands slow on your back. Neither of you rushes it. There’s no need. There’s only this.

At some point, he speaks again.

Into your hair.

“I kept your thesis.”

You smile into his shirt.

“I figured.”

“I read it again last week.”

“Looking for mistakes?”

“No,” he says. “Looking for you.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “And?”

“I found her,” he says softly. “The girl who saw me better than I saw myself. The woman who knew when I was lying. Even to me.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I’m still here.”

He nods.

Then whispers. “Stay.”

You don’t answer right away.

But your arms tighten around him.

And in that moment, it’s enough.

Not a resolution.

Not yet.

But the beginning of one.

***

The house smells like coffee and old books.

It’s too big for two people, technically. But it doesn’t feel like it. There are plants by the windows now — ones you bought at a weekend market and then forgot to water for a week, but they survived anyway. You told Toto that was symbolic.

He’d kissed the top of your head and said, “Then we are lucky. Even the wild things want to stay.”

The kettle clicks off.

You pour water over the grounds in the French press, slow, careful. The way he taught you. It’s one of the many routines you’ve inherited, adopted, made your own. He calls it a religion: hot water, glass carafe, exactly three minutes of steeping.

Toto walks in barefoot, sleeves rolled, still towel-drying his hair.

“Guten Morgen,” he says, voice scratchy from sleep.

You hand him a mug without a word. His fingers brush yours — intentionally, unintentionally. It’s always both.

He leans on the counter beside you and takes a sip. Then sighs.

“I have sixteen unread emails already.”

“It’s 7:12.”

“Exactly.”

You smile into your cup. “Poor man. So powerful. So burdened.”

He turns his head toward you, amused. “You used to be scared of me.”

You look at him. His shirt’s half-buttoned, his hair sticking up in the back, jaw still shadowed with sleep.

“I wasn’t scared,” you say. “I was intimidated.”

“Better.”

You sip again. “Then curious.”

He sets his cup down and tilts his head.

“And now?”

You glance up at him. “Now you leave your socks on the bathroom floor and use up all the almond milk.”

He grins.

You don’t say the rest. You don’t have to.

Now you love him.

***

You work from the sunroom most mornings.

It’s become your office, unofficially. You tried the guest room for a while — kept telling yourself you needed a “real” desk, somewhere that didn’t smell like rosemary and open windows.

But this is where your words come easier. Something about the light.

Toto pokes his head in around nine, tie still hanging loose from his neck.

“Will you be here when I get back?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How charming you are.”

He raises a brow, amused.

“You kissed me before coffee,” you say. “That’s dangerous territory.”

He walks in, leans down, kisses your temple again. “There. Balance restored.”

You close your laptop before he can see the open draft — an essay about the private cost of public power.

“Love you,” he says, casual, almost thrown over his shoulder like keys.

You look up. “Say that again.”

He pauses. Smiles.

“Love you,” he says slower, firmer.

Like it’s sacred. Like he knows it is.

***

There are rules you never wrote down, but live by.

You don’t attend the races unless it’s work-related. Not because he asked you not to — but because you both know the lines. You fought hard to redraw them. To make this thing you have yours.

Private, not hidden.

There’s a difference.

You write for The Guardian now. Your editor calls you “the quiet scalpel” — because you cut clean, but not cruel. You don’t write about Formula 1. Not anymore.

Still, your worlds overlap.

You’ll be editing on the couch and he’ll walk in, drop next to you, read over your shoulder.

“Too many adjectives,” he mutters.

“It’s a profile.”

“It’s indulgent.”

“It’s artistry.”

He takes your laptop, types one sentence, hands it back.

You read it.

It’s better.

You narrow your eyes at him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You don’t.

***

You read your thesis again on a Sunday in April. Rain ticking at the windows, Toto in the other room talking to someone in Austrian German.

You’d printed it out weeks ago when someone from your old department asked for a quote. But today, for some reason, you open it just to read. Just to remember.

It’s strange.

The voice is yours, but younger. Hungrier. Sharper.

You wrote it like you were carving something out of stone.

You reach the conclusion, and suddenly, your throat tightens.

Not because you miss that girl.

But because you don’t.

She got her ending.

That’s the part that cracks you open.

You’re still holding the final page when Toto finds you.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. “Just-” You gesture at the paper. “She didn’t know.”

He crouches beside your chair, looks up at you.

“Didn’t know what?”

“That you would be …” You trail off.

He takes the paper from your hands, folds it carefully, sets it on the table.

Then he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you slow and steady.

“That I would love you?” He says.

You nod into his shoulder.

“That I would ruin everything for you if I had to?” He murmurs.

You laugh wetly. “Let’s not do that again.”

“Agreed.”

You sit there for a long time. Rain outside. Warmth inside.

“I was proud of you then,” he says, low. “But I am in awe of you now.”

You close your eyes. Hold him tighter.

***

Late at night, he sometimes still calls you by your first name. Not the soft German pet names he uses in the kitchen or in bed or when you’re laughing too hard to breathe.

Just your name.

Like it’s something delicate. Something rare.

“Y/N,” he says into your skin, like a prayer.

You look at him, always. Every time.

“Yes?”

But he never follows it with anything.

As if the name alone is the thing. The secret. The offering.

***

Sometimes he asks you questions he already knows the answers to.

“Did you sleep?”

“No.”

“Did you eat lunch?”

“Yes, don’t ask what it was.”

“Do you love me?”

You look up from your screen. “You already know that.”

“Say it anyway.”

You do.

And every time, he exhales like he needed it to live.

***

One evening, you find him at the piano.

He never plays when anyone’s around. You think maybe it’s his version of a journal — something that speaks when he doesn’t want to.

But tonight, he doesn’t stop when you walk in.

He looks at you over his shoulder.

And then keeps playing.

You sit beside him on the bench. Not touching.

He finishes. Silence blooms.

“What was that?” You ask.

“Something I made up.”

You smile.

“You’re not the only one who creates for a living,” he says.

You reach for his hand.

And this time, he lets you hold it.

***

He lets you hold all of it now.

The mirror.

The soft parts.

The shadows, too.

And maybe that’s the most extraordinary part.

Not the grand gestures. Not the whispered promises.

But the fact that he lets you see him. Every version. Every layer.

And never once tries to take the mirror back.

***

There’s no official ending to this story.

There’s just this.

Morning coffee.

Shared silence.

A house with light in it.

And a man who loved control … until he learned that love, real love, means letting go.

973 notes · View notes

goldfades · 4 months ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

Seven months.

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

But in reality, it had been everything.

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

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

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

It wasn’t about Joe.

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

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

It was the dream. Your dream.

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

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

For you.

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

What happens when he sees you again?

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

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

And for a while, that was the point.

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

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

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

But he didn’t say that.

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

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

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

So, he drank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Loneliness.

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

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

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

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

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

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

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

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

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing was prepped.

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

And that’s when it really hit him.

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

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

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

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

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

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

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

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

But it didn’t. It never did.

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

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

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

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

No. Not even a little.

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

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

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

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

It was his city.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you were.

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

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

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

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

It was time.

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

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

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

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

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

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

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

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

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

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

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

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

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

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

Yeah. That sounded about right.

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

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

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

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

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

You knew what they were thinking.

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

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

You ignored it.

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

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

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

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

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

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

This was alone.

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

And God, it was loud.

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

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

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

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

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

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

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

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

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

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

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

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

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The first game of the season was electric.

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

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

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

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

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

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

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

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

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

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

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

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

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

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

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

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

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

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

Didn’t know him like you did.

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

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

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

Because winning used to mean everything.

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

He had never felt more hollow.

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

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

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

You picked up new hobbies.

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

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

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

And for a while, it worked.

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

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

—

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

Until it wasn’t.

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

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

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

The words landed like a gut punch.

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

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

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

But inside, you were shaking.

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

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

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

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

The unraveling.

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

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

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

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

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

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

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

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

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

He knew your moods before you did.

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

December used to be your favorite month.

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

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

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

You had never held back.

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

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

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

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

But it all felt wrong.

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

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

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

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

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

But your body knew.

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

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

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

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

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

But it wasn’t his family.

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

And it wasn’t him.

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

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

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

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

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

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

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

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

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

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

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

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

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

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

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

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

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

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

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

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

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

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

Because he was there.

Joe.

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

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

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

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

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

You felt sick.

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

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

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

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

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

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

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

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

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

She wasn’t you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course she knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

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

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

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

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

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

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

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

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

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

But he had been wrong.

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

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

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

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

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

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

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

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

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

But it didn’t.

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

It was shock. Discomfort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he felt it.

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

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

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

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

You had spent a year healing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

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

No, this was performative.

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

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

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

And that? That was unbearable.

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

No. No, no, no.

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

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

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

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

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

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

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

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

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

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

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

It made him move.

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

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

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

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

Gone.

Just like that.

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

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

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

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

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

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

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

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

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

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

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

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

All of it.

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

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

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

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

He missed everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knocked.

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

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

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

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

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

He broke.

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

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

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

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

So he just kept going.

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

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

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

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

But he couldn’t.

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

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

But there it was again—that ache.

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

He was still your Joe.

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

And you could have.

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

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

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

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

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

Because fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

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

And then, you let him inside.

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

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

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

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

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

So you told him. You told him everything.

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

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

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

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

Your heart clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to try.”

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

But you weren’t finished.

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

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

The next few weeks felt new.

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

This was different.

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

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

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

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

Joe never stopped trying.

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

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

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

Really listened.

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

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

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

And Joe had never been happier.

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

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

He showed up for you. For everything.

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

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

And he realized—this was you.

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

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

But you.

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

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

And you had never wanted to be one.

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

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

But because you had chosen him.

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

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

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

This was better.

This was right.

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

But not this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

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

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

And the worst part?

You did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

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

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

The crowd erupted into applause.

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

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

And yeah.

He really, really had.

The night felt easy.

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

Now, it was effortless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were just here. With him.

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

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

Joe was on one knee.

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

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

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

Only love.

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he whispered.

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

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

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

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

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

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slaybinnie · 24 days ago

Text

ALLEYWAY BOY

╰┈➤ sieun x fem!reader

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), violence, explicit language, no sexual protection.

about: while at your new school, one student catches your attention. when you help him during a fight you’re welcomed into his friend group. now in university, sieun begins to open up more, emotionally and physically.

⤷ WORD COUNT: 5k

The classroom was loud with chatter as everyone waited for the teacher to arrive for the first class of the day. You had transferred to Eunjang High School just a week ago and were still trying to find your place among the complex social hierarchy.

No one really stood out except one person. You noticed him immediately. A boy sitting alone by the window, his face expressionless as he stared outside. Something about him drew you to him. While everyone else moved in groups, laughing and talking loudly, he existed in his own bubble. You had occasionally seen him hang out with three other boys but most days he was to himself.

Oh. You’re looking at Sieun?” Whispered the girl sitting next to you, catching you staring. “He doesn't talk much. He transferred a little before you. Apparently he killed someone at his old school.”

You nodded, trying to look disinterested even as your eyes kept drifting back to him.

Your chance to actually meet him came a few days later. You had stayed late at school to complete a makeup test and were walking home alone when you heard yelling in the ally way. You should’ve taken that as a sign to turn around and take a different way home but curiosity got the better of you.

You looked around the corner and saw four guys surrounding someone. When they moved around, you caught a glimpse of Sieun, standing there with the same frown on his face.

“You think just because you took down Seongje means we’re scared of you?,” one of them was said.

Sieun's voice was quiet but firm. “No.”

What happened next was so fast you barely registered it. One moment one of the guys was lunging toward Sieun and the next moment he was on the ground clutching his stomach. The others rushed in but Sieun moved with a quickness, fighting back.

In less than a minute, all of them were on the ground. The first guy Sieun took down pulled out a small knife, and that's when you gasped involuntarily. Everyone froze. Sieun's eyes snapped to where you stood, and in that moment of distraction the knife-wielder lunged. Without thinking, you shouted, “Behind you!”

Sieun dodged it just in time, the blade missing his face by inches. He grabbed the guys wrist and twisted until the knife fell to the ground.

All four boys fled and Sieun turned to you. You expected him to show anger for you interfering but his face didn’t show anything actually.

“You should go home,” he said finally. “It's not safe here.”

“You're bleeding,” you pointed out, noticing a cut on his cheek.

He touched it softly. “It's nothing.”

Instead of leaving, you dug into your bag and pulled out a packet of tissues and a small first-aid kit your mother had insisted you carry. “Let me help.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then, to your surprise, he gave a single nod and leaned against the wall, allowing you to dab at the cut with a wipe.

“Why did you warn me?” he asked suddenly. “You don't even know me.”

You focused on cleaning the cut, avoiding his intense gaze. “Should I have let him stab you instead?”

He exhaled a breath. “Most people would have run away.”

“Well I didn’t want to see a fellow Eunjang student hurt,” you replied with a smile on your face.

“Yo, Sieun!” a voice called. Three boys approached, the one with a basketball jersey frowning when he saw the signs of a fight. “What happened?”

“Nothing important,” Sieun replied, straightening up.

The basketball jersey boy's eyes shifted to you, suspicious. “Who's this?”

“A classmate,” Sieun said before you could answer. “She helped.”

The introduction was short and sweet. You learned that Baku was the one with the jersey on. Junate and Gotak were the other two boys. These were the boys you had seen Sieun hang out with every now and then.

From this moment you were cautiously accepted into their friend circle. Sieun rarely spoke to you directly at first but sometimes you would catch him watching you when he thought you weren't looking.

It took months to break his walls down with you. You had slowly earned his trust and got to learn about the story behind his fighting skills and the way he kept everyone at a distance. You learned about his troubled past, his friend in the hospital, and got to know his personality more.

By the start of your senior year everything was starting to look up. Suho, Sieuns hospital friend, had woken up, Eungjang high was no longer bothered by the union and your friendship with Sieun developed into something more.

One year later and you’re all now in University. The campus coffee shop was loud with voices and machines as students rushed to grab their caffeine before afternoon classes. You sat at a corner table, textbooks spread across the surface as you tried to make sense of your class assignment.

University life had been treating you well, balancing classes with part-time work and a social life was challenging, but manageable.

Sieun hadn't changed much since high school. His face still carried that same deadpan expression, sharp eyes that softened only for you, and a quietness that intimidated most people. What did change was your goals for him and you.

Since starting university, you'd made it your mission to get more reactions out of him. It had become something of a game between you and him trying to maintain his composure while you tried your best to break it.

Sieun walked in the coffee shop, his dark hair slightly messy from the breeze outside. He looked so good. Despite being your boyfriend for almost six months now, the sight of him still made your heart skip a beat.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you. “Sorry I'm late. The professor wanted to discuss my project”

You smiled, pushing your untouched ice tea toward him. “No problem. How did it go?”

“Better than expected.” He reached for the drink, his fingers brushing against yours. Even after months of dating, these small touches still sent electricity through your body. “He thinks I might be able to submit it to receive a full ride scholarship.”

“That's amazing” Your genuine excitement made him bow his head slightly, still unused to praise despite his talents.

Sieun took a sip from your drink, using the same straw you had been using. When he realized what he'd done, a faint blush crept across his cheeks. He quickly set the drink down.

“Sorry,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at your face.

You couldn't help but laugh. For someone who had faced the craziest situations in high school, it was interesting how flustered he could get over such small intimacies.

“Sieun…” you started, taking another sip from the same straw, “ you know sharing drinks is what couples do.”

His blush deepened. “I know that.”

“Do you?” You leaned forward, resting your chin on your palm. “Because sometimes I wonder if you remember we're dating.”

Sieun's eyes met yours, embarrassment written all over his face. “Of course I remember we’re dating.”

“Then why do you still get so flustered when I do this?” You reached across the table and gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. As expected, he stiffened slightly before relaxing into your touch.

“I'm not flustered,” he insisted, though the color in his cheeks said otherwise.

You laughed softly. “Sure baby.”

Honestly, you found his shy reactions adorable. Sieun had always been reserved, even after you'd started dating. Breaking through his walls had been a slow process but every small victory felt significant. You loved to see him gradually allow himself to be vulnerable with you.

“How's your assignment going?” he asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

“It’s going horribly,” you admitted dramatically. “This subject makes no sense to me.”

Sieun scooted his chair around to sit beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours as he looked at your textbook. “Let me see.”

As he began explaining concepts you found yourself watching the movement of his lips more than listening to his words. When he paused to see if you were following, you impulsively leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He froze mid-sentence, eyes widening. “What was that for?” he asked, voice slightly cracking.

"I just wanted to kiss you,” you replied with a shrug. “Is that okay?”

Sieun swallowed hard. “Yeah... it's okay.”

You smiled and turned back to the textbook, acting as if nothing had happened, though you could feel the tension radiating from him. You had to have a nice balance with Sieun, pushing just enough to help him become comfortable with affection without overwhelming him.

For the next hour, you studied together, gradually shifting closer until your thighs touched under the table. Every so often, you would find excuses to touch him. You’d reach across to point at something in the book and let your arm rest against his. Each touch left him momentarily flustered before he composed himself again.

“We should get going,” he said, closing his textbooks and glancing at his watch. “We're supposed to meet the others for lunch in twenty minutes.”

You groaned, remembering the lunch plan. “Do we have to? I was hoping to have you to myself today.”

A small smile played on his lips. “They'll never let us hear the end of it if we bail.”

“Fine,” you sighed dramatically, gathering your books. “But you owe me.”

“Owe you what?” he asked, helping you pack up.

You leaned in close, your lips nearly brushing his ear. “Time. Just us. No interruptions.”

The blush returned full force, spreading from his neck to his ears, and you couldn't help but laugh softly. There was something addictive about making Sieun flustered.

As you walked across campus to meet your friends, your hands occasionally brushed until Sieun finally took the initiative and laced his fingers with yours. It was a small gesture, but knowing how much he disliked public displays of affection, it meant everything to you.

The campus restaurant was crowded when you arrived, but you spotted your friends immediately. Baku was gesturing wildly, telling some story that had Juntae rolling his eyes. Suho noticed you first, waving you guys over.

“Finally!” Baku exclaimed as you sat down. “We thought you two might have gotten distracted.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“We were studying,” Sieun said simply. “Unlike some people.”

Gotak laughed. “He's got you there, Baku. When's the last time you stepped foot in the library?”

“Libraries are for people who have to read to learn,” Baku said with a big grin, tapping his forehead. “Me? I just stand near smart stuff and it jumps into my brain!”

“Is that why you're failing statistics?” Juntae asked dryly making the whole table laugh,

As your friends fell into their usual banter you noticed how clam Sieun was. This friend group was good for him. Everything felt right.

“How's the new apartment?” Suho asked Sieun between bites of his lunch.

“It's alright,” Sieun replied with his typical shortness.

You rolled your eyes. “What he means is that it's great but he's still living out of boxes because he refuses to properly unpack.”

“I have a system,” Sieun defended himself.

Sieun had moved into his own place just a month ago, leaving the dormitories for a small studio apartment off-campus. You had helped him move, shocked by how few items he actually owned.

“You should see it,” you told the others. “The only decoration he has is a plant I bought him, which is somehow still alive.”

“It's just a place to sleep,” Sieun shrugged. “I don't need much.”

Baku leaned forward. “So, Y/n, how often do you stay over at this minimalist paradise?”

You kicked him under the table while Sieun suddenly became very interested in his food.

“None of your business, Humin,” you replied sassy.

The truth was, while you had been to Sieun's apartment many times, your relationship had progressed slowly in physical terms. Sieun wasn't one to rush, and you respected his pace. You were fine as long as he was by your side.

As everyone prepared to leave for afternoon classes, Suho pulled you aside briefly.

“He seems good,” he said quietly, nodding toward Sieun who was arguing with Baku about something. “More settled.”

You smiled, watching your boyfriend's rare animated expressions. “I think he is. You being here is definitely a big reason why”

“It’s not just me. It's because of you too,” Suho continued. “He was always so... contained back then. Even with me. You've given him something the rest of us couldn't.”

“What's that?”

“Permission to be a normal guy,” Suho said simply. “To care about something besides survival.”

Before you could respond, the others joined you, and the moment passed. But Suho's words stayed with you as you and Sieun split from the group to head to your next classes.

“I have to finish a lab report tonight,” Sieun said as you guys reached his next class. “But maybe after…”

“After?”

He met your eyes, something determined in his gaze. “Maybe you could come over. We could watch that movie you've been talking about.”

You smiled, knowing the invitation was not just to watch a movie, but to spend time together in his personal bubble. “I'd like that.”

For a moment, he stood there, seeming to debate something. He looked around quickly to ensure no one was watching and leaned in to kiss you briefly. Before you could react, he had already pulled away, a flush spreading across his cheekbones.

“I'll text you when I'm done,” he said rushed, then turned and walked into the building, leaving you standing there with a surprised smile.

It was 8:30 when you got the text from Sieun, "Lab done. Come over if you still want to.”

Pf, of course you still want to. You quickly washed up and headed over to his apartment, giving his door a soft knock. The door opened almost immediately, revealing Sieun in a simple black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair was damp from a recent shower. He looked so handsome.

“Hi,” you said, suddenly feeling a little nervous without knowing why.

“Come in,” he replied, stepping aside to let you enter.

The apartment was indeed minimalist, just as you'd described to your friends. A bed in one corner, a small seating area with a couch and coffee table, a tv stand with a tv, a cute small kitchen, and a desk with a laptop, the plant you gave him, and neatly arranged textbooks on it.

But something was a little different. You noticed immediately that he had finally unpacked some of the boxes. A bookshelf now held his small collection of books and a few framed photos, including you in them. One of the two photos with you in them was from the end-of-year festival in high school.

“You unpacked,” you said, unable to keep the surprise from your voice.

Sieun shrugged, but you could tell he was pleased that you'd noticed. “Had some time after finishing the lab report.”

You moved to examine the photos more closely. “I can't believe you kept this,” you said, picking up the festival photo.

“It was a good day,” he said simply, coming to stand beside you.

You remembered it well. A day full of fun. The day had ended with him awkwardly asking if you wanted to “maybe go out sometime,” his confidence completely absent as he stumbled over the words.

Setting the photo down, you turned to face him. “I can put on the movie,” you said picking up his remote and turning on the TV, “but I'm also fine with just talking if you're tired.”

“I’m good with the movie,” he replied, “I made food. Nothing fancy, just ramen.”

“Fancy ramen or instant?” you asked with a smile.

“Somewhere in between.” He gestured to two bowls on the coffee table, steam still rising from them. You noticed he'd added eggs, green onions, and a few other ingredients to elevate the simple dish.

After putting the movie on you settled onto the small couch suddenly aware of how intimate the space felt. You had been here before, but something about tonight felt different. Sieun joined you on the couch, sitting close enough that your shoulders touched.

For the first twenty minutes, you both ate and watched in comfortable silence but as the main characters in the film shared their first kiss, you became hyperaware of Sieun sitting beside you.

Setting your empty bowl aside, you casually leaned into him. After a brief moment of tension, he lifted his arm and placed it around your shoulders, allowing you to rest against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, slightly faster than normal.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, tilting your head to look up at him.

Instead of answering, he surprised you by leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle but lingered longer than his usual hesitant kisses. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with an emotion you rarely saw him display.

“More than okay,” he finally answered, voice slightly rough.

You reached up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. He remained perfectly still under your touch, watching you with an intensity that made your heart race.

“I've been thinking,” you said softly, “about us.”

“What about us?” His voice was quiet.

“About how far we've come. From that day in the alley to here.” You continued tracing patterns on his skin, moving to his neck where you could feel his pulse jumping beneath your touch. “You used to flinch when I got too close.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I wasn't used to it.”

“And now?” you asked.

Instead of answering with words, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand moving to the small of your back to pull you closer. The movie continued playing but it was completely forgotten as you lost yourself with Sieun's lips against yours.

When you finally broke apart you couldn't help but smile at the cute look on his face.

“I'm still not used to it,” he admitted quietly. “But in a different way now.”

“Explain,” you encouraged, your hand now resting on his chest.

Sieun took a moment to gather his thoughts, “Before, it was unfamiliar. A little uncomfortable. Now it's unfamiliar because it feels too good. Like I don't deserve it.”

Your heart ached at his words. Despite all your time together, parts of his past still haunted him.

“You deserve every good thing, Sieun,” you said firmly, taking his face in both hands so he couldn't look away. “Every single one.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I'm trying to believe that.”

“Let me help you believe,” you whispered, and kissed him again.

The kiss deepened quickly, a year of careful restraint giving way to something more urgent. Sieun's arms tightened around you, pulling you practically onto his lap as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then your neck, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

His usual composure was slipping, and you reveled in it, your hands sliding under his t-shirt to touch the warm skin beneath. You felt his muscles tense at the contact, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he made a low sound in the back of his throat that sent heat flooding through your body.

“Sieun,” you breathed, needing to hear his response, to know he wanted this as much as you did.

“I'm here,” he mumbled against your skin, then pulled back slightly to meet your gaze. “I'm always here with you.”

Something about those simple words, the sincerity behind them, made your heart swell. This was Sieun. He was a man of few words but had deep feelings. He expressed himself through actions rather than speech. You loved him.

Slowly you moved to straddle his lap, careful to make sure he was comfortable with your weight on him. Your eyes never left him to ensure this was okay. His hands settled on your waist, his breathing was noticeably uneven now.

“Is this too much?” you asked, knowing his boundaries had always been important to respect.

He shook his head, but still looked slightly overwhelmed. “Just give me a moment.”

You stayed still, watching the emotions play across his face. His hands tightened on your waist, then relaxed again.

“I've wanted this,” he admitted softly, the confession clearly difficult for him. “For a long time.”

“Me too,” you whispered, leaning forward to press your forehead against his again. “We can go as slow as you need.”

A small smile pulled at his lips. “We've been going slow for years.”

The observation, so accurate and yet so unexpected coming from him, made you laugh. “True. But that's okay.”

His smile widened slightly, and in that moment, he looked younger, lighter, and unburdened by the weight he always carried. You vowed to yourself to make him smile like that more often.

Sieun's hands moved from your waist to your back, pulling you closer until your chests pressed together. “Maybe,” he said, voice low, “we could go a little faster now.”

Your breath caught at his words. “I'd like that.”

Siuen grabbed your hand and dragged you towards his bed. He gently pushed you down on the bed and followed you down. He captured your lips once again and you sighed into the kiss. Your hands found their way under his shirt and traced his stomach. Sieun shivered at your touch.

You tugged at the hem of his shirt and he understood, pulling his shirt over his head. The sight of him shirtless wasn't new to you. You had seen him like this before but the context was different now. It was more intimate. Your eyes traced his chest, faint scars littered all around, reminders from his past.

Sieun watched you look at his chest, heat rising to his cheeks. “Your turn,” he said softly, his fingers playing with the edge of your top.

You sat up, allowing him to remove your shirt. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you in your bra. His hand came up to trace your face all the way down to the curve of your cup. His hand found the clasp of your bra and hesitated for just a moment until you nodded. He unfastened your bra, the straps sliding down your arms.

Your chest was bare in front of him and your nipples hardened when the cool air touched them. Sieun reached to touch your breast, gently gliding his hand against them. You couldn't help but shiver at the contact, your body responding to his exploring hands.

“You're beautiful,” he whispered.

You reached up to touch his face, drawing him back to your lips. The kiss deepened as his hand continued to caress your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple and pulling a soft moan from your throat. The sound seemed to embolden him, his movements becoming more confident.

Sieun broke the kiss and moved his head down towards your left breast. He looked up at you, making eye contact before kissing your nipple then sucking it into his mouth.

The pleasure that crashed through you was immediate and intense. Your back arched slightly, pressing your breast further into his mouth. Sieun's free hand moved to your other breast, thumbing over your nipple as his tongue swirled around your other nipple.

“Sieun,” you gasped, your fingers threading through his dark hair, holding him to you.

His mouth moved to your right breast, giving it the same attention while his hand replaced his mouth on the left.

Sieun pulled back and thumbed at your nipples to make up for his mouth moving away. He was breathing hard and his eyes were full of lust. Sieun kissed your nipples one more time before his hands moved to your waist, his fingers tracing the waistband of your pants.

“Can I?” he asked.

“Yes,” you breathed, lifting your hips to help as he carefully slid your pants down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear.

Sieun took a moment to look at you, his eyes traveling over your body with such intensity that you could almost feel it like a physical touch.

“Your turn,” you said with a small smile, copying his earlier words.

He removed his sweatpants, leaving both of you in just your underwear. The sight of him nearly took your breath away. His erection was evident and you could see a tiny bit of pre-cum seeping through his boxers.

“Sieun.”

“Hm?”

“I want your fingers so bad.” You said while grabbing his hand and placing it to where you needed him the most.

Sieun leaned in to kiss you. His hand slipped beneath your underwear and you gasped against his mouth as his fingers found you wet and waiting.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his movements slow and careful.

“More than okay,” you assured him while you guided his hand to your core.

Sieun was a quick learner. He watched your reactions carefully, noting what made your breath hitch, what made you moan. When he finally found your clit a moan was ripped out of you. “Fuck Sieun! Right there! Keep going.”

Sieun nodded, feeling emboldened by your response he grew more confident in his movements. He rubbed your swollen clit a bit faster and harder, making you squirm more and more. He lowered his head to your breast, lips closing around your nipple as his fingers worked between your legs. The dual sensation had you moaning his name, your hands tangling in his hair.

Siuen pulled off your breast and moved his fingers down towards your hole, circling your entrance. “Tell me what feels good,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving your face as he kept circling your entrance.

“Everything you're doing,” you breathed, gasping when he slowly slid a finger inside you. “Oh Sieun…”

He added another finger, stretching you gently as his thumb continued to work your sensitive bud. The dual sensation had you moaning beneath him, your hands clutching his shoulder.

“Sieun. Baby,” you gasped, “I'm close.”

“I got you,” he murmured against your skin. The tenderness in his voice combined with the movement of his fingers sent you over the edge. Your body shuddered as waves of pleasure washed over you with Sieun's name spelling out your lips.

As you came down from your high, you opened your eyes to find him watching you with a mix of awe and satisfaction. “Did I do good?”

You smiled lazily up at him, getting cuteness aggression from him wanting approval. “Of course you did, baby.”

You then reached for him, wanting to bring him the same pleasure he'd given you. Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around his cock. Sieun's breath hitched, his eyes closing briefly at your touch.

“You’re so hard, baby. Did you get turned on making me feel good?”

Sieun just nodded.

You smirked, and guided him onto his back. You removed his boxers then straddled his thighs before stroking him again. His eyes never left yours as you stroked him, learning what he liked by the subtle changes in his expression, the way his breath caught, the tension in his muscles.

You pulled your hand away making Sieun whine. He quickly shut up when you leaned down and kissed his tip. You licked from his tip to his base, then backwards, teasing him before finally taking him in your mouth fully.

Sieun's head fell back against the pillow, a low groan escaping his throat. His hands hesitantly moved to your hair, not pushing or guiding, just connecting with you as you sucked him off. The sounds of soft gasps and quiet moans encouraged you to continue, taking him deeper.

“Y/n,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “That feels...ah. So good.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, the vibration making him tense beneath you. His breathing grew more erratic as you continued. It was intoxicating to see him like this.

After a few minutes, his hand tightened slightly in your hair. “Wait,” he gasped. “I'm close. I’m going to-”

You pulled back, wiping your mouth as you looked up at him. “Sorry. I want you to cum inside of me.”

Sieun’s eyes widened but he nodded, complying with anything you said. You pulled him in a heated kiss. “I’m going to ride you.. With no condom, okay?” You whispered against his lips.

“Okay.” Sieun agreed, straightening himself against the headboard.

You positioned yourself above him and lowered yourself slowly until you were stuffed with his cock. Both of you gasped at the sensation. You stayed still for a moment to adjust. Sieun's hands gripped your hips, his eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he asked, always concerned for your comfort even in his own pleasure.

“Perfect. You?”

“Good but, fuck. You’re so tight.”

You giggled before moving your hips up a little, careful not to pull off of him, then slammed back down his cock. The both of you moaned, Sieun moving his head into the crook of your neck.

You again started to slowly go up and down, Sieun was still hiding his face on your neck. He was biting his lips, trying to keep himself from moaning too loud. You were so tight around him, he thought he was going to die as you continued your motion on his cock.

You started to get a bit winded and Sieun noticed. Sieun surprisingly rolled you guys over and took charge, pushing into you softly. You both were close, desperation evident from the way you were whining and on the way he was sloppily rubbing your clit while thrusting.

“Sieun, I’m close. Please. Let’s cum together.”

Sieun nodded and sped up his hips, his thrusts becoming more desperate as he chased both your pleasure and his own. His fingers worked against your clit with renewed determination, his movements becoming more confident with each of your soft moans.

“Y/n,” he gasped, his voice strained. “I can't hold on much longer.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. “Then don't,” you said, your hands gripping his shoulders. “Let go, baby.”

His rhythm faltered as he drove into you one last time, burying himself deep. You felt him pulse inside you as he came, the sensation triggering your own release. Your walls clenched around him as waves of pleasure washed over you both. Sieun's mouth found yours in a messy, passionate kiss that swallowed your cries of pleasure.

For a moment, you stayed locked together, hearts racing, bodies trembling with aftershocks. Sieun's forehead rested against yours, his breathing gradually slowing as he came down from his high. When he finally opened his eyes, they were filled with such tenderness that it made your heart ache.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You smiled, still feeling the pleasant hum of satisfaction throughout your body. “More than okay.”

He made and a move to pull out of you but you wrapped your legs tighter around him. “No stay.”

Sieun laughed a little, “Y/n I need to clean you up. My cum is still inside you.”

You pouted, “I don’t care.”

“You’ll care when we’re getting plan b from the pharmacy,” Sieun joked.

You punched his arm jokingly while laughing, “Stop. I’m on the pill anyways.”

Sieun visibly relaxed at your words, a small smile playing on his lips. “Still I need to clean us up.”

He carefully pulled out of you and rolled you to face him. His arm draped over your waist, keeping you close as his dark eyes studied your face.

“I love you.” He said it so quietly you almost missed it.

Your heart skipped a beat. Those three words. He'd never said them before even though you’d known how he felt for a long time. Sieun showed his feelings through actions, not words, but hearing it spoken aloud made tears well in your eyes.

You tilted your head up to look at him. “I love you too. So much.” You pressed a sweet kiss to his chin “And I am so happy.”

You laid your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, occasionally stopping to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Stay the night?” he asked after a while, his voice hopeful.

“Obviously.” You replied, content.

────୨ৎ────

Thank you guys so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Please feel free to message me and request stuff! I havent written in forever but WHC woke me up from the dead. <3

#weak hero class x reader #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class 2 #yeon sieun #sieun #sieun x reader #yeon sieun x reader #whc #whc1 #whc2 #whc1 x reader #whc2 x reader #whc x reader #whc smut #weak hero class smut #kdrama imagines #kdrama smut #whc imagines #weak hero class

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yukinohiko · 4 months ago

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caleb, unfailingly, weathers the worst of you. the days when the clouds are heavier, the rain colder. the days when you’re a live wire, bristling with engagements that don’t go well and people that don’t act right and events that fall apart.

you lash out at him. you don’t mean to; it isn’t targeted at him in any way. it’s only because you come home, uncomfortable in your own skin, frothing and foaming, and he’s the one hovering a bit too close, a bit too overbearing.

“just leave me alone, gege,” you snarl, recoiling from him in a way that drives in your temper.

caleb has weathered this more than once. when you were both children at the old orphanage; teenagers finding their places in society; young adults experiencing new pressures.

he doesn’t take it personal — gives you the space you wanted, within the glass boundaries he allows. slices apples into a bowl in the meantime; fills a cup with hot milk and honey.

and when you eventually find yourself back at his side, all quivering lower lip and watery eyes and woeful apology on your face, he can’t help but smile.

too sweet, he thinks, you’ll give him a heartache.

“thought you wanted gege to leave you alone?” he says, just a trace of mocking in his tone.

he isn’t upset, far from it. in the past, he’d never jab at your words or pride. but now, well, haven’t you learned by now there’s no point in such a fuss? he isn’t upset with your emotional outbursts, no, but if you confided in him from the start, let him take care of you as he should, such a problem could’ve been avoided from the beginning.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. you remind him of wet flowers crumpled from a storm. “I didn’t mean to be rude to you.”

he hums. “no? didn’t even say hi after coming home. I missed you all day, only to be treated so harshly.”

your lip wobbles and you tug at his sleeve. look up at him with soft, glassy eyes. “hi.”

he nearly laughs. instead, he pulls you into his hold where you instinctively fit against him. you nose at his throat, burrow against his chest. he cups the back of your head, twirling a curl around his finger tightly, though his tone remains sweet as he coos, “still a crybaby, hmm?”

“I’m not.”

“no?” he smiles fondly, thumb catching a tear before it can fall. “you’re a big girl, then?”

“yes. still need gege, though.”

and that warms him better than any hot drink. he lightly tugs on the curl he’s wrapped around his finger, gazing at your face with an affection that borders lovesick. “yeah? well, gege is always here for you. even when you’re being difficult.”

you press closer at the reassurances, breathing in his cologne. the underlying flavours of familiarity and fixture, scents from childhood skies and adolescent fields. it doesn’t resolve everything alone, but it makes bearing them better, either way, you think.

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fishnapple · 8 days ago

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What to embrace more within you

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

Clear quartz

Losing control is not something you are willing to face and accept. Circumstances might lead you into unknown paths that you have no control over. But you tend to resist them with all your will. You want what is graspable, what you can understand, and can hold in your hands firmly. You avoid uncertainty and ephemeral existences, because they signal an inevitable ending.

You're protective of what is dear to you. You're willing to go hundreds of miles for those you love, but with a price. They should safely stay in the nest you build for them. You may not realise that you want everything, everyone in your life to stay in one place, predictable. You care a lot, your love is large. That is something you need to always treasure within you. But there is a childlike spirit within you who longs for adventures, to just let go of the burden of keeping everything in control. The more you learn to let go of your grip, the more wind you let in to push you forward. You can still care for others, but instead of keeping them behind safe fences, you can help each other to go out into the world, safely, with support. Life knows how to take you to where you need, you have the ticket, you just need to step on the train.

Carnelian

You have an image to keep, a reputation to uphold, a ground to protect. All of these keep you in a narrow path without much branching, no getting sidetracked, no exploration. Sometimes, you're your own worst critic. You shut down any grand ideas that you have immediately, for fear that they would make you yearning for more, for a more free existence.

You have a lot to take care of, lots of responsibilities that stoop your shoulders down, keep you legs dragging heavily. You want to run but you're afraid of being lost, of running over the edge with no one to catch you. You have many wonderful ideas in your head that you don't share with anybody. Prefer to keep them stay silently inside. Ideas that would fulfil you more.

What you need to embrace is your vision, no matter how outlandish, how crazy you think it is. You're so used to normality. Let some bizarre thoughts have their space inside you. Don't shame yourself, don't limit yourself. The more you embrace strangeness and unpredictability, the easier it is to make a decision, to go on a different path. Embrace them with nonchalance, if fear creeps in, greet it but don't let it become the master of your inner house.

Sodalite

The message is about embracing your "voice", both your speaking voice and the voice you hear in your head. You have a very intuitive heart that can often show you the way, if only you just listened to it. You might disregard it as wishful thinking, delusional fantasy or irrational fears that try to sway you from what you want to do, or to mislead you into the path of failure. You don't trust this voice enough, so when you have a brilliant idea in your mind, you're your own worst skeptic, you swallow back the ideas, refuse to let them see the light. This can be interpreted by another person as a taciturn nature of yours.

Speaking loudly might make you uncomfortable. Maybe you tend to stop mid-sentence or take too long to speak your opinion. You might feel that others don't let you speak, they all seem much more confident and assertive than you're. But that's just your perception. In fact, if you're able to get over the barriers of your mind, when you're able to speak freely, you have the ability to captivate people with your words, your voice. There's a force within that when used right, can completely change people's perception of you for the better. Look for merry interactions, where you can laugh freely, talk and exchange ideas without fear nor shame. Get yourself used to the company of people, but not just as a passive listener but an active contributor of the conversation. Slowly, you will find your voice much more lovely, much deserved to be listened to.

Aventurine

I see a lot of movements but also obstacles in the crystals, as if movements are being stifled. The restlessness inside you need an outlet. It's not something you should feel shameful about, not something you need to control with iron fists. Your life seems to be rooted in one place, one routine for quite some time, day after day, nothing much happens that can stir the stillness of it. You don't want to disturb the peace, in a way, you feel content with your current situation, even though there might be some hardships here and there, but overall, you feel safe in it. Yet, you instinctively know that, your life can't go on like that forever. You want to change, to break free of the mould, to walk the many paths that are available to you. You can see far ahead, but your feet are still reluctant to move.

Embrace your desire to change, to travel and experience life. If you feel restless, bored without knowing why, maybe consider changing something, going away for a while, or even changing your living space. I see a wanderer beneath the seemingly stable surface. Drastic changes might momentarily scare you, but they're also very alluring. Heed their calls sometimes and you will find your fortune turns.

Strawberry quartz

There are some habits of yours that you might want to reexamine their usefulness. Your energy feels a little timid, pliable to others will. Not that it's something bad that you need to change, but consider how much you take in other people's ideas and feelings, assimilating them into yourself. Sometimes, you need to separate the influence of others from your core self. Question what's really true, what's really valuable to you.

The message is you should embrace more of your inner rebel. You might readily accept an idea, an opinion or a viewpoint without questioning it too much. You don't want to stir the water of any connections that you have. Showing disapproval, opposite ideas or being aggressive is not welcomed by others, or so you believe. But the truth is, the more you go against the grain, the more spontaneous and random you act, the more connected you are to yourself and to other people, that's your charm. People always admire those who know their own minds, those who dare to go after their visions. If you don't feel too confident with your mental power and think that you never learn and know enough to express yourself in conversations, know that's not true. You have something valuable to bring to the table, that's your unique view of the world.

Amethyst

This might sound weird but you should embrace your more selfish desires sometimes. I see a lot of burdens on your shoulders, almost like you're living for everyone else but you. Your every action is done with consideration for others, you think about the impact, the consequences of your actions greatly, sometimes, to the point of being paralysed and passive. You don't want to hurt others, you don't want to feel like a burden to others, yet you're so willing to shoulder others' burdens. Your charitable spirit is your gift, but also your curse. You hardly have the time for yourself.

You need to embrace the child within you, the one who needs abundance of care and joy. It's okay to voice your needs and wants, to set aside responsibilities for a while so that you can spoil the part within you that is so in need of love and fun. This also influences your love life. Love can be too heavy, too intense in your eyes, you feel like you always need to do something, to "save" the connection from going downhill. This attitude sucks out the lighthearted fun of love. The child within you craves for a simple love, to feel love with their all and not to have constant anxiety and duties lingering on their heart.

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figure-it-out7 · 2 months ago

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Stalker Simon Riley, who just by chance finds you out on his daily run one day, thinks you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and follows you around (at a good distance of course) eventually following you back home.

Simon, who thinks you're oblivious and pretty (just the way he likes them) and goes into your apartment, (breaking in in simplemans terms) after watching you from a distance becomes not enough, and decides to bug your home.

Who doesn't know you're a total geek with a pretty facade, with skills that totally outweigh his in stalking and security (you've probably stalked others once or twice but no need for him to know that-)

Who doesn't know you've already clocked that he's trespassing, your hidden cameras catching him in every room he walks into (pretty much the whole apartment)

You, who at first wants to call the police, seeing his skull mask balaclava and big size, but decides against it because, who wouldn't want a 6 foot something, built like an Greek Olympian in their house? (Let's be reasonable here, I probably wouldn't, but for the plot-)

So instead, she watches him. How he tiptoes around her house, like a cautious cat, making sure to leave things where he sees them and not touching too much, just putting his 'hidden' cameras and audio devices up in places he thinks are best to hear and see you.

You who, when you get home, try very, (seriously, who puts a camera on an obvious spot on the bookshelf?) very hard not to go searching for the cameras, since he could be watching, and just continue with life as normal. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Him, who watches you, day in and day out, seemingly content in doing just that. Not knowing the day he walked through the door, you bugged his phone to find his location, and after that, when he was away on deployment, bugged his home (brother how do you live on the floor and only have the big tv you watch me on in your living room?) So technically it's not him watching you, it's you watching him, finding out who he is and how he lives.

The day he realizes it's the other way around, he's got Johnny and Gaz over, showing them the flat screen TV he's got with all your rooms on display.

Gaz finds it a bit revolting, thinks he should lighten up, and probably take down a few cameras (Really Simon? The hallway?) While Johnny cracks a joke, something along the lines of how Simon could get in trouble with you if you find out, and suddenly you..... laugh?

You, who realizing what you did, go stock still and try go about your business, hoping they didn't catch it, but they certainly did.

Simon, Johnny, and Gaz all sit there, confused, and don't understand why you laughed. How you laughed at that joke that Johnny made. You couldn't hear him.....could you?

Simon, who's now searching his house for bugs and cameras. Who finds at least a good dozen, all hidden in expert hiding spaces (girl, where'd you learn to do that?) And you, who's feeling more and more dread in the pit of your gut everytime he finds one of your hidden cameras.

(Getting this off my chest, whoever wants to continue this, you have my permission. This is meant to be a Stalker unknowingly being stalked type read, so you can keep along the lines.)

#call of duty #cod 141 #cod #simon cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 headcanons #oneshot #ao3

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 2 months ago

Note

Since Dream BBQ released I got an idea. Can you do Meanie!ENA x Shy!Fem! Reader where reader is from the human world and works as ENA's salespartner. You can also add teasing/limes if you'd like.

Yay! First Ena request since 2021 (I think lol)

I'll leave out the last part so this is completely sfw

....................

"You know, I'm still impressed that you could understand all these people. Are language barriers just...nonexistent here?"

"Barriers? What a silly prospect, dearest." Ena chuckled as she looked at the list of jobs you were both assigned to carry out. "Let's proceed onwards. Everything we do will bring us one step closer to--turning off that goddamn smoke and giving the Boss a piece of my mind!!"

"Wah!" You jumped back in fright as her "meanie" side started yelling out of the blue, crushing the paper in her grasp.

Having known her for so long, you should be used to this being a daily occurrence...yet somehow she never fails to startle you.

"Did you forget the mission?! This isn't a date!! Put those squishy eyes to work and start looking for that last pet...or baby..or..or whatever!!"

"...y-yes ma'am." Sighing, you tried to shake off your nerves and search for the final trail of blood, not wanting to get her any angrier.

You weren't sure how you winded up together, or how you even got thrown into this strange world in the first place, but Ena was the first to find you. She dragged you into her "business", where you also met Froggy and learned more about what they did.

While you didn't fully understand everything, you knew this much: you've been going around doing favors for people who, for some reason, despised Ena's species. Even if you didn't know what they were saying, their general attitude towards her implies that she did something really, really terrible...or they could be mistaking another Ena's actions for hers.

But you didn't know anything about her past, nor what her kind might've did except exist, though it was through your intervention alone that helped most clients to calm down.

Sometimes, it was difficult for you to speak up given your shy demeanor, which hasn't quite left your personality even now. Although with time it got easier, and Ena helped you come out of that shell more and more.

Of course, you made sure clients fully paid you both for your services--but instead of using cash like you expected, the popular currency here was apparently "chocolates". They were edible, although Ena advised you to hold onto them.

So this was pretty much your new life, and somewhere down the line she became your girlfriend. Her "Salesperson" side loved you dearly and made sure you didn't put yourself in any danger, often speaking on your behalf.

The only problem was getting along with her Meanie side to where her outbursts didn't scare you anymore, and perhaps...you could uncover that bit of softness hiding behind her rough exterior.

That became your mission, and you hoped to make at least a little bit of progress if you're going through all of this trouble to find the Genies and convince them to clear the smoke.

After finding the last pet and bringing it back to Shoryo, you received a handful of chocolates. It was then you realized you've lost track of Ena and searched around the land, eventually finding her near the bridge.

A ratlike person was seemingly guarding it, hoarding different things and looking very alarmed at her presence.

He began yelling in Italian, stomping around and flailing his arms about until suddenly--

He collapsed, fainting much like a goat would when startled. But he stopped moving entirely, and Ena just stared down at him.

"What the hell? I was gone for five minutes!" Mortified, you rushed over and kneeled down. "Sir, can you hear me? Are you-?"

"Don't even tell me you were gonna say "alright". What does it look like?!"

"We have to help him, Ena." Looking up, you saw Meanie's expression remain unchanged, and you sighed. "Please. I know the lost witch probably went over this bridge, but..it feels wrong to cross without his permission."

"....."

"Pretty please?"

"....ugh fine. Let me at him." With a huff, she urged you to move aside while she somehow magically revived the hoarder, who seldom thanked you both and apologized for his outburst.

The stresses of his work were creeping up on him, and apparently he was growing paranoid of the purple villager who stood on a nearby decrepit building, convinced they were scheming to take his "property".

So he tasked--or demanded, rather--that you covered their eyes with something.

Eventually, your aimless wandering led you to a small green alien who was trapped within a bubblegum vending machine with three legs. They were eager to sell you products, but after recognizing Ena, they seemed frightened and insisted they couldn't sell anything to her.

"Okay, now you're being ridiculous." You frowned. "You have something we want, and we're trying to-"

"Guys, guys! Wait!!"

Turning to your girlfriend, you could see Meanie's eyes growing wide--as though she was terrified of something. Her head was spinning, her limbs discombobulating.

It was unlike anything you've seen before. "Ena..?"

"I'M NOT DOING WHAT YOU SAY I'M DOING!!" She yelled out. "I'M NOT DOING ANYTHING!! I'M NOT DOING ANYTHING AT ALL-!"

"Ena! Hey. Hey."

Feeling hands on her shoulders, she suddenly looked at you. Her eyes were still wide, but she had seemingly returned to reality as she calmed down. "[Y/n]?"

"Yeah, it's me." You reassured, moving to take her shaking hands into yours. "You're alright. I believe you."

"........"

Somehow, the vending machine alien was moved by your words, and allowed her to buy one thing and one thing only: mayonnaise that was apparently good for the eyes, but you both knew what to do with it.

Before setting off to complete the hoarder's request, you wandered around a bit to see if anybody else needed help.

But you kept thinking back to Ena's apparent panic attack and stopped for a moment, clearing your throat. "So...um-"

"You heard nothing."

"....did you even know what I was gonna-?"

"Don't back-sass me, sweetheart!" She spun around to face you angrily, fists shaking. "You wanna walk the road alone?!"

"No." You put your hands up in defense. "I'd....much rather walk it with you. Wherever it might lead us, I hope we can face it together."

Meanie blinked, surprised by your words. They sounded so sweet, so endearing...and it made a slight blush rise to that specific side of her face. "Ugh....y-you're lucky you're cute." She grumbled, handing you the paper. "Let's just go find that bug-eyed moron and be done with this."

"Alright." Nodding, you led the way, although occasionally you'd glance back at your girlfriend to see her geometric claws trying to cover up the blush--to no avail. You smiled sweetly, and she just stared at you, the burning sensation getting worse. "You know, you're not too bad, Meanie."

"What did you do to me? Why does my face feel like it's on fire??"

"It's called "being bashful", honey. Humans feel that sometimes, especially around the person they love." You winked.

She just mumbled something unintelligible, her hat hiding her eyes from you, but you both kept continuing forward.

'Huh, there's a way to crack through that exterior after all..'

#clanask #anonymous #ena x reader #joel g ena x reader #ena dream bbq x reader #female reader #ena dream bbq

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yanderedrabbles · 3 months ago

Text

Yandere Religious Fanatic

She's convinced that God chose you to be her partner. The fact that you disagree is irrelevant.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who rises through the ecclesiastical ranks like God truly is on her side. Hers is the holy cause, the righteous one. If heretics have to burn at the stake to cleanse the masses, then so be it. She'll carry the torch.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who gives sermons like hellfire and brimstone are staining her tongue. Who moves people, convinces them to join her congregation through sheer fervour. Whose influence grows everyday.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who fits into so many times and places. She could be a Roman priestess or oracle. She could be a holy knight during the middle ages. She could be an outspoken and powerful vizier in the Ottoman court.

Regardless, your story and hers both play out the same. Time can't change what God and heaven have ordained.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who meets you entirely by accident. She's on a street corner, preaching to a crowd that grows every minute.

And then there's you. At the very back, eyes narrowed.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who meets your gaze - you alone, out of the surging dozens. She directs it all at you. The love religion can bring, the fulfillment. The way your life will never lack meaning. The way you'll never go hungry again, if you have faith to sustain you. She pours her heart out.

And you just walk away.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who isn't sure how to react. She's been hated, she's been scorned. But such terrible apathy? You don't want to be saved, you don't want anything at all.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who tries to let it go. You can't save everyone. Not all hearts are open to the truth. But she doesn't quite manage it. She kneels before her God and thinks of you. The sun slanting across your cheeks, the bruised hollows under your eyes. You're tired. You're beaten down and chewed up.

You need succor. You need rest.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who can give it to you. Who wants to give it to you.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who finds you again by chance. In the worst part of the city, handing out bread to the poor and needy. It puzzles her. You have no love for God or prayer, no belief in heaven or divine punishment. So why do you still go out of your way to serve the destitute?

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who strikes up a conversation with you. There are a dozen others who want her attention - advice, blessings, all of her charity. But once again, she only has eyes for you.

You're reserved but polite. Not denying her attempts to convert you, but not encouraging them either. You're not taken in by her charisma. It should be frustrating, but she finds it intriguing instead. You're an anomaly. A test.

She's destined to save you, she knows it.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who asks a few of her closest followers to keep an eye on you.

"I feel heaven working strangely."

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who listens carefully to every report they bring back. Who your family is, who you socialise with, how you spend your days.

At first, she's just trying to puzzle you out. Why do you feel so special? What is her role in your life?

But the more she learns, the more sure she feels. You're her perfect counterpoint. Logical and balanced where she's passionate. Calm where she's excitable. Observant where she's not.

If heaven guides her, then surely you're heaven sent?

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who can't help but feel frustrated at not being able to get closer to you. Any attempts to talk about God and heaven are met with a polite dismissal. Any attempts to spend time with you are interrupted by her followers or her duties. For now, she tries to be content with what little she has.

She'll love you from a distance, for however long it takes.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic whose political power grows as her influence does. Who in time comes to sit on the political council of your city, who comes to have the ruler's ear. What governor would dare turn away someone with such a large following?

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who dreams every night of the city on fire, and you, at the centre of it all. A prophecy? A warning?

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who slowly starts replacing the elected officials with her own followers. How else can she cleanse the city? The government must itself be pure if the citizens are to be as well.

It makes people uncomfortable. There's whispers of her replacing the ruler soon, of her being the next to sit the throne. But whispers are all people feel comfortable with. She has so many followers now, that it's hard to be sure who can keep a secret and who can't.

The last straw is when the ruler gives her power to form her own squadron of peackeepers. They don't only arrest the criminals, but the sinners too. Money lenders. Prostitutes. Gamblers.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who isn't at all surprised to see you standing before the Senate soon after.

"This isn't lawful or just," you say to the assembled politicians and priests. "This city is home to half a dozen gods, three dozen different beliefs. How can one reign supreme over us all?"

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who's honestly pleased to hear you speak. She was right. Everything about is calm, controlled.

When she stands to offer a rebuttal, the entire room quiets to hear her. Her voice is filled with a half veiled intensity. She's all passion where you were quiet logic.

"Heaven's light falls on us all equally. Heaven's love is for us all to feel. Why then, should we have different laws for different people?"

"We shouldn't. We shouldn't have religious laws at all."

That makes her laugh.

"Oh lamb, how else will the law be just if not guided by God?"

There are politicians and senators who disagree with her. Who fear her. But when the vote is passed, they don't abstain. It would be career suicide to go against her.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who hears the discontentment from the disbelievers and it only encourages her. If the sinners object, then surely she must be doing something right.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic whose ranks swell with converts. Some see the light, but most only do it out of fear. They don't want to be stopped by the peacekeepers. Don't want their businesses scrutinised too closely. A storm is brewing and they want the shelter she offers.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who starts to see a whole lot more of you. Talking to senators, to the people. You don't have her obvious charisma, but there's something about you that makes people listen. A sense of certainty, perhaps.

Whatever it is, you start to gather your own supporters. People who believe the city should be ruled by the laws of Man and not God.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who's there the night the ruler dies. One of the few in the room, one of the first to know. She prays over his body and his eyes are scarcely closed before she's taking charge.

And her very first order? Find and arrest you. You're the face of the resistance. Without you, will the others still be brave enough to stand against her?

When her guards find you, you're in the middle of a meeting with your comrades. It turns into a bloodbath to get you.

At first, she's displeased. When you're brought to her, you're bleeding from a dozen different cuts and your lip is split.

"What is this?" you demand, as though you aren't being held in chains.

"The ruler is dead," she says simply. "I want to ensure a peaceful transition of power."

That makes you laugh. "He's scarcely started to cool and already there's blood on the streets. Tell me, is that the peace you wanted?"

She keeps you locked away. Even when your followers come to demand your release, even when the senators start to whisper that she's going mad.

It could go one of two ways. The people revolt or they don't.

Even you're starting to believe she must be lucky, because after she declares that any rebel activity will be punished by executing you, the last few members of the opposition give up. Surrender and watch their city become a theocracy. They've all seen the way she looks at you. If she's willing to put your head at an executioner's mercy, what will she do to her enemies?

After she has you, she stops dreaming of fire.

Yandere! Religious Fanatic who tells herself she keeps you because it ensures obedience. And perhaps that's true on some level.

But the real reason she keeps you locked away? It's because she loves you. Loves bringing you your meals and talking to you. Loves the way your mind works. Loves the determination that never wanes.

You're not the same as you were, you're harder now, resentful. But that's fine. She has all the time in the world to win you over.

Heaven and fate themselves chose you as hers. Who are you to to go against them?

#yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere scenarios #reader insert #x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x you #Fem yandere #Yandere Religious Fanatic

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unadulteratedsoulsweets · 3 months ago

Text

A DC X DP IDEA #44

Three Teens, Three Crowns, and a Whole Lot of Nope

Imagine dis…

I was just shuffling around my playlist when I heard that song from the animated movie El Dorado and it made me thinking, so here it goes…

…

DANNY’S POV

The moment my best friends bit the ghostly dust, the universe decided to hand us a set of crowns we didn’t ask for. Because obviously, nothing says “Congratulations on your tragic deaths!” like a full-time job in the afterlife.

Tucker, in a plot twist no one saw coming (except maybe Clockwork, because that guy cheats), turned out to be the reincarnation of some ancient Pharaoh. Not just any Pharaoh—oh no—he got the VIP pass straight to the top of the Egyptian pantheon, answering only to me, the so-called King of the Infinite Realms. Because if there's one thing I’ve learned, it's that my best friend is destined to be the world's first tech-savvy, WiFi-dependent god-king of the afterlife.

Sam, on the other hand, had always been a little too into nature, and I guess the universe finally decided to roll with it. When she synced up perfectly with Undergrowth’s power, the big walking salad declared her his heir, making her the literal Queen of Nature. So now, Sam basically has dominion over every plant in existence, which means I can never make an offhand comment about preferring artificial Christmas trees without getting a death glare.

And me? Well, since I yeeted Pariah Dark back into the sarcophagus where he belonged, the Infinite Realms figured I should be the one running the place. So, lucky me—I got promoted to Ghost King, a position that comes with all the responsibility and none of the training manual.

Now, you’d think that’s enough responsibility for a trio of teenagers who just wanted to survive high school. But no, Clockwork took one look at us, decided we sucked at ruling, and thought, Hey, let’s make this fun! So instead of, I don’t know, giving us an actual lesson in leadership, he chucked us into a completely different dimension (because, sure, why not?) and told us to start cults.

Yep. You heard that right. Cults.

No warning, no instructions, just a “figure it out” and a push into the deep end. One minute we’re in the Ghost Zone, the next we’re scattered across this weird universe like a really weird cosmic prank.

So now I’m stuck in Gotham, which, by the way, might be more haunted than the Ghost Zone itself. I have no idea where Sam and Tucker ended up, but if I know them, Tucker’s probably convinced a bunch of tech bros to worship him as some cyber-god, and Sam’s singlehandedly turning a park into her new throne. Meanwhile, I have to somehow convince people to follow me without sounding like a lunatic.

This is going to be fun. (Spoiler: It won’t be.)

…

SAM’S POV

Gotham reeked of smoke, oil, and decay. Beneath its gothic beauty was a suffocating lifelessness, an unnatural cage of steel and concrete. The city was a graveyard where nature had been paved over and left to rot in the shadows of towering skyscrapers. It was unacceptable. It was offensive. And Sam was going to change it.

She wasted no time. The moment her feet hit Gotham’s cracked pavement, she started planting seeds—both literally and metaphorically. It began with whispers. A small movement. A group that promised something different. Gotham had no shortage of lost souls—criminals, outcasts, the downtrodden looking for something beyond the city's endless cycle of crime and punishment. But Sam wasn’t offering power or chaos like every other Gotham lunatic. No, she offered something much rarer: sustainability.

Food. Shelter. Community.

It started with fresh produce, rare and valuable in Gotham’s urban wasteland. No one questioned where it came from, only that it was fresh, free of toxins, and worth more than a stack of stolen cash. The deal was simple—manual labor in exchange for nourishment. Gotham’s criminals, many of whom spent their lives getting stabbed, shot, or beaten in some turf war, found the idea shockingly reasonable. Hospitals ate through their earnings. Gang life was profitable until you bled out in an alley. But a place that provided food, healing, and protection? That was something different. That was better.

The movement grew. What began as a handful of desperate people looking for a way out became something bigger. The streets whispered of a new force rising, one that didn’t deal in violence or corruption but in roots—roots that burrowed deep, that refused to be ignored.

At first, the Batfamily dismissed it as background noise. In a city filled with psychopaths dressed as clowns, what was a little nature cult? But when Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn vanished—not in a grand escape, not in a fiery explosion, but simply faded into the movement—their indifference turned to concern.

When Ivy resurfaced, she wasn’t the same. The wild unpredictability had been tempered into something focused. Controlled. She still worshipped nature, but now she had a leader, someone she called High Priestess. And that leader wasn’t some ancient force of the Green. It wasn’t a metahuman, a scientist, or a villain. It was a teenager.

A black-haired, violet-eyed girl who stood in front of kneeling followers, leading ceremonies beneath the growing canopy of Gotham’s first true forest in centuries.

Sam had never been one for blind worship. She despised mindless devotion. But this wasn’t about faith—it was about purpose. The people who followed her weren’t zealots; they were survivors. They had seen what Gotham’s endless cycle of crime and violence had to offer, and they wanted out. She gave them that. She gave them a cause. And if it meant being called a cult leader, then fine. Whatever. Labels didn’t matter. Results did.

And Gotham was changing.

The city fought back, of course. The corruption, the crime families, even the Bat himself—none of them liked an unpredictable element in their precious, miserable ecosystem. But Sam had never been one to back down. Gotham was sick, diseased, rotting. She wasn’t here to burn it down like some power-hungry villain. She was here to fix it.

And if the Bats wanted to stop her, well—

Let them try.

…

TUCKER’S POV

Metropolis was beautiful. It was clean, it was bright, and it was bursting with technology. Skyscrapers gleamed under the sun, state-of-the-art AI patrolled the streets, and futuristic inventions were integrated into everyday life like it was no big deal. This was a city that worshiped innovation, where science and technology weren’t just tools but pillars of society.

Tucker should have been in heaven.

But he had a mission to complete before he could sit back and enjoy the wonders of Metropolis. Clockwork’s orders. And if the old ghost had taught him anything, it was that ignoring his cryptic guidance usually led to bad things. So, no indulging in the city’s top-tier tech just yet. He had a kingdom to build.

At first, Superman didn’t even notice him. That was fine. Tucker wasn’t looking to pick a fight with the world’s strongest hero. He moved in the background, setting up encrypted networks, hijacking digital footprints, and planting just enough static in the city’s airwaves to keep any unwanted super-snooping off his back. The occasional glitch in Superman’s super-hearing? That was Tucker, laying the groundwork.

But the real disruption came when people started vanishing.

Not just any people—tech specialists, programmers, engineers. The kind of minds corporations fought over, the ones Luthor’s company owned through shady contracts and blackmail. One by one, they disappeared from Metropolis, slipping through the cracks like digital ghosts.

The city was no stranger to missing persons. Metropolis saw its fair share of people vanishing into the underbelly of crime, alien invasions, or one of Lex Luthor’s ever-growing list of sinister schemes. But this? This was too precise, too targeted. Luthor’s R&D departments were bleeding talent at an alarming rate, and the usual suspects weren’t responsible.

The only common thread? The Code of Ra.

It started as an urban myth—a secretive group offering sanctuary to tech minds who had seen too many of their peers exploited, coerced, or “recruited” by the so-called forces of good and evil. They were promised a place where their work was valued, where they were free to create without fear of it being stolen, weaponized, or locked behind corporate greed.

And at the center of it all? Him.

Tucker hadn’t just built a cult—he’d built a kingdom. One where technology wasn’t a tool for war, where engineers and programmers weren’t disposable assets, where knowledge was sacred. He offered an intellectual utopia, a society where the greatest minds could work without limits. And the best part? They wanted to be there. There was no brainwashing, no coercion. The world had burned them too many times, and Tucker had simply given them an alternative.

And, okay, maybe he leaned into the whole Pharaoh thing a little. He was a reincarnated ruler, after all—might as well own it. Gold-trimmed robes, sleek futuristic stylings with ancient Egyptian aesthetics, and a throne room that looked like a cyberpunk temple. He’d always thought he’d look good in royal attire, and damn, was he right.

But his people didn’t follow him because of the theatrics. They followed because he gave them something no one else had—freedom.

Superman, unaccustomed to dealing with cults, found himself in unfamiliar territory. He had fought tyrants, warlords, and intergalactic conquerors, but a movement built on voluntary devotion? That wasn’t as simple as punching a bad guy. Normally, this was the kind of mess Batman or Wonder Woman would handle. But Diana was off-world, and Gotham had its own cult problem. That left the burden squarely on Superman’s shoulders.

And Tucker? Tucker was more than ready to enjoy the show.

…

DANNY’S POV

The desert sucked.

Like, really sucked.

If he ever made it out of this, he was going to personally petition the Ghost Zone to just delete the concept of sand from existence. Sand was evil. It got everywhere, it was hot, and it made him feel like a melting popsicle under a blowtorch.

His ice core hated him. His human half hated him. The sun was having the time of its life roasting him alive. And then—nothing.

When he woke up, things got weirder.

For one, he wasn’t dead. Which, honestly, was a pleasant surprise considering the whole “heatstroke and possible dehydration” situation. For another, he wasn’t lying in the sand anymore. Nope. Instead, he was inside a coffin.

Not the first time he’d woken up in one, but still, rude.

He sat up, blinking blearily, and was immediately met with dozens of kneeling figures in dark robes. No one screamed. No one attacked. They just...stared.

Which, honestly? Way creepier than ghost attacks.

The air smelled like flowers, incense, and something ancient, like he’d been dropped in the middle of an old temple. Around him were offerings—literal offerings—of gold, silver, and silk. And the people? They were whispering. Murmuring things he barely understood, eyes shining with what he could only describe as religious awe.

Which was never a good sign.

Danny had questions. A lot of questions. But the big one?

What the actual heck was going on?

It took some time—aka him sneaking around, eavesdropping, and pretending he had any idea what he was doing—but eventually, he figured it out.

These people? Every single one of them had died before. Not in the casual, “oops, tripped and fell” way, but in the full-on, flatline, bright light at the end of the tunnel way. And somehow, they’d come back. Some were resurrected, others survived things they shouldn’t have, but they all had one thing in common: they felt drawn to him.

Apparently, he was some kind of cosmic beacon for people who’d taken a one-way trip to the afterlife but forgot to stay there. To them, he wasn’t just some random ghost kid—he was the King. The embodiment of balance, life and death, chaos and order. The guy who got to decide whether people stayed dead.

And that was so not on his resume.

But did that stop people from kneeling at his feet, swearing loyalty, and building a cult around him? Nope.

Did he ask for it? Also nope.

And somehow, it just kept getting bigger. At first, it was just the devoted ghost-adjacent weirdos. Then mercenaries. Then, a group of assassins and a guy named Ra. Even Slade freaking Wilson showed up one day, standing ominously at the back like the world’s most intense chaperone.

Danny didn’t do cults. He wasn’t qualified for cults. He was barely qualified for high school.

But Clockwork had said he needed to establish one, and, well...mission accomplished?

Now, all he had to do was find Sam and Tucker, reunite with his spouses, and figure out how to explain to them that, uh...he might have accidentally become a god-king of the undead.

Yeah. They were never gonna let him live this down.

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: I tried a new type of writing. How is it?

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #dp #ghost king danny

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comicaurora · 5 months ago

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A bit of a strange question, but if there were any of your videos you were to "remake" today for any reason (ex: you feel like you misrepresented the original text or spread misinformation), which would it be and why? None of them is a perfectly valid answer

Again: bit of a strange question, but I've been thinking about my own creations and how I could have done so much better with some of them, but I also know that is a sign of my growth and constantly chasing "what if I did this instead" isn't always healthy for nurturing a creative mindset, and I was wondering what your opinion might be as a Creator of Things with a bit more experience than I

There's been a few trope talks where I've thought later of other angles I could've explored that might warrant sequels or part 2s, but I don't dislike any of the summaries enough to justify a rework.

I always find "I could've done this better if I made it now" to be a bit of a fallacy. I'm only better at making things now because I made all those earlier things. If I knew everything I'd learn from making a project before I started the project, it wouldn't come out the same.

I think when it comes to the "rework remake perfect" instinct, it helps to zero in on what the impulse is really grounded in. In my experience, more often than not, it's not actually about making the art better, except incidentally. It's usually about showing that you are better. It's demonstrating your competence and your higher standards and your skills, and more importantly it's overwriting the proof that you were once less than perfect. If people look at your old work and think that's all you're capable of, they'll be judging you poorly!

If that's the motivator, it's a very unhelpful one. You can't control for being harshly or incorrectly judged. It's a fruitless effort to stave off potentially upsetting outdated criticism, and it's not even going to work. Fear of critique is an unreliable and untrustworthy motivator.

If it really is about making the art itself better, perfecting your magnum opus with your newly leveled-up skills, that's a little more solid. But from where I'm standing, it's always better to use those skills to make something new instead of polishing something old. The older, unpolished work has already acquired its audience that finds it appealing for reasons that might never occur to you. Trying to bury or overwrite it just deprives that audience of the thing they like, and maybe makes them feel bad for having liked it in the first place. Also, usually when you look back on the older work, you'll conclude that the problem is everything and it'll need to be torn down and started from scratch. I know when I revisited the first three chapters of the comic, when I let my critic brain spin up, it wasn't shading or lineart I wanted to fix - it was panel composition, overall pacing, the entire structure of the chapters as a whole. I would've had to make them all over again to be happy with them, and they wouldn't be the same story by the end.

I've been thinking a lot about the Discworld through this lens lately. It ended up over 40 books long, but everyone agrees that the first two are not what you should start with, because they're the worst ones. They're entirely parodic, purely referential of at-the-time major fantasy series, and borderline mean-spirited in places. If you haven't read Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser and Dragonriders of Pern, you're not gonna understand like a full 50% of The Colour Of Magic.

It's clear that when he started in on them, Pratchett was entirely focused on taking the piss out of a genre he found mostly shallow and unimpressive. But the Discworld wouldn't leave his head, and everything he made fun of he clearly eventually found himself overthinking. He'd make little one-off jokes in the early books about Dwarves having no women and a hundred words for gold, and then twenty books later he'd have a Dwarf gender revolution make waves across the Disc, and then he'd write Thud!, a book that delves deeper into the nuances of Dwarf societal structure than Tolkien ever did.

If you look for them, there are continuity errors everywhere in Discworld. In his introductory book, Carrot defused a dwarf bar full of rowdy brawlers by guilting them all into writing to their poor lonely mothers back home. Shortly thereafter, Carrot will be outraged at the mere concept of an openly female dwarf. Pratchett even eventually wrote Thief of Time, a book that loosely explains that the Disc makes no sense because history has been broken and put back together incorrectly twice, and therefore any continuity errors are because of that.

He's the writer. He could've gone back and fixed it, edited the reprints to be less disruptively discontinuous with the later books. Instead he continuously moved forward and allowed the world he made to grow without cutting it off from its roots. And because he didn't bury his older, far worse work, we have the privilege of following the Disc's evolution from the very start, and seeing how this shallow, stock fantasy world parody became something incredibly rich and complex without ever pretending like its early installments never happened.

Anyway, that's why I think it's better to move forward. You make more good stuff that way.

#asks #not aurora #writing stuff

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hard-core-super-star · 7 months ago

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sudden desire [K.Bishop + Y.Belova]

pairing: dom!yelena belova x sub!reader x switch!kate bishop

summary: after yelena dissapears on an unknown mission for a month, kate decides to take things into her own hands and encourage her to come home. things don't go exactly as planned for her on the blonde's return.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! -> dom/sub dynamics; implied pet play {collars, yelena using 'pet' and 'kotenok'}; orgasm denial; bondage; fingering; oral; sex toys; a dash of overstimulation; praise + degredation; kate's a brat and proud of it; yelena's mean but a secret softie; a SEVERE lack of proof-reading!

wordcount: 4.8k

a/n: SURPRISE! kinktober may be over but i got too attached to this idea and had to finish it. i have so many thoughts and feelings about this fic but i will save them and let you guys read it and form your own opinions about this dynamic. personally, i am OBSESSED with them and i would love to expand this little universe a little more. despite this being mostly shameless smut, there are quite a few feelings involved, especially regarding yelena and how being in this dynamic helps her unwind in a way without things being strictly sexual. so yeah, there's a lot but i really hope you enjoy <3

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It doesn't take a genius to figure out Yelena has been acting off for the past few weeks.

It isn't unusual for her to be a little distant. Still a little rough around the edges, thanks to the unbelievable amounts of trauma she keeps hidden inside herself. Things are different this time, though.

It's been days since she's shown up at the apartment, even longer since she's returned one of your calls. She never goes more than a few days without letting you know where she is, that she's okay and simply busy on whatever mission has taken her attention this time.

Kate tells you not to worry, that the Russian is probably just caught up in whatever mess she's discovered. You know better than that.

Unfortunately for the archer, you learned what the constant furrowing of her eyebrows means a long time ago.

Unfortunately for you, she's far too good at distracting you, always knowing exactly what to do, exactly what to say to steal all your thoughts away.

She can't fully erase your worry, though. Not that she'd even try, considering she feels the same way. Underneath all her stupid jokes, there's an edge of uncertainty she can't quite hide. It weighs her down more than anything else.

You both know Yelena could disappear in an instant if she wanted to. She could throw it all to the wind and never be heard from again if she so pleased.

She'd promised she wouldn't do it, though. Reassured you and Kate that after spending so long without a stable place to call home, she wanted to stay with you two. She wanted to be with you two.

It had taken very little to convince Kate to agree. Despite their rocky beginning, the chemistry they shared was obvious to even the most oblivious. Instead of being jealous about it like you maybe should have, you were intrigued and maybe more than a little attracted to it.

To them and the borderline overwhelming confidence they seem to exude together.

You've never been one for liking simple things, though, and the challenge of keeping them from going at each other's throats acts like an aphrodisiac most nights.

For all their bickering, they're surprisingly easy to manage. Except when it comes to the intricate play sessions Yelena enjoys setting up.

The details of what your relationship had turned into were mostly lost on you. All you knew was that whatever the Russian says goes...and Kate was bound to get punished for not doing as she was told.

As much as Yelena loves to complain about it, you all know she secretly loves it. Loves the thrill that comes with being in charge. That safe rush that takes over her mind and allows her to act without thinking. To command respect in a way she'd never experienced before.

It was a change of pace from what you were used to with Kate, that was for sure. Despite the uncharted territory, you'd gotten used to it far faster than you would have ever imagined. They both made it easy and there was something about the submission Yelena expected from you that made your heart race.

You'd never experienced anything like it before, but you couldn't deny how much you liked it. How much you craved it when she was gone.

Kate does what she can to make the time without the blonde more bearable. You're thankful for her, for the way she knows what you need without even having to ask, but it's not the same. A part of you feels guilty about it. Like there's something wrong with you for wanting to have both of your girlfriends with you.

The archer doesn't seem to mind, though. You know she feels the exact same way you do. As incredible as being with each other is, Yelena brings something different to your relationship. Something extra that you both thrive off of.

Maybe that's what makes Kate employ such...interesting persuasion tactics.

Once the days turn into weeks which turn into a month, the archer's patience wears thin. Just because you both know Yelena's silence must be due to a dangerous mission doesn't mean you're okay with the lack of communication.

Your impatience starts blending with Kate's and before you know it, you're caught in the middle of one of her "incredible" plans.

"Come on, babe," she says, her lips pulling into that all-familiar smirk. "Maybe all Yelena needs is a good incentive. Don't you want her to see what a good girl you're being for me?"

Her words do a good job convincing you, but they're not enough. You know all too well how cruel the Russian can be when she feels she's been disrespected. And the archer playing with you without permission is definitely off-limits.

It's hard to deny Kate when she's looking at you like that, though. With those sparkling eyes and that suggestive smirk.

"I don't know, Katie, it feels like a bad idea," you reply, ignoring the way she keeps leaning closer and closer to you.

"Maybe but bad ideas are the most fun, aren't they?"

You can't exactly argue with that, considering the many stupid things you've done together that have led to incredible pleasure. Although, truth be told, the archer is usually the one who has to bear the burden of whatever punishment comes after. You wish you could say you feel bad about that but...she is the one who comes up with most ideas.

You're in the middle of trying to form a response when Kate leans in to capture your lips in a heated kiss. It's impossible to stop yourself from kissing her back, your hands moving up to tangle in her messy hair.

You pull her closer to you until she's straddling your lap, practically trapping you between her and the couch. You'd love to complain, but she feels far too good against you for you to even try.

Her kisses make your mind spin until nothing remains except her. She knows this, of course, because she knows you so damn well.

When she pulls away, she's breathless yet somehow still smiling like you put the stars in the sky. "I think you're coming around to my idea."

She's not wrong but the smugness in her tone pisses you off a little. "I still think it's stupid."

"I never said it wasn't." Kate rolls her hips, tantalizingly grinding down against you. "But I promise you'll have a good time."

You groan as your head leans back against the couch with a soft thump. "You're gonna get us in so much trouble."

"Yelena loves her little troublemakers, though."

"Oh my God, please stop talking."

"Not until you agree." Her lips find their way onto your jaw, pressing soft kisses and teasing bites to your skin. "...please."

It's a low blow and he knows it, but it's impossible to deny the archer when she asks for things so nicely. "Ugh, fine, just don't tie the ropes so tight this time."

Kate agrees and before you know it, you're naked and tied up with the purple rope the archer loves to use on you. To top everything off, she wrapped her collar around your neck, something that was bound to get a reaction out of the Russian.

You and Kate were her pets and while she allowed the archer to stake some claims of dominance over you, this one was off-limits. Not that Kate cared much. She was usually a lot better at doing things behind the blonde's back, though.

What Yelena didn't know didn't hurt her, but now, she was about to be dragged into something she wasn't going to be very happy to see.

Sending her pictures of the evidence is one thing, but Kate wants more. She always does.

So, she brings out more toys, stuffing your cunt with a thick dildo and pressing a relentless vibrator to your puffy clit. The pleasure is more than enough to drown out your thoughts and objections which means you barely flinch when Kate takes her phone out again. She records the way you squirm for her, the way you moan her name like a prayer, and then, to top it all off, she sends the videos to a very pissed off Russian.

It takes a while for the consequences of the archer's actions to catch up to you.

Since Yelena's obviously busy, it takes her a few days to come back. You're not home when she arrives, having gone out to run a quick errand, but Kate is.

Which means you're met with quite the situation on your return.

The second you close the apartment door behind you, you're slammed against it, a gentle yet firm hand wrapping itself around your throat. You freak out for about a second until your senses catch up to reality and the smoky scent of Yelena's cologne hits your nose.

Almost instantly, you relax into her hold and meet her dark green eyes. There are so many words on the tip of your tongue, but you can tell she's not in the mood for it. Her mind is completely set on the scene she already started without you.

"Hi, detka. Did you miss me?"

You do your best to nod despite how difficult her grip on your throat makes it.

"Yes? Well, that is not what Kate Bishop told me a few days ago. She said you were being a naughty slut for her."

Her words make your heart drop into your stomach. You knew Kate's plan was stupid, but you didn't think she would throw you under the bus like that. What a cheeky little traitor.

"Do not worry, kotenok, Kate and I already worked things out. Would you like to see?"

Without waiting for a response, she moves her hand from your throat to your hand, gently tugging on it to lead you toward the living room. You go with her and your eyes are instantly drawn to Kate's figure on the couch, tied up in a pattern strikingly similar to the one she'd used on you mere days ago.

The biggest difference, though, is the large, purple dildo stuffed inside her cunt. Just from looking at her, you know exactly what her punishment is going to be for stepping out of line the way she did. You have to admit, though, she looks incredible like this. Gagged and wearing her purple collar with the leash attached.

"What do you think?" Yelena asks, her tone giving away how proud she is of herself.

"She looks good," you reply, earning yourself a smile from the Russian and a muffled whine from the archer.

As much as you sympathize with Kate, you can't say you didn't warn her.

A soft squeeze to your hand makes you turn to look at Yelena again. There's a familiar softness in her features as she looks at you, almost as if she's trying to read you, trying to figure out if you're on the same page as her. You know where that insecurity comes from and you're more than ready to wipe any and all doubts from her mind.

It's easier said than done, though, and the first step is always the hardest.

Thankfully, Yelena takes it for you.

"Kneel."

It's a single word, barely a command, but the storms hidden in her green eyes don't lie. She needs this just as much as you need her.

So, even though you crave comfort more than submission right now, you do exactly what she says. You drop down onto your knees in the middle of the living room, doing your best to ignore the way Kate squirms on the couch.

Yelena steps forward, her hand reaching out to caress your face. "You look so good like this, malishka. You understand pets should be seen and not heard, right? Or do I need to teach you a lesson too?"

You shake your head, not feeling particularly enthused about receiving a punishment already. Then again, you're sure if the blonde really wanted to, she'd do it anyway, regardless of your good behavior.

"Good."

It's not entirely praise, but her voice carries a twinge of affection that makes Kate whine. You don't know what happened between them, what exactly the archer did to piss off the blonde so much, but you know she's paying for it now. Which means, in some weird way, you're paying for it too.

Yelena admires you for a long moment, silently watching your reactions, watching the way you submit deeper and deeper with eveyr second that goes by. She loves Kate, she really does, but there's something about the ease with which she can control you that does things to her that she can't explain.

It's not about the pleasure. At least, not fully.

It's not even about the power she holds over you right now.

It's about the control. About being able to not worry and know you'll do exactly what she wants.

She doesn't have to guess or think too hard.

You're both on opposite ends of the same spectrum. You both need each other to stop the fears and the worries. To quiet your thoughts until nothing remains but each other...and the whiny, puppy-like switch squirming on the couch.

It's strange, but it works. You all work. And it's absolutely terrifying because none of you have ever experienced anything like this before. You've never wanted anything the way you want each other.

"What do you want from me tonight, detka?" The blonde asks, her voice still soft despite the hardness on her face. "I will give you anything you desire."

Her words carry far more weight than you want to think about right now. You want to simply focus on the scene. On the role you have to play here.

It's hard, though, when Yelena's looking at you with an adoration that rivals Kate's. It's not like the Russian doesn't love you. You know she does. She just shows it in ways that aren't super compatible with you.

Right now, though...right now, it's working for you far more than it should be. All you can think about is how much you missed her, how badly you want to be under her control once more.

You're not sure how to articulate what you're looking for. All you can do is hope the blonde can make sense of the messy thoughts in your head.

"I just want you," you reply, your words a touch too vulnerable for your liking. "Want you to take control. To touch me until I can't take it anymore."

After spending the past few weeks taking orders from rich people who pay well but don't understand what it takes to kill a person, your request sounds like music to her ears. It's almost laughable how easy it'll be to fufill your desires, to give you exactly what you want until you can't think about anything else but her.

"I can work with that," she says, the corners of her mouth curling up into a wicked smirk. "As long as you are okay without Kate Bishop?"

The question catches you a little off-guard. Not because you're particuarly in need of the stubborn archer, but because she is. Yelena's a good domme, no one can deny that, and yet she hesitates to use you without Kate breathing down her neck.

She must be really pissed off if she wants to keep her off to the side and away from the action.

"Yeah, I'm okay with that." Your words are true, but you can't deny your curiosity so you push a little more. "Is she only allowed to watch?"

"Until I decide she has learned her lesson."

Yelena's response makes Kate cry out again. All the blonde has to do is look up and glare to get her to quiet down. It's scary how angry she seems to be...and also really, really hot.

Especially when she looks back down at you and her eyes soften. "Present yourself for me, kotenok. Remind me what I have been missing."

You don't waste any time in scrambling into position. Kate's eyes seem to burn through you while you get onto your hands and knees in front of Yelena, pushing your ass back just a little.

Despite the clothes you're still wearing, you feel incredibly exposed.

That feeling only intensifies as the blonde walks around you, circling you slowly and taking in every inch of your body. You're not sure where to look, stuck between wanting to duck your head in a show of submission and keeping your eyes on Kate, watching the frustration that blooms across her beautiful features.

Thankfully, Yelena doesn't like keeping you guessing. She enjoys clear commands, leaving none of you with doubts about what she's looking for. "Keep your eyes on her, datka. You too, Kate Bishop."

You let out a hum in response while the archer in front of you huffs and squirms around in her restraints. You have to admit...the sight is incredible.

The Russian settles behind you, a callused hand reaching out to caress down your spine. It takes you a second longer to realize you feel more than just her hand. However, as soon as the thought hits you, she steals them all away with a precise slice of her trusty combat knife.

It shouldn't be surprising, and yet you still gasp, your back arching while she cuts away your clothes. "Do not worry, detka, Kate Bishop will you buy a new outfit. Isn't that right, pet?"

Kate all but glares at you. You know it's not about you. Whatever issues they're having are unfortunatly being worked out through you, but you're not the problem. Hell, maybe there isn't even a problem. Maybe they're just having fun pushing back against each other because they can.

You honestly don't know. But the uncertainty makes everything all the more pleasurable. At least for you. You're not sure the archer can say the same thing.

Yelena makes quick work of your clothes, allowing them to drop to the ground and reveal your dripping cunt. You can't see her smirk, but you feel it in the way her fingers skim over your skin. Light enough to tease but hard enough to remind you not to move. To stay nice and still while she has her fun.

"Look at you. So desperate already. You truly amaze me, kotenok. Always so ready for me to use your pretty holes."

Your walls clench around pure air, making the smirk on the blonde's face grow wider. She can't stop herself from sinking onto her knees behind you and reaching out to touch you.

Two fingers tease and prod at your entrance while she watches you shake and shudder under her touch. She spreads your lips apart just to watch the way your cunt flutters around nothing. A part of her wants to draw this out, you're sure of it, but she's missed you just as much as you've missed her. (Maybe more, but she'd never admit that out loud. Especially not with Kate around)

"You are so good for me, so perfect. All for me to use."

You open your mouth to reply, more out of instinct than a need to say something, but all that comes out is borderline pathetic moan as the blonde works her fingers into your pussy.

She sets a slow pace, almost as if she's taking her time exploring you. The slow speed does little to soothe the fire burning low in your belly but it does help ease your desperation. Not by much, of course, and you're sure the blonde knows that.

Almost as if on cue, Yelena's other hand joins the fun, thumb drawing circles on your sensitive clit. The action catches you off-guard and you barely manage to balance yourself instead of falling face-first onto the ground below you.

Your reaction makes her laugh, but what really entertains her is the struggle Kate is visibly going through.

The archer has always thrived off your pleasure. Always gotten off on your desperate sounds, on the way you lose control over your body, on the palpable desperation that stretches itself over your features. Today is no different. Except for the fact she can't get off.

Sure, her cunt is stuffed full and the dildo keeps rubbing up against her in the best way whenever she squirms around too much, but it's not nearly enough. Her clit throbs painfully, swollen and in desperate need of attention. She won't be getting anything right now, though. Not until Yelena decides she's learned her lesson...or until Kate manages to make herself cum.

"Look at her, malyshka. And here I thought you were the needy one."

You do look at Kate, more out of habit than anything else. She's a vision. Flushed, desperate, and so squirmy it's a miracle she hasn't fallen off the couch.

The sight of her makes you clench around Yelena's fingers, greedily trying to pull them in deeeper. Neither of you are surprised, but it does make the blonde a little more competitive than usual.

She suddenly increases her speed, curling her fingers just enough to have you pushing back against her in search of more. "Such a greedy little pet. You are lucky I like seeing you like this. Although..."

Her words trail off and you instantly know she's coming up with something new. Some other way of making you submit to her, of playing with both of you until Kate stops trying to be a smartass. You doubt that'll happen, but you know Yelena will try anyway.

Whatever the Russian comes up with, she doesn't say anything more, instead going right back to fucking into your cunt. She works a third finger into your walls, stretching you on the digits while she mercilessly rubs your clit.

You can feel it building. The pleasure reaching and reaching toward a fever pitch that will leave you fuzzy-headed and thoughtless. It's so close. You open your mouth, obediently getting ready to ask for permission like a good pet, when suddenly...she removes her fingers from you.

You try your hardest to hold on to some semblance of composure, but you can't. Not when you were so close and full and feeling so good.

A whine makes its way out of your throat and you promptly earn yourself a hard smack to your ass.

"Do not be a brat. You do not want to join Kate Bishop, correct?"

Your response is instantaneous. "No. I'm sorry."

"I know you are, kotenok. But I still need you to behave, okay?"

You nod and Yelena smiles at your quick change of mood. She doesn't say anything else, merely motions for you to crawl forward, toward Kate and the mess between her legs.

Your body moves before you can even comprehend what you're doing. You crawl toward the archer, coming to a stop right between her spread legs, courtesy of Yelena shifting her around until she was sitting up. You tilt your head back to look up at the blonde, waiting slightly impatiently for her command.

You have a feeling you already know what it's going to be.

Yelena takes her time, though. Pretending to be busy adjusting Kate's posture and spreading her thighs for you to see the mess she's made of herself.

Once she's satisfied, and your nose is full of the scent of the archer's arousal, she finally tells you to move. "You know what to do, detka. Make the brat scream your name."

If Kate has any objections, they're swallowed up by her moans once your tongue finds its way onto her clit. It practically pulses beneath you and you waste no time wrapping your lips around the bud and sucking. Hard.

The archer tries to squirm away from you, caught somewhere between her sensitivity and her desperate need for an orgasm. Yelena holds her steady while she keeps her eyes on you. She doesn't really need to, she already knows you know what to do.

You technically don't have permission to touch so you put all your focus into making Kate fall apart with just your mouth. The frantic bucking of her hips tells you all you need to know about how she's feeling. You've never been so jealous of a dildo before, wishing it was your fingers she was clenching around instead.

The archer doesn't seem to mind, though, head thrown back against Yelena, muffled whines leaving her gagged mouth. Whatever the blonde is saying to her is a mere whisper, a secret between them, perfectly crafted to make her fall apart.

You double your efforts, sucking her clit and dragging your tongue along the surface. Your eyes are glued to her face, to the pleasure that spreads along every inch of it, to the rapid heaving of her chest as she tries to keep herself under control. It's useless, though. You all know she's on the edge of losing her composure. Of letting her usual brattiness fade away until all that remains is Yelena's power over her.

Kate's shaking increases in intensity, giving away just how close she is to falling apart. She can't exactly ask for permission due to being gagged but then again, she doesn't need to. Yelena already knows. She always knows.

"Come on, Kate Bishop. Do not tell me you forgot the rules already. I was hoping I would be able to reward you for doing such a good job."

The archer bucks into your mouth, making you moan against her. The vibrations do little to soothe the burning in her core and it takes all her willpower to not fall apart right then and there.

All she can do, though, is let out a string of incoherent mumbles, tinged with a whiny edge that makes Yelena smirk. Those sounds are nowhere near the words she's meant to be saying, the desperate begging the blonde loves hearing from her.

"It sounds like someone does not want the reward I'm offering. What a shame..." She trails off purposely, doing it just to mess with the archer's head.

Kate bites. Of course, she does. As much as she loves to pretend, and as stubborn as she can be most days, she loves this. Loves the rush that comes with the blonde's power over her. There's pleasure in the pushback, but it's when she lets go that she truly feels the weight of it.

You don't slow down for a second. You know it makes things much harder for your girlfriend, but you can't really help it. You're intoxicated by the smell of her, by the taste of her never-ending arousal.

She continues to let out strings of mumbles and whines, each sound growing more desperate than the last. Her thighs shake uncontrollably, giving away just how much she's struggling to hold her orgasm off.

As mean as Yelena can be sometimes, she's not cruel. She only drags the moment out for a few extra seconds before her hand curls into Kate's hair, dragging her head back to expose her delicate throat. "I know, I know. Go ahead, cum for me, darling. You did good."

It's unclear which part of the Russian's words gets to the archer, but it doesn't matter, the effect is the same.

Her whole body stills for a second, a strangled cry getting caught in her throat as she comes undone.

You moan with her which helps drag out the pleasure crashing into her like waves. You work overtime to lap up her release, drinking in her essence and soothing her overwhelming sensitivity as best as you can. It doesn't seem to work considering how violent her shaking becomes, but you don't have any complaints.

Yelena's hand somehow finds its way onto your hair next and she pulls you off the whining archer. "Such a good pet for me. Good girl, kotenok. Will you help me with Kate? She is...a little out of it."

You know what she means. Mainly because you can see it but also because of the way the blonde drops off Kate's last name. You're not fully sure why she has such a fascination with using your girlfriend's full name all the time. All you know is her habit instantly dissapears when the archer's submissive side comes out.

It's not too surprising, though, considering how badly Kate craves comfort and connection in those moments.

A part of you wants to complain since you still haven't gotten your orgasm, but you know better.

You stand up on shaky legs and help Yelena untie the brunette. Leaving the collar on is a no-brainer and even though her whines are pitiful, you slide the dildo out of her.

You pepper kisses across her skin the entire time, instantly recognizing how glossy her eyes are, how far away her mind seems to be. She's as beautiful as ever, in your opinion.

In no time, the three of you are snuggled up in bed. Kate's still really floaty, you're on the edge of going totally fuzzy, and Yelena is happier than she's been in weeks.

Maybe it's weird but you really don't fucking care. Not when Kate's head is resting in your lap and you're completely relaxed lounging in between Yelena's legs.

#kate bishop x reader #yelena belova x reader #bishova x reader #bishova smut #bishova #kate bishop #yelena belova #kate bishop smut #yelena belova smut #hawkeye #black widow #avengers fanfiction #marvel fic #mcu imagine #wlw fic #writing

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