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mrs-delaney · 20 hours ago

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Hide | Chapter 5.1 | This Must Be The Place

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) Word Count: 23.9k Requested: No | Yes Warnings: Mild language, sexual content, recreational drug use, intense emotional realizations, that moment when you know there's no going back, and two people fighting against what's becoming increasingly undeniable

A Few Quick Notes: 📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing. 📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 📌 Requests: Open

Author's Note: There are moments that divide your life into "before" and "after." Moments that change the trajectory of everything that follows.

This chapter is all about that turning point. The slow realization that this isn't just a weekend fling. That connection—the kind that hits like a train and leaves you questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself.

For Joe, whose entire life has been defined by careful planning and deliberate choices, it's about recognizing that sometimes the most important things in life are the ones you never saw coming. It's about standing in a space that feels more like home than the place he's lived for years, and confronting what that might mean.

For Riley, who embraces spontaneity and lives in vibrant color, it's something else entirely. It's about the surprising vulnerability of actually caring what someone thinks—of wanting Joe to see and appreciate the world she's built. It's the unfamiliar feeling of wanting someone to stay, when she's always been comfortable with people passing through her life.

They're opposites in so many ways: his measured calculation against her joyful chaos; his carefully constructed world against her authentic, lived-in one. Neither of them came looking for this collision of worlds. Neither expected how perfectly these differences would complement each other, creating something neither has experienced before.

This chapter explores that pivotal moment when two people from completely different worlds suddenly find themselves standing on common ground—that exhilarating, terrifying space where you realize you're falling, and it's too late to stop.

I hope you feel every tremor, every aftershock, every moment of recognition as these two realize that whatever is happening between them, it's bigger than either of them anticipated.

Your comments on the last chapter absolutely blew me away. I can't wait to hear what you think of this one. 💜✨

Happy reading! It's a long one.💛🏈

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

Joe's stomach tightened as the plane began its descent into Louis Armstrong International Airport. He gazed out the window, watching the Mississippi River snake through the city, its muddy waters glinting in the late afternoon sun. A restless energy thrummed in his chest, unfamiliar and irritating. He didn't get nervous before playoff games—so why did the thought of seeing Riley again have him checking his phone every five minutes?

As the driver pulled away from the airport, Joe took in the city's transformation. Mardi Gras had claimed every surface—purple, green, and gold banners draped from balconies, beads dangled from tree branches, and storefronts glowed with festive lights.

"You picked quite a time to visit," the driver commented, maneuvering around a barricade.

Joe smirked. "Yeah. I came down a few times in college, but it's been a while."

Back then, New Orleans had been a blur—teammates, booze, Bourbon Street, bad decisions. A weekend of chaos, gone by Monday. This already felt different.

By the time they reached his hotel in the Quarter, Joe understood why his agent had pulled strings to get him a room here. The streets were packed with people staking out spots along the parade route, the city already pulsing with energy.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the car and saw the historic mansion-style hotel—balconies wrapped in twinkling lights, right in the thick of it—that it hit him.

His assistant had booked the Quarter.

Joe exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. He'd told Mark and Bill he wasn't staying anywhere this public, wasn't taking that risk. He could already hear their reactions in his head.

Not a smart move, man. Too many cameras. Too much chaos.

He could've called, had her switch him to a quieter spot Uptown. But instead, he just grabbed his bag and walked inside.

Maybe he was being reckless. Maybe a small part of him liked that.

The manager greeted him with a broad smile, all Southern charm and warm hospitality.

"Mr. Burrow, we're delighted to have you with us," he said knowingly. "We've upgraded you to our finest suite—balcony overlooking the parade route."

Joe accepted the ornate key with a nod. "Appreciate that."

The manager lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Between us, we're booked solid. But when we heard you were coming…" He shrugged. "We made it work."

Joe huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Yeah, I bet you did.

Upstairs, he stepped onto the balcony, inhaling the thick, sweet air. The hum of a streetcar rumbled in the distance, the faint strains of brass instruments floating up from somewhere nearby. The scent of powdered sugar and fried dough curled through the breeze.

He pulled out his phone.

Joe QB: Just landed. City looks wild.

Her response came almost immediately.

Riley: Wait till you see it with me. Still good for dinner tonight?

Joe QB: Absolutely. Can't wait to see you.

Riley: Rest up. You'll need your energy for this weekend!

Joe smirked, fingers hovering over the keyboard before he typed again.

Joe QB: Forgot how packed the city gets during Mardi Gras. You okay with eating at my hotel? The restaurant here looks solid.

Riley: Yeah, it's pretty crazy out right now. I've been out all day and just got home—something quieter sounds perfect.

Joe exhaled, relieved. She got it without him having to explain. Another thing about her that just fit.

Riley paced her small back porch, her fingers trailing along the worn wooden railing. She’d spent the morning out with friends, then had lunch with Egan and Marcus at their spot in the Bywater—a proper New Orleans day before the full-on Carnival chaos set in. Now, finally home, she had time to breathe. To think.

The afternoon air held that particular New Orleans quality—humid and heavy with the scent of magnolias and something sweet from the corner store down the street. Her wind chimes, a gift from her mom, tinkled softly in the light breeze, nearly drowned out by the distant sounds of Carnival—brass bands tuning up, voices calling back and forth, the occasional burst of laughter from neighbors already deep in the spirit of the season.

Joe was coming. Today.

After weeks—no, just a couple of weeks—of texts and late-night calls that had quickly become the best part of her day, he was actually going to be here. In her city. In her world.

She exhaled, trying to shake off the restless energy buzzing under her skin.

THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

Laura: So lover boy lands today, huh?

Riley rolled her eyes, though there was no one to see it.

Riley: Shut up.

Haley: You’re nervous. I can feel it from here.

Riley: I��m not nervous. It’s just dinner.

Laura: Sure, sure. Just dinner with the guy you’ve been talking to every night for like two and a half weeks. The guy who cleared his schedule to come see you during Mardi Gras, no less—when the city is packed. Totally casual.

Haley: I need details. What are you wearing?

Riley: I hate both of you. I’ll send you pics later.

Laura: Love you too. Call us tomorrow with ALL the details.

Haley: And I mean ALL of them 👀

Riley set her phone down, shaking her head. They weren’t wrong.

She was nervous—which was ridiculous.

Riley Carter didn’t get nervous about men.

She’d been on stage in front of thousands, done live TV performances without breaking a sweat. But something about Joe Burrow made her feel off-balance in a way she wasn’t used to.

She tried to focus on work, flipping through pages of song lyrics for their new album. She should be working—there were still lyrics to refine, melodies to play with. But her mind kept drifting.

Would dinner be awkward after all this time talking but not seeing each other? Would the chemistry they’d felt in New York still be there?

She glanced at the notebook beside her, pages filled with scribbled phrases, half-finished verses. She wasn’t writing about him. Not directly. But maybe, in the margins of late-night thoughts, in the quiet lines she hadn’t shared yet, he was there anyway.

By the time evening arrived, Riley had changed outfits three times before finally settling on a vintage-inspired black dress with a dramatic slit up one side. The cinched belt at her waist added just enough structure, while the fringed shawl draped over her shoulders softened the look. She layered on gold necklaces that caught the light when she moved, the perfect touch of bohemian flair.

As she slid the vintage dress over her head, Riley felt the familiar calm settle over her. This was her element—creating a first impression, a visual story. The nervousness from earlier faded with each deliberate choice, replaced by the quiet certainty that had carried her through a hundred performances.

With each discarded outfit and final selection, Riley felt herself shift from the woman who'd been pacing her porch to the one who commanded stages. Dressing had always been her armor, her ritual, her way back to herself.

She snapped a quick mirror selfie and sent it to THE DOLLS group chat.

Riley: Final verdict?

Laura: Holy. Shit.

Haley: 10/10. You look insane.

Laura: He’s gonna lose his mind.

Riley smirked, tucking her phone away.

She pulled her hair into a loose updo, leaving a few tendrils framing her face. It was that perfect balance—effortless but intentional. Exactly what she wanted.

She had just swiped on the final touch of lipstick when her phone buzzed again.

Joe QB: Can’t wait to see you.

A slow warmth spread through her chest.

Of course, he couldn’t.

She smiled, tucking her phone into her small crossbody bag, then grabbed her keys and headed out.

Joe's hotel suite was spacious and elegant, with high ceilings, antique furnishings, and tall windows that overlooked the lively streets below. He'd ordered dinner from room service well in advance, arranging for it to be set up on a small table near the windows, complete with candles and a bottle of wine. If they weren't going out, he still wanted the night to feel special.

He'd spent more time than he'd ever admit choosing his outfit—finally landing on a black button-down with a subtle texture, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, paired with light-wash jeans. Clean, simple. Put-together without trying too hard. He wanted to look good for Riley but not like he was overthinking it.

He was nursing an Old Fashioned when a knock sounded at the door, and his pulse quickened. He'd spent the flight mentally preparing for this moment, reminding himself to play it cool—to not be as obviously affected by her as he'd been on Fallon. But all that preparation vanished the second he opened the door.

Riley stood in the hallway, and his breath caught.

Even after picturing this moment a dozen times, the sight of her still hit him like a perfect spiral to the chest.

She moved with easy confidence, her black dress dramatic yet effortless, the slit offering glimpses of long, toned legs as she walked. The fringed shawl draped around her shoulders gave her a bohemian flair that was uniquely Riley—a woman who didn't follow fashion rules but created her own. But it was her smile, warm and genuine, that had his mouth going dry.

"Hi," he said, his voice steady despite the effect she had on him.

Riley stepped in first, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, her hand resting briefly on his chest. "Hi yourself," she said, her voice warm. She glanced around the suite, taking in the details. "This place is gorgeous. Nice move with the room service."

Joe's eyes followed her as she moved further into the suite. "Glad you made it through that crowd out there," he said, stepping forward to pour her a glass of wine. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. "Red okay?"

Riley's smile widened. "Perfect. And it was worth braving the chaos to see you."

"You look amazing," he said, his tone appreciative but matter-of-fact as he handed her the glass.

"Thank you. I'm not even going to tell you how many outfits I tried on tonight, but I'm glad it was noticed."

Joe raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. "Worth every minute you spent on it."

A slight flush touched her cheeks, something that rarely happened to Riley Carter. She covered it with a quick smile, her eyes lingering on his for a moment before she gestured toward the elegantly set table by the window.

"I really do appreciate this, by the way," Riley said, gesturing toward the elegantly set table by the window. "Eating in. It's crazy out there tonight."

Joe nodded, moving toward the table himself. "I forgot how packed the city gets during Mardi Gras. Didn't want to risk dinner turning into a meet-and-greet."

Riley laughed, following him. "Yeah, nothing kills the vibe like someone asking you to sign their baby in the middle of a meal."

Joe smirked, pulling out her chair. "Has that happened to you?"

"Actually, yes," Riley admitted, settling into the seat he offered. "I was two drinks in and signed the poor kid's onesie before my manager could stop me. Mom was thrilled, though."

Joe let out a real laugh, shaking his head. "That's insane. Please tell me there's a picture."

Riley smirked, picking up her drink. "Somewhere out there, I'm sure there is. Probably framed in that kid's nursery."

Whatever lingering awkwardness melted as they settled into the easy rhythm they'd built over weeks of late-night calls and teasing texts.

The food was incredible—blackened redfish for him, shrimp and grits for her, and shared appetizers of boudin balls that reminded Joe of his LSU days. As they ate, Riley told him about her life in New Orleans—the house she'd renovated almost entirely by herself during COVID, how their recording sessions had moved to the city, her eccentric neighbor who practiced trumpet at odd hours but made up for it with homemade desserts.

"I love my neighborhood," she said with a laugh, eyes bright as she sipped her drink. "Especially during Carnival. The parades don't run through my street, but we're close enough to catch them on Magazine. And I'm taking you to Muses tomorrow night."

Joe's fork paused midway to his mouth. His expression shifted, Mark and Bill's warnings already echoing in his head.

"I wasn't really planning on hitting the parades," he admitted, setting his fork down. "The crowds, the visibility—"

"Which is exactly why I asked for your shirt size the other day," Riley cut in, eyes glinting with mischief. "I've got the perfect disguise planned. Trust me, no one's going to recognize Joe Burrow in the middle of Mardi Gras when I'm done with you."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "A disguise?"

"Oh, you're in for it. And the parade's worth it—huge floats, incredible energy, and the best part? It's an all-female krewe, so the throws are next-level. You have to catch a shoe."

"A shoe?"

"Hand-decorated high heels. It's a thing," she explained, grinning. "They're coveted."

Joe shook his head, amused. "My Mardi Gras experience is mostly a blur of Bourbon Street and bad decisions."

Riley smirked. "A couple of drunken college weekends?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, tomorrow you're getting the real experience," she promised. "And seriously, don't worry about being recognized—I've got you covered."

Joe exhaled, still uncertain. He'd always been careful about situations like this—anywhere with too many cameras, too many variables. It wasn't that he minded being seen with Riley, but the thought of losing control of the night, of getting caught up in something messy, had his guard up.

Still, when he looked at her, at the easy confidence in her smile, the anticipation in her voice, he found himself making a decision.

"Okay," he said finally, leaning back in his chair. "I trust you."

Riley's lips twitched. "You shouldn't," she teased.

As the meal progressed, Joe felt himself unwinding in a way he rarely did. Conversation flowed easily between them—her bandmates' antics in the studio, his superstitions in the locker room. She made him laugh, really laugh, and it struck him how much he'd missed that. How much he'd missed this—talking to someone who didn't expect anything from him beyond being himself.

Riley took a sip of her drink, then leaned in slightly. "I'm really happy you rearranged your schedule to come here. I know it was probably a headache. You must be booked solid even in the off-season."

Joe grinned, brushing it off. "I wanted to see you again."

Riley tilted her head, studying him. "That easy, huh?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. It was an easy choice."

She lifted an eyebrow, like she was waiting for him to elaborate.

Joe leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. "Doesn't matter how crazy things are—if I want something, I make time for it."

Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe. Or something softer.

"You haven't even been here a full day," Riley pointed out, her voice quieter now. "And during the craziest time of year, no less."

"Doesn't matter," Joe said simply. He held her gaze, unwavering. "Already worth it."

A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, and Joe felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.

They lingered over dessert—warm bread pudding drizzled with bourbon sauce—but Joe found himself more interested in Riley than the food. The animated way she spoke with her hands, the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she laughed, the thoughtful pause before she answered his more serious questions.

"What?" Riley asked, catching him staring.

"Nothing," Joe said, smiling. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how different you are from what people assume," he admitted.

Riley tilted her head, intrigued. "Different how?"

Joe hesitated. "In interviews and on stage, you're this larger-than-life personality. But when we're together, you're…"

"Less?" Riley suggested, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone.

Joe shook his head. “No. More. More real. More you.”

The tension in her shoulders eased.

"It's nice," she admitted. "Not having to be 'on.'"

Joe nodded. "Same."

He glanced toward the balcony doors. "Want to step outside? The view's pretty incredible."

Riley smiled. "I'd like that."

The balcony was small but perfect, with a wrought iron railing and an unobstructed view of the oak-lined street below. The scene was quintessential New Orleans—streetcars rumbling past, people strolling with go-cups in hand, the occasional burst of music drifting up from somewhere nearby. With Mardi Gras in full swing, the energy was heightened—revelers in costumes, masks and beads catching the light as they passed.

"This is gorgeous," Riley said, leaning against the railing while Joe poured them each a drink from the room's well-stocked bar.

“It is,” he agreed, handing her a glass of bourbon before joining her. “There’s just something about the architecture here. It’s different—has a kind of charm you don’t see in newer cities. These old houses have so much character.”

Riley took a sip, her gaze drifting across the historic homes. "Me too. When I bought my place, I could've gone for something brand new—modern, sleek, no history—but that just didn't feel like me. I wanted something with soul."

Joe studied her in the dim light, struck by how effortlessly she belonged here. She didn't just live in this city—she was part of it, woven into its rhythm.

"I can't wait for you to show me tomorrow," he said.

Riley turned to face him, warmth flickering in her expression. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She hesitated for just a moment, then seemed to make a decision. "Come back with me tonight."

Joe raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Not to stay—unless you want to. Or not. Whatever," she added quickly, suddenly flustered.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head. "That was impressively awkward."

"Yeah, well, you know what I meant," she huffed.

"I do," he said, still grinning. "And yeah, I'd like that."

They finished their drinks in easy silence, the hum of the city filling the spaces between them. When Riley set her empty glass on the small table, Joe knew she was ready to go.

"Let me grab my stuff," he said, stepping back inside.

While Joe packed, Riley arranged for a car. Ten minutes later, they were settled in the backseat of a sleek black sedan, the city lights blurring past the windows as they headed toward her neighborhood.

Joe glanced at her, noticing how she twisted the rings on her fingers. “Having second thoughts?”

Riley turned to him, moonlight casting soft shadows across her face. “No, just… wondering if this is your kind of scene.”

Joe shook his head, voice warm but firm. “Riley, I grew up in Athens, Ohio. Trust me, I’m not used to anything fancy.”

That earned him a real laugh, her shoulders relaxing. “Fair enough. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When the car pulled up in front of a narrow shotgun house painted periwinkle with coral trim, Joe felt a rush of curiosity. The ornate woodwork along the porch, the tall windows framed by salmon-colored shutters, the intricate details that stood out even in the dim glow of the streetlights—it was unlike any place he’d ever been, but somehow, it suited Riley perfectly.

The wide front porch had a welcoming, lived-in feel, with wicker chairs, a porch swing, and potted plants spilling over their containers. A soft glow shone through lace-curtained windows, and the whole place had an effortless charm, like it had been here forever, belonging to the city as much as the city belonged to it.

“This is me,” Riley said as she thanked the driver, her voice light but laced with something vulnerable.

Joe followed, taking in the street around them. Lush gardens spilled onto sidewalks, and other shotgun houses—each painted in its own distinctive colors—stood proudly, their porches strung with Carnival lights or decorated with hanging ferns. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, and a couple across the way waved to Riley as they rocked on their porch swing, plastic cups in hand.

Joe glanced back at the house. “I love it.” And he meant it.

Riley smiled, pleased as she led him up the steps. “It’s a work in progress, but it’s mine.”

When she opened the door, Joe stepped into another world entirely. The narrow shotgun layout revealed itself as he looked down the hallway that ran the length of the house, rooms connected directly to each other, but it was the décor that caught him by surprise.

The walls were painted a deep, rich emerald green that somehow made the small space feel larger, more enveloping rather than confined. A massive ornate gold mirror dominated one wall, reflecting the warm light from vintage lamps and string lights draped across the ceiling. Everywhere he looked, there were plants—hanging from macramé holders, perched on windowsills, sprawling across bookshelves. The furniture was a collection of vintage pieces that shouldn't have worked together but somehow did—a burgundy velvet sofa covered in patterned pillows, carved wooden tables that might have come from different continents, chairs that looked like they'd been rescued from elegant homes of another era.

For Mardi Gras, she'd added purple, green, and gold accents throughout—a garland draping over the mirror, a small Mardi Gras mask display on a shelf, and a bowl filled with vintage glass beads on the coffee table. It wasn't tacky or overdone, just enough to acknowledge the season in her own stylish way.

And yet, despite all the bold colors and eclectic details, the place didn't feel overwhelming. It felt warm. Lived-in. Familiar in a way that didn't make sense.

Joe had spent years living in spaces that never felt fully his—team hotels, his modern, almost impersonal apartment in Cincinnati, the house he'd just bought but hadn't had time to make his own, the home he grew up in that hadn't felt like home since he left for college. Places that held him, but never quite held onto him.

But standing here in Riley's home, something shifted inside him—a tectonic plate of emotion he hadn't known existed suddenly moving. It wasn't just that her space was beautiful or interesting. It was that every corner of it seemed to breathe with her presence, to tell her story without a single word being spoken. Nothing was there by accident. Nothing was just for show.

"Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there."

The lyric surfaced in his mind with such clarity it was as if someone had spoken it aloud. This Must Be the Place. His dad used to play that song on Sunday mornings, vinyl crackling on the old turntable while pancakes sizzled on the stove. The song that had been playing in the background of his life's happiest, most ordinary moments—yet he hadn't thought about it in years.

Something tightened in his chest, a physical sensation to match the emotional realization washing over him. He took a deep breath, feeling strangely like he might cry, though he couldn't have explained why.

What really captured his attention was the art. Every wall was a carefully curated gallery of framed pieces—antique portraits, botanical illustrations, butterfly specimens under glass, and what looked like vintage medical drawings, all housed in ornate gold frames of different sizes and styles. The effect was both chaotic and harmonious, like walking into the home of an eccentric collector who had gathered treasures from across time and space.

"Wow," Joe said, unable to hide his genuine amazement, grateful for the chance to focus on something concrete rather than the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "This is… incredible."

Riley watched his reaction carefully, a hint of vulnerability in her posture. "It's a bit much for some people."

Joe wanted to tell her everything—that he just walked in and already felt more at home than in places he'd lived for years, that something in her careful curation of this space spoke to a part of him he'd been ignoring, that in just thirty seconds she'd managed to upend everything he thought he knew about himself and what he wanted.

But how did you say something like that without sounding unhinged? Instead, he let his eyes move over the space again, taking in the warmth, the layers of history, the unmistakable her in every detail.

"It's perfect," he said, turning to her with a smile that must have conveyed some fraction of what he was feeling, because her shoulders relaxed immediately. "It's so completely you."

And in that moment, though he couldn't have articulated it yet, something fundamental changed in him—as if entering her world had revealed a version of himself he hadn't known was possible.

"Tour?" Riley asked, gesturing down the hallway, unaware of the revelation still reverberating through him.

"Absolutely," Joe replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

She led him through the house—past the living room with its velvet sofa and record player in the corner, through a small dining area dominated by an antique table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Each room was another chapter of her story, and Joe found himself cataloging details he'd normally never notice—the worn spot on the arm of the sofa that spoke of hours spent reading there, the collection of vinyl records organized not alphabetically but in what must be some deeply personal system, the bowl of guitar picks on a side table.

Then they stepped into the kitchen, and something in Joe shifted again.

Unlike the dramatic dark walls of the living spaces, the kitchen was painted a soft sage green with open shelving displaying a collection of glassware and ceramics. A wooden dish rack sat beside the farmhouse sink beneath a window lined with small potted herbs and dried flowers hanging upside down. A linen curtain hung beneath the counter instead of cabinet doors, and an old wooden table with four simple chairs sat in the center of the room.

It wasn't just a kitchen—it was a sanctuary. The heart of this house that somehow already felt like it contained a piece of him.

His own kitchen in Cincinnati—sleek, modern, barely used—flashed through his mind. Takeout containers and protein shake bottles. A space designed for efficiency, not living. Not this... whatever this was that made his chest ache with a strange mixture of longing and recognition.

"This countertop was my one big splurge," Riley said, running a hand over the butcher block, oblivious to his internal earthquake. "Everything else I did myself, but I couldn't cheap out on this."

Joe leaned against the doorframe, steadying himself. "It's nice." An understatement. "I can see why you cook so much when you're here."

"Yeah," she shrugged, "after months on the road, I need a real kitchen."

He looked at her hands as they traced the grain of the wood—hands that wrote songs and played instruments, but also hands that had built this space from nothing. Hands that created home. The contrast with his own life—where other people arranged everything, where convenience trumped connection—felt suddenly, painfully stark.

"So, can we try cooking something in here tomorrow?" he asked, surprising himself with the question.

Riley smirked, crossing her arms. “You wanna help me?”

“Absolutely,” Joe said, stepping closer. “I don’t mind taking direction.”

"Is that right?" Riley's voice dipped slightly, a slow smile playing at her lips. "Then I guess we're cooking breakfast tomorrow. And by breakfast, I mean brunch, because I'm not getting up before nine."

"I'll adjust my schedule," Joe replied, expression serious, eyes teasing, while inside, a voice whispered that he'd adjust far more than his schedule for this woman if she asked.

The air shifted, the space between them shrinking, charged with something beyond mere attraction. It was recognition. Understanding. A terrifying sense of potential.

Riley took a step toward him, eliminating the distance between them. "I should probably tell you," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "I've been thinking about kissing you again since New York."

Joe's pulse quickened, his eyes dropping briefly to her lips. The honesty in her admission—the vulnerability of wanting something and simply saying so—struck him with unexpected force. His world was full of strategy, calculation, never showing your hand. Yet here she was, laying her cards on the table without hesitation.

"That so?" he managed.

"Mmm," Riley nodded, her hands sliding up to rest on his chest. "I've got a pretty good imagination, but I'm curious if the reality measures up."

Joe's grip tightened at her waist, pulling her closer. A lifetime of careful restraint, of measured responses, and yet with her, everything felt inevitable. "Yeah? Only one way to find out."

The first touch was electric, not just a physical spark but something deeper—as if kissing her was another form of coming home, of recognizing something essential. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her fully against him. Riley made a soft sound of approval, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as she deepened the kiss. She tasted like the bourbon they'd shared on his balcony, and something uniquely her that made his head swim.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Riley rested her forehead against his, a smile playing at her lips.

"I'd say the reality holds up pretty well," she murmured.

Joe laughed softly, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. What he wanted to say was that nothing in his imagination could have prepared him for this—not just the kiss, but this entire night, this feeling of stumbling into something that might alter the entire course of his carefully planned life.

"I'd have to agree," he said instead, the understatement of the century.

Riley stepped back, taking his hand and leading him toward the back of the house. "Come on, I want to show you my favorite spot."

He followed, like he suspected he might follow her anywhere now, this woman who had somehow, in the space of a single evening, made him question everything he thought he knew about what he wanted from life.

The back porch was as charming as the rest of the house—string lights crisscrossed overhead, providing a soft glow, and an outdoor loveseat faced a small yard where an ancient oak tree stood sentinel, its branches adorned with a few strands of Carnival beads that caught the light like stars fallen to earth. The tree had been there long before the house, before any of them, its roots deep and certain in ways Joe had never allowed himself to be.

They sat side by side, Riley with a glass of bourbon and Joe with a local beer she'd insisted he try. The night wrapped around them, the distant hum of the city mingling with the gentle tinkling of wind chimes. After a few minutes, Riley shifted closer, tucking herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. Joe's arm wrapped around her, his hand settling on her waist with a rightness that startled him—as if they'd done this a hundred times before, as if his body remembered something his mind was just discovering.

"This is nice," Joe said, feeling a kind of peace he hadn't known in years—maybe ever. A peace that had nothing to do with winning or achievement or the constant forward momentum that had defined his life. "Really nice."

"It is," Riley agreed, her voice soft in the darkness. "Sometimes I forget how much I miss it when I'm in LA. Everything there is so…"

"Polished?" Joe suggested, thinking of his own carefully constructed public image, the way he'd learned to sand down his edges, to present only what was expected.

"Exactly," Riley nodded, her hair brushing against his neck. "Here, things aren't perfect. They're real."

Joe studied her profile in the dim light, the curve of her cheek, the slight upturn of her nose, the way shadows played across her face. He was struck again by how at ease she seemed here, how she fit so effortlessly into this eccentric, beautiful neighborhood—not trying to stand out or fit in, just existing as herself. It reminded him of the feeling he'd had earlier, stepping into her house—that seismic shift inside him, that recognition of something he'd been missing without knowing he was missing it.

The constant pressure to be Joe Burrow—franchise quarterback, leader, role model—it fell away here in this quiet backyard with this woman who saw through all of that to something more essential. Something he was just rediscovering himself.

"I can see why you love it," he said, the words inadequate for the revelation behind them. "It's nothing like Cincinnati."

Riley turned to face him, a smile playing at her lips, eyes searching his. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Joe didn't even have to think about it. "Good," he said, his voice sure in a way that surprised even him. "It’s good."

The moment stretched between them, comfortable and charged all at once. When Riley leaned in to kiss him again, it felt natural, inevitable, like the resolution of a chord that had been building since they first met. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, with a sense of exploration rather than urgency. Joe's hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing along her jawline as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

There was no performance in it, no calculated move, no awareness of anything beyond this moment, this connection. For someone whose entire life had been mapped out in plays and strategies, the simple act of being present—fully, completely present—felt like its own revelation.

They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses that ranged from gentle to breathtaking, talking in between about everything and nothing. The hours slipped away unnoticed, the city quieting around them as the night deepened, as if the world was giving them this pocket of time outside its usual demands.

When their last drinks were finished, the conversation naturally turned to the day ahead.

"So what exactly is this disguise you have planned for me tomorrow?" Joe asked, curious but also aware of the familiar weight of caution returning—the reminder that outside this sanctuary, he was still Joe Burrow, with all the visibility that entailed.

Riley's eyes lit up with mischief, the soft porch light catching gold flecks in her irises. "It's Mardi Gras, baby. Nobody looks twice at anything. I'm thinking a hat, maybe some sunglasses, definitely a bandana. And beads. Lots of beads."

Joe raised an eyebrow, skeptical but feeling a new willingness to trust her, to step outside the careful boundaries he normally maintained. "You really think that'll work?"

"It will," Riley assured him, her confidence infectious. "Look, people are expecting Joe Burrow. They're not expecting some guy in aviators with a bandana over his face, looking like a tourist who's been day-drinking since noon."

Joe laughed, shaking his head, imagining himself transformed, anonymous in a way he rarely got to be anymore. "When you put it that way…"

"Trust me," Riley said, squeezing his hand, her fingers warm against his. "I know this city. And I know how to blend in when needed."

She yawned then, failing to stifle it behind her hand, and Joe glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was well past midnight. Time had become elastic, hours passing in what felt like minutes.

"Bedtime?" he asked, his voice softer now in the quiet night air, aware of a new intimacy in the simple question.

"Yeah." Riley stretched her arms above her head, her movements slow and unhurried, comfortable in a way that spoke of absolute trust. "Today caught up with me."

Looking at her in this moment—relaxed, unguarded, beautiful in the most honest way—Joe felt that certainty again, that sense that he'd stumbled across something precious and rare. Something that might ask him to be more than he'd ever allowed himself to be, something that might require him to dismantle the careful walls he'd built around his life.

Riley stood from her chair, leading the way inside. Joe followed, still struck by how natural this all felt—being here in her space, the warmth of her presence wrapped around him like a second skin. His overnight bag was already by her bedroom door, where he'd left it earlier. The way she'd invited him had been so casual, so typically Riley, that any potential awkwardness had never even had the chance to exist.

They moved through the house together, Riley turning off lights as they went. In her bedroom, the emerald-green walls glowed softly under the warm light of a bedside lamp. Like the rest of the house, the space was layered and lived-in—a vintage bed with an ornately carved headboard, mismatched pillows piled high, plants hanging near the window, framed art covering every inch of available wall space. It wasn't just decorated; it was curated. Every piece told a story. Every corner felt like her.

And unlike his own bedroom—functional, minimal, a place for sleeping and nothing more—this room felt alive with meaning. He realized suddenly that he had always approached his living spaces as temporary, even after buying his house. Always waiting for the next contract, the next move, the next phase. Never fully inhabiting the present.

Riley nodded toward the far door. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to change first."

Joe grabbed his bag and disappeared inside. When he returned, now in a T-shirt and sweatpants, Riley had already changed into sleep shorts and an oversized band tee, her hair piled into a loose bun.

The casual intimacy of it all settled over him like a revelation. This wasn't the practiced intimacy of hookups with women who wanted Joe Burrow in their bed. This was something else entirely—something honest, something that asked nothing of him but his presence.

No pretense. No expectations. Just this quiet, uncomplicated moment between them.

When they finally crawled into bed, Riley curled into his side without hesitation, her head resting on his chest like they'd done this a hundred times before. Joe's arm wrapped around her, his hand instinctively trailing through her hair.

“This is nice,” Riley murmured, her voice already heavy with sleep.

“Very nice,” Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

The understatement nearly made him laugh. "Nice" didn't begin to cover the profound shift happening inside him—as if after years of living according to carefully constructed plans and expectations, he was discovering what it meant to simply exist in a moment without analyzing it, optimizing it, or preparing for what came next.

As her breathing evened out, Joe lay awake for a little while longer, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city outside the open window. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he felt this settled. Not just comfortable—but right.

The thought hit him the same way it had earlier, standing in her living room, that old song playing in the back of his mind.

“Maybe I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.”

The lyrics felt like prophecy now, as if they'd been waiting for this moment to reveal their meaning to him. Talking Heads couldn't have known about a quarterback from Ohio or a singer from New Orleans, and yet somehow they'd written the perfect words for this night, this feeling.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn't set an alarm. Didn't think about practice schedules or media obligations or what came next.

He just held Riley closer, let his eyes slip shut, and let himself be. In this bed, in this house, with this woman—that felt like more than enough.

Joe woke to sunlight filtering softly through lace curtains and the distant sound of a saxophone drifting lazily from somewhere down the street. For a second, confusion hit—the unfamiliar ceiling above him, the warmth of someone tucked comfortably against his side. Then it all slid neatly into place: Riley. Her house. Falling asleep with her pressed softly against him.

He relaxed immediately, letting himself sink into the pillow, enjoying the rare, unhurried peace of the morning. There was no alarm ringing, no film study, no training session demanding his attention—just this moment, quiet and perfectly calm.

He glanced at his phone: 9:26 AM. Later than he'd slept in months, maybe longer, and somehow, he felt no rush to get up.

Riley stirred slightly, tightening her arm around his waist, pressing her face sleepily into his chest. Her hair was everywhere, tangled across her pillow, partially obscuring her face. Joe watched her quietly, noticing small details he hadn't gotten close enough to see the night before—the delicate tattoo behind her ear, the faint scatter of freckles over her nose. She looked peaceful, unguarded, completely different from anyone he'd ever known—nothing rehearsed or controlled, just effortlessly herself.

Her eyes fluttered slowly open, hazy and unfocused. "Morning," he murmured softly, brushing a stray strand of hair gently away from her cheek.

She made a muffled, sleepy noise against him. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine-thirty."

Riley groaned, pressing her face deeper against his chest. "Too early."

Joe chuckled quietly, sliding his fingers lazily through her hair. "Thought you said nine was acceptable?"

She sighed dramatically, voice muffled by his skin. "Nine is just the earliest acceptable hour. Not the one I prefer."

Despite her complaints, she didn't pull away—instead, she settled closer, relaxing comfortably against him. Her eyes opened again, softer this time, gaze steady on his face. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Best I have in forever," he admitted honestly, surprising himself with how easy it was to tell her something true.

Riley stretched lazily, catlike and comfortable, and Joe's attention sharpened instantly. His eyes drifted along the curves of her body, catching on the way her thin t-shirt had ridden up to expose a strip of smooth skin at her waist. He felt warmth spreading through him, slow and steady.

She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging playfully at her lips. "See something interesting?"

Instead of answering, Joe reached out deliberately, his hand sliding across that exposed skin with confident purpose. Riley's breath hitched audibly, her eyes suddenly fully alert.

"I've been waiting on you to make a move since New York, my guy," she said, the bluntness sending a thrill through him.

"Have you now?" Joe murmured, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Without hesitation, he shifted over her in one fluid motion, his weight pressing her into the mattress with deliberate pressure. His eyes locked with hers, taking in her surprised expression with quiet satisfaction.

"About damn time," Riley breathed, her hands immediately sliding up his back, pulling him closer.

Joe dipped his head, claiming her mouth with the same decisive confidence he brought to everything that mattered. No hesitation, no uncertainty - just clear intent. Riley responded immediately, arching beneath him, a small sound of approval escaping her.

He broke away just enough to see the challenge and desire flickering in her eyes. "Better late than never, right?"

"Just shut up and kiss me again," Riley laughed softly, tugging at his shirt impatiently.

Joe grinned and kissed her again, deeper this time, lingering until he felt her melt beneath him. When she tugged at the hem of his shirt again, he sat back just long enough to strip it off, tossing it aside with casual confidence.

Her eyes widened appreciatively as she took him in, openly admiring. "Jesus Christ, you're hot," she breathed, fingers immediately tracing the contours of his chest without hesitation.

Joe laughed under his breath, genuinely flattered by her candor. She wasn't shy, wasn't careful—just honest in a way that felt incredibly refreshing after years of carefully managed interactions.

He dipped his head again, kissing along her neck, letting his teeth graze her skin in a way that made her gasp. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and he looked at her with quiet intent. Riley immediately lifted her arms, allowing him to pull the shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

He sat back slightly, just looking at her—no clever remarks or practiced compliments, just taking her in. Riley flushed slightly under his gaze but made no move to hide herself, bold and confident even now. When she reached up to touch him again, Joe caught her wrists, pinning them gently but firmly above her head, a playful smirk forming on his lips.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips.

Riley bit her lip, looking up at him with eyes full of playful defiance. "Okay, baby," she teased softly, testing his grip slightly. "You're in charge."

His free hand traced a deliberate path down her throat, between her breasts, across her stomach, watching her reactions with focused attention. Riley was unlike anyone he'd been with before - completely unfiltered in her responses, every reaction genuine and unguarded.

When he finally released her wrists, Riley immediately reached for him, running her fingers appreciatively down his chest. Joe leaned down, kissing her deeply before trailing his mouth lower, following the path his hands had taken. Her hands slid into his hair, guiding him with a directness he found incredibly arousing.

"Joe—shit," she whispered sharply, urgency rising in her voice. "Stop fucking teasing me, please."

He glanced up, meeting her eyes with a slight smirk. Without breaking eye contact, he hooked his fingers into her shorts, slowly pulling them down her legs. Riley lifted her hips to help, kicking them off impatiently once they reached her ankles.

She was completely bare beneath him, her breathing uneven, body fully open and unguarded in a way that set his blood on fire. Rather than asking permission, Joe simply read her reactions, confident in his ability to understand what she wanted.

He pressed kisses up her inner thighs, feeling her muscles tense with anticipation. When he finally tasted her, Riley's breath caught sharply, her hips arching off the bed, fingers gripping his hair to guide him exactly where she wanted.

"Oh my god," she gasped breathlessly, completely unrestrained in her pleasure, pulling him deeper into the moment with her honesty. "Right there, don't stop."

He had no intention of stopping. The way she responded to him, open and vocal about exactly what she wanted, was unlike anything he'd experienced before.

"Fuck," she whispered raggedly, voice breaking slightly as she tugged urgently at his hair. "Joe— right now."

He moved back up her body, eyes meeting hers. Riley reached blindly for the nightstand, knocking something aside before finding what she needed, pressing a condom urgently into his palm.

"These need to go first," she said, tugging impatiently at his sweatpants.

He shifted, trying to pull them off without breaking contact, but they caught around his ankle. After a brief struggle, he kicked them free, nearly toppling off the edge of the bed in the process. Riley's soft laugh made him smile despite himself.

"Smooth," she teased, laughing softly.

"Shut up," he murmured, kissing her quickly to silence the laugh, though he loved the sound of it.

Joe positioned himself above her, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance. "Look at me," he said, his voice low with desire but steady with certainty.

Their gazes locked as he pushed into her slowly, groaning softly as pleasure shot through him. Riley's breath caught sharply, legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back as she adjusted to him.

"You good?" he asked, his voice rough but controlled.

"So fucking good," Riley gasped, matching his intensity effortlessly. "Don't you dare stop."

Joe began to move with deliberate, deep thrusts, quickly finding a rhythm that had Riley gasping beneath him. He could feel her getting close, feel the way she tightened around him, and he wanted nothing more than to watch her come apart.

"Fuck," he groaned roughly, his own control slipping. "Come for me—I got you."

She came apart instantly, body shuddering as she cried out his name, her complete surrender pulling him over the edge right after. He buried his face against her neck as his own release overwhelmed him, feeling a connection that went beyond the physical.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, breathing ragged, slowly settling back into themselves. Joe pulled her against his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns across her back.

"Well, shit," Riley finally murmured breathlessly, smiling up at him. "Worth the wait."

Joe laughed softly, feeling completely relaxed. "Glad you approve."

She tilted her head up, eyes bright and playful. "Definitely five-star review—though you might want to work on stamina."

Joe groaned dramatically, shaking his head. "Annnnnnddd she's already talkin' shit."

She laughed warmly, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest. "Can't let you get cocky. Besides, we have plenty of time to practice."

Joe smiled, pulling her closer. "Guess I'd better clear my schedule."

"Maybe your schedule could use a little chaos," she said softly.

He pressed a gentle kiss against her forehead, breathing her in. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Maybe it could."

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at him. The amusement in her expression remained, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability that made his chest tighten.

"Just so you know," she said, her voice quieter now, "I don't usually do this."

Joe arched a brow, unable to resist teasing her just a little. "What, sleep with guys you just met?"

Riley rolled her eyes. "Not the part you wanna focus on, dumbass. This." She gestured vaguely around the room, then at herself—bare, open, here in her most private space.

And Joe understood immediately. It wasn't about the sex. It was about the fact that she'd let him in—into her home, her sanctuary, into parts of herself she didn't share easily.

"Riley," he said, his hand finding her face, thumb tracing along her cheekbone with a gentleness that surprised even him. "I know what this means. And I'm not taking it lightly." His voice was steady, certain in a way few things in his life had ever been. "This is..." He exhaled, searching for words adequate to the feeling expanding in his chest. "Fuck, I don't even know how to explain it. But it's not just a hookup for me either."

She held his gaze, and he could see her usual guardedness flickering—like she wanted to believe him but wasn't used to letting herself. He wondered how many people had failed to see the real Riley beneath the stage presence, how many had treated her as less than the remarkable person he was discovering.

Then, finally, she smiled.

Not the practiced, camera-ready one. Not the confident, teasing one.

A real smile. Just for him. And in that moment, Joe knew he was in trouble of the very best kind.

Through the window, they could hear the distant sounds of the city waking up—people laughing, music starting, the rhythm of Carnival day beginning. But here in her bed, wrapped in each other, they existed in their own world, one where footballs and microphones and public personas had no place.

Joe turned his head toward her, letting his eyes move over her face, her lips, the wicked little gleam returning to her eye. Then, smirking, he said, "I'd say we should probably run that back later. Just for confirmation purposes."

Riley burst out laughing. "Confirmation purposes?"

"Scientific method," he said with a straight face. "Need multiple trials to verify results."

Riley shoved at his chest, still laughing. "Wow. Who says romance is dead?"

And as her laughter filled the room, Joe realized he'd never felt so completely himself with anyone—no calculation, no performance, no carefully constructed image. Just Joe and Riley, finding something unexpected and precious in each other.

Joe woke again later to the warmth of mid-morning sun streaming through the lace curtains and the enticing scent of coffee drifting from somewhere in the house. He blinked, disoriented for a moment by the emerald walls and unfamiliar ceiling. The space beside him was empty, the sheets still carrying Riley's scent.

A glance at his phone confirmed what the quality of light suggested—it was nearly noon. He smiled, remembering Riley's insistence that she wouldn't be up before nine. Apparently, she'd meant it.

He stretched, feeling pleasantly relaxed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, then pulled on his sweatpants and t-shirt before following the twin lures of coffee and Riley toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house, bathed in golden light that filled the space with a honeyed glow. Outside, the sounds of Carnival celebrations were in full swing—music from a few streets over, the occasional burst of laughter, the distant thump of drums. Joe paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of Riley moving around the space with practiced ease, filling an old-fashioned percolator with coffee grounds.

She wore his Bengals t-shirt—the one he'd pulled from his overnight bag last night—the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her hair was piled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She looked like she'd been awake for maybe fifteen minutes, still soft around the edges, and something tugged in Joe's chest at the simple intimacy of catching her in this in-between state.

"Breakfast for lunch?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Riley glanced up, a slow smile spreading across her face when she saw him. "Breakfast is a state of mind," she replied, her voice still rough with sleep.

"Hey, babe, can you grab some mugs?" she asked, the term of endearment slipping out so naturally neither of them commented on it, though Joe felt a quiet thrill at the sound of it on her lips.

He pushed off the doorframe and reached for the open shelving. He pulled down two mismatched mugs—one with a delicate floral design, the other an old Mardi Gras souvenir with faded purple and gold lettering.

"These work?" he asked, setting them on the counter beside her.

Riley glanced over and grinned. "Perfect." She poured the coffee, handing him one before hopping up onto the counter, her legs swinging slightly beneath the hem of his t-shirt as she took a careful sip.

Joe leaned against the opposite counter, watching her. There was something almost surreal about being here in this kitchen with this woman, as if he'd stepped into someone else's life—a life with more color, more texture, more spontaneity than his own carefully managed existence. And yet it didn't feel foreign. It felt like discovering a room in a house he'd lived in for years but somehow never noticed.

"So, about that breakfast you promised me…" he said, his voice teasing.

Riley held up a finger, eyes closed as she took another slow sip of coffee. "Let me get through a couple of sips first, and then we'll get started."

Joe huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Not a morning person, huh?"

Riley cracked one eye open. "Not even a little bit. And it's technically afternoon, which just proves my point."

He watched her morning ritual with fascination—the way she cupped the mug with both hands, the small sigh of contentment after each sip, how her entire body seemed to wake up gradually, bit by bit. It was nothing like his usual mornings of alarm clocks, protein shakes, and immediate workouts. This slow unfolding of a day was something he'd forgotten how to do, if he'd ever known at all.

"Alright, I'm ready," Riley finally declared, setting her mug down with purpose.

She hopped down from the counter and moved to an old record player in the corner of the kitchen. After flipping through a stack of vinyl, she pulled out a weathered Allen Toussaint album, a small smile playing on her lips. "Perfect breakfast music," she declared, setting the needle down carefully.

The warm, crackling sound of New Orleans funk filled the kitchen, and Riley swayed slightly, her body instinctively finding the rhythm. Joe marveled at how music seemed to flow through her, as natural as breathing. She moved to the refrigerator, hips still swaying subtly to the beat.

"What're you in the mood for?" she asked, peering inside. "Traditional breakfast or something more fitting for Mardi Gras?"

"Whatever you've got," Joe said, moving to stand behind her, his hands settling lightly on her hips, drawn to her like gravity.

Riley looked over her shoulder at him, smirking. "Not an answer, Burrow." There was something about the way she said his last name—half teasing, half intimate—that made his skin warm.

"What's fitting for Mardi Gras?" he asked, genuinely curious, wanting to learn her world.

"Well," she said, turning in his arms to face him, "we could make king cake. Traditional Mardi Gras breakfast. Or we could do biscuits and gravy like my Papa used to make."

"King cake sounds interesting," Joe said. "But I'm guessing that takes a while?"

"Good guess." Riley ducked under his arm and opened a lower cabinet, pulling out a mixing bowl. "Let's do Papa's biscuits. They're quick, and they go great with coffee after a... busy morning." The slight blush on her cheeks made Joe smirk, memories of their earlier activities sending a pleasant warmth through him.

She began gathering ingredients—flour, butter, buttermilk, salt—lining them up on the counter with practiced efficiency. Joe watched her hands, fascinated by their sure movements, the same hands that had traced patterns on his skin just hours before.

"My grandfather taught me this recipe," she explained, measuring flour into the bowl. "Said no one should leave his house without knowing how to make a proper biscuit."

"Was he a chef?" Joe asked, genuinely interested in the pieces of her history she was sharing.

"No, just a man who believes food is love," Riley said, a softness in her voice that spoke of deep affection. "He said anyone could follow a recipe, but it took heart to make something worth remembering."

Joe nodded, thinking of his own grandfather's lessons about football—not just the mechanics, but the heart behind the game. "I get that."

He watched as she cut cold butter into the flour with two knives, her movements quick and confident. "Can I help?"

"Sure," Riley said, sliding the bowl toward him. "Just finish cutting this butter in until it looks like coarse crumbs."

Joe took over, mimicking her technique with a natural precision that surprised them both.

"Not bad, mister," Riley nodded approvingly as she finished. "Now we add the buttermilk."

When the dough was finally ready, Riley stepped aside. "You mix while I get the bacon started."

Their shoulders brushed as they traded places, the small kitchen bringing them into constant contact. Joe took over the biscuit mixture, studying the consistency of the dough as Riley moved to start the bacon.

"Gentle with it," she instructed, glancing back at him while arranging strips in the cast-iron skillet. "Biscuits need a light touch. Just fold it together—don't knead it like bread."

Joe nodded, his hands moving with surprising confidence as he applied her advice. His fingers worked the dough with measured precision rather than the heavy-handed approach most beginners used.

Riley turned from the stove to check his progress, ready to offer more guidance. But as she watched his careful movements, her expression shifted to surprise. "Wow. You're actually... perfect at this. First try?"

Joe shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I pick things up quickly." His movements remained deliberate, handling the dough with the same focused attention he might give to studying game film. "It's all about touch, right? Knowing exactly how much pressure to apply."

When the dough was finally ready, Riley showed him how to pat it out and cut perfect circles with a juice glass. The biscuits went into the oven, and they moved on to the eggs.

“How do you want your eggs?” Riley asked.

“Mmm, I don’t care,” he replied, shrugging.

Riley glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s not an answer. Most people have pretty strong opinions about their eggs.”

Joe shrugged, eyeing the ingredients she had laid out. "Everything else you're making looks so good, I'm pretty sure I'll be happy with however those eggs turn out."

"Scrambled it is," she agreed, whisking the eggs with vigor. "Can you grab the cheese from the fridge? And the hot sauce?"

They moved around each other in a seamless dance—Joe reaching for ingredients while Riley manned the stove, their bodies constantly finding excuses to touch. Riley bumped her hip against his as she reached for plates; Joe's hand rested briefly on the small of her back as he passed behind her; fingers brushed as they transferred items from counter to table. It was choreography they were creating together, learning each other's rhythms in real time.

"Papa always said you could tell if a relationship had potential by how well you cooked together," Riley said, grating cheese into the eggs as they began to set in the pan.

The casual mention of "relationship" hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging it directly, but both aware of its weight.

"And how are we doing?" Joe asked, flipping the bacon one final time.

Riley glanced up at him, a smile playing at her lips. "Not bad, Burrow. Not bad at all."

The song changed to a more upbeat track, and Riley's hips swayed to the rhythm as she stirred the eggs. Without thinking, Joe slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into a gentle sway that matched the music.

Riley laughed, but she didn't pull away, instead leaning back against him as she continued cooking. "Careful there, mister. I might burn breakfast."

"Worth the risk," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, realizing he meant it in ways that extended far beyond breakfast.

By the time they finished, the kitchen counter was laden with perfect golden biscuits, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs laced with melted cheese, and sliced fresh fruit that Riley had produced from the refrigerator at the last minute.

"This might be the best breakfast I've ever made," Riley declared, surveying their handiwork as she pulled two plates from the cabinet.

"We make a good team," Joe observed, the simple truth of it settling comfortably between them, carrying implications neither was quite ready to voice.

They loaded their plates and settled at the small kitchen table, knees touching beneath it. The first bite of a biscuit—still warm, slathered with butter and honey—had Joe groaning in appreciation.

"Told you," Riley said with obvious satisfaction. "Papa's recipe never fails."

"These are incredible," Joe agreed, reaching for another. "Better than any restaurant."

"Of course they are," Riley said with mock offense. "You think I'd serve you mediocre biscuits after this this morning?"

Joe nearly choked on his coffee, but recovered with a laugh. "Definitely raised the bar."

Riley propped her bare feet up on the empty chair, comfortable in the silence that settled between them. Then she nodded toward the bacon on his plate. "You gonna eat that?"

Joe pushed the plate toward her. "Go for it."

She snagged the piece, taking a bite with obvious satisfaction. There was something disarming about her straightforwardness, her lack of pretense. She simply asked for what she wanted—whether it was his bacon or his presence in her bed—with a refreshing directness that he found both foreign and appealing.

"So what was college Joe Burrow like?" she asked suddenly. "Same perfect poster boy, or did you ever actually get wild?"

Joe raised an eyebrow. "You really want to know?"

"Obviously," Riley said, leaning forward, her eyes bright with curiosity that seemed genuine rather than performative.

"Let's just say I wasn't always this..." He gestured vaguely at himself, searching for the right word.

"Buttoned-up?" Riley suggested.

"Careful," Joe corrected, the distinction important somehow. "There was this one time after we beat Oklahoma in the playoffs. The whole team ended up at this bar in Athens. I climbed on top of the bar, did some kind of victory dance that ended with me falling into a table of drinks."

Riley's eyes widened with delight. "No way. Please tell me there's video."

"If there is, my agent's buried it deep," Joe said with a grin.

"I think there's more college Joe hiding in there than you let on," Riley teased.

Joe smiled, thinking briefly of his more structured days with Olivia, how different things had been then versus his more recent casual encounters. "The wild nights were definitely there, just... selective. Reserved for big wins and bigger losses." He shrugged. "What about you? Any embarrassing stories you'd rather keep off social media?"

Riley laughed. "You want embarrassing? Just YouTube 'Riley Carter stage fall compilation.' It's a tragic collection of my greatest hits—and by hits, I mean me hitting the floor."

"There's a compilation?" Joe asked, already reaching for his phone.

"Oh yeah," Riley nodded, wincing. "Chicago, I thought there was one more step than there actually was. Seattle, I tripped over a monitor. Nashville, someone threw a bra that I stepped on and went down like I'd been shot." She counted them off on her fingers. "My personal favorite is Denver, where I actually fell into the drum kit. Pete never lets me forget that one."

"And there's video of all of these?" Joe asked incredulously.

Riley groaned, putting her hand over his phone. "Unfortunately, yes. Multiple angles. The Denver one is particularly cinematic—you can actually see the moment I realize I'm going down. The look on my face..." She shook her head. "Pure terror, followed by the cymbal crash heard 'round the world."

Joe laughed, genuine and unreserved. The sound filled the small kitchen, and Riley found herself smiling too, even at her own expense. It struck him that he rarely laughed like this anymore—without calculation, without awareness of how it might be perceived.

"But seriously," Riley said, pushing her empty plate aside after they'd both stopped laughing, "if you want to hear about my real adventures, we had this van when we first started touring. Complete death trap. No AC, exhaust leaking into the cabin, and the passenger door would only open if you kicked it in exactly the right spot."

"You named it, didn't you?" Joe asked, somehow knowing this about her already.

Riley grinned. "The Beast. Spray-painted it on the side ourselves. That thing survived two full tours somehow, held together by duct tape and prayers."

"Where'd it finally die?"

"Middle of nowhere, Wyoming," Riley said, shaking her head at the memory. "Three in the morning, all of us sleeping in shifts because we couldn't afford hotel rooms. Pete was driving, hit a pothole, and the whole undercarriage just... gave up. We had to wait six hours for a tow, sitting on the side of the road passing a bottle of Jack back and forth to stay warm."

"Sounds miserable," Joe said, but his eyes were bright with interest, captivated by this glimpse into her journey, so different from his own carefully managed ascent.

Riley shrugged. "It was, but also kind of perfect? Like, we were broke as hell, but it was the four of us against the world. And somehow people still showed up to those gigs, even though nobody knew who we were."

Joe nodded, understanding what she meant. Some of his best memories were from before the fame, when it was just about the game and the team, not the brand or the expectations.

"So," she said, reaching for her coffee, her tone shifting slightly, "the band's touring again this summer. We're starting with some smaller intimate venues across the West Coast."

Joe nodded, his expression shifting as reality began to intrude on their bubble. "How long?"

"About two months for the smaller dates," Riley said, watching his reaction carefully. "We wanted to do these more intimate venues first - kind of a treat for the core fans who've been with us from the beginning. Just clubs and theaters, keeping it raw."

"Cincinnati's not exactly on the way to anywhere," Joe said, his tone light but the question underneath obvious.

Riley tilted her head, studying him. "I've heard they have these things called airplanes now. Revolutionary technology."

Joe smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Training camp starts in July."

"Look at us," Riley said, leaning back in her chair. "Already trying to figure out the logistics."

"Is that bad?" Joe asked, something vulnerable in the question.

Riley considered this, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "No," she said finally. "This is just... unexpected."

The word hung between them—unexpected. This connection, this comfort, this sense of rightness in each other's presence. None of it had been planned, none of it fit neatly into their separate lives, and yet here they were, sharing biscuits and bacon and something neither was quite ready to name.

Riley took a final sip of her coffee, eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug. "So, what do you want to do with the rest of our day? The parades don't start until later, but I could show you around my neighborhood if you want. There's this amazing record store a few blocks over, and the best po' boy shop in the city."

Joe smiled, but she caught the slight hesitation in his eyes. "That sounds great, but..."

"You're worried about being recognized," Riley finished for him, understanding immediately.

He nodded. "Yeah. Especially here." He didn't need to elaborate—they both knew his LSU history made him practically royalty in Louisiana.

"Fair enough," she acknowledged. "But we can keep it low-key." She stood and moved to a drawer, pulling out a plain dark bandana. "This and some sunglasses should help for a quick neighborhood walk. Nothing suspicious about a guy covering his face during Mardi Gras. Basic tourist move."

Joe took the bandana from her, considering it. "This enough, you think?"

"For a walk around the neighborhood? Should be," Riley said, though her tone carried a hint of uncertainty. "We'll save the full disguises for the parades tonight. For now, keep your head down, avoid purple and gold anything, and let me do any talking if someone approaches."

Joe nodded, his expression still cautious but willing to try. "I'd like that—seeing your neighborhood through your eyes."

"Good," Riley said with a decisive nod. "Let me just get changed, and we can head out. The record store owner keeps a stash of rare vinyl behind the counter for me, and I want to see if he's got anything new."

The simple prospect of walking through her neighborhood streets, just the two of them experiencing ordinary moments together, felt unexpectedly appealing—even with the risk. No cameras, no expectations—just Joe and Riley, discovering each other's worlds one small piece at a time.

"Put that on," Riley said, nodding toward the bandana as she headed toward her bedroom. "And maybe lose the Bengals shirt too. We're going for anonymous here."

Joe grabbed the bandana from the counter and eyed it skeptically before folding it diagonally. He slipped off his Bengals shirt, replacing it with a plain gray tee from his suitcase.

"Better?" he asked, tying the bandana around his neck, ready to pull up when needed.

Riley emerged from her bedroom in green and white striped wide-leg pants and a vintage black Misfits t-shirt, her hair tucked beneath a plain black cap. Her gingham tote bag hung from her shoulder, and gold rings glinted on her fingers as she assessed him with a critical eye, head tilted slightly.

"Almost." She reached up to adjust the bandana, her fingers brushing against his neck. "There. Now you just look like a tourist trying too hard to blend in, which is perfect. That's exactly what we want."

"That's not exactly a compliment," Joe said with a wry smile.

"It wasn't meant to be." Riley grinned, adjusting her tote bag. "Ready for the Riley Carter exclusive neighborhood tour? Limited time offer, far superior to those overpriced French Quarter walking tours."

Outside, the day had bloomed into perfect New Orleans weather—warm but not yet stifling, the air thick with moisture and the scent of magnolias from a neighbor's yard. The street was quiet compared to the bustle of the Quarter, though Carnival energy hummed just beneath the surface. Beads draped from tree branches caught sunlight as they swayed in the light breeze, and the distant thump of drums suggested a small second line forming somewhere nearby.

Joe pulled the bandana up over his nose as they passed a group of neighbors drinking coffee on their porch. They waved at Riley, curious eyes lingering on Joe for just a moment before returning to their conversation.

"See? Easy," Riley said, bumping her shoulder against his arm. "Nobody cares who you are here. They're too busy living their own lives."

As they turned the corner, an older woman with silver locs piled atop her head called out from her porch.

"Riley Carter! Where've you been hiding, girl?"

Riley's face lit up as she changed course, pulling Joe toward the mint-green shotgun house. "Ms. Josephine! Just busy with the album. How are you?"

The woman's keen eyes shifted to Joe, not missing how Riley's hand was still linked with his. "Can't complain. And who's this?"

"This is Joe," Riley said simply. "He's visiting for Carnival."

Ms. Josephine's eyes narrowed slightly, then widened with recognition that made Joe tense. But instead of saying anything about football, she just smiled knowingly.

"Well, any friend of Riley's is welcome here." She gestured toward the house. "Antoine was just asking about that Bill Withers record he lent you."

"Tell him I've got it safe," Riley assured her. "I'll bring it by before I head to LA."

"You coming to Sunday's gumbo gathering?" Ms. Josephine asked. "Antoine's making his famous file gumbo."

"Wouldn't miss it," Riley said, though Joe noticed the subtle acknowledgment in her eyes that he'd be gone by then. Their weekend together had a clear expiration date that neither wanted to mention.

They walked a bit further down the street, with Riley occasionally pointing out neighborhood landmarks—the corner store where the owner still kept a tab for regulars, the tiny coffee shop that served the best chicory blend in the city, the house where a famous jazz musician had lived in the 1950s.

"And that's Ms. Bellamy's place," Riley said, gesturing to a butter-yellow house with elaborate gingerbread trim. "She's been here since before Katrina, knows everyone's business, and makes a praline so good it'll make you cry."

As if summoned by her name, the statuesque woman appeared on her porch, arranging Carnival decorations with mathematical precision. She spotted Riley and gave a small nod of acknowledgment, her eyes scanning Joe with unmistakable curiosity before returning to her task without comment.

"That's basically a hug from Ms. Bellamy," Riley whispered with a smile. "She doesn't waste words on just anyone."

"You know all your neighbors?" Joe asked, genuinely surprised. In Cincinnati, he knew his security guard by name and occasionally nodded to the couple down the hall, but that was the extent of his community.

"Not all, but many," Riley said. "It's different here. People sit on their porches, talk across fences. It's how I stay grounded when everything else gets crazy. These people don't care about streaming numbers or tour dates—they care if I remembered to bring back their casserole dish or if I'm taking care of that rose bush Edith gave me."

Joe watched her as she talked, her face animated with genuine affection for this place and its people. He tried to imagine a version of his life with this kind of community, this sense of belonging to something beyond the team and his career. It was both foreign and strangely appealing.

"What?" Riley asked, catching his contemplative look.

"Nothing," Joe said, then reconsidered. "Actually, it's just... this isn't what I'm used to. Where I live, privacy means isolation. Here, it seems like privacy and community coexist somehow."

Riley nodded thoughtfully. "That's it exactly. People here respect boundaries, but they also show up when it matters." She pointed to a bright turquoise house across the street. "When Katrina hit, Mr. Jerome there took in seven neighbors and their pets. Nobody had to ask—he just did it. That's New Orleans."

They rounded a corner, and the quiet residential street gave way to a small commercial strip—a neighborhood bar with its doors already open, a plant shop spilling greenery onto the sidewalk, and at the end of the block, a weathered storefront with "RESURRECTION RECORDS" painted in faded red letters above the door.

"Fair warning," Riley said as they approached the record store. "Elvin is a character. Local legend, played with Buddy Guy back in the day. He's going to tell you at least three outrageous stories that are probably true, offer you something to drink that's definitely illegal to serve without a license, and try to sell you records you didn't know you wanted."

"Sounds like my kind of place," Joe said, genuinely intrigued. This was as far from the sterile, corporate music stores he occasionally visited as he could imagine.

Riley's hand found his, fingers intertwining naturally. "Just remember, follow my lead. And whatever happens, do not—under any circumstances—mention LSU."

Before Joe could ask why, she was pulling him through the door, a bell jingling overhead as they stepped into another world entirely.

The bell jingled as they stepped inside Resurrection Records, and Joe's senses were immediately overwhelmed. The store was smaller than it looked from outside, every inch of space utilized to the point of controlled chaos. Vinyl records filled wooden crates that lined the walls and created narrow aisles throughout the shop. The air smelled of dust, incense, and vinyl – a combination that was somehow comforting despite being entirely foreign to Joe's usual environments.

From behind a counter cluttered with vintage audio equipment, a tall man with salt-and-pepper dreadlocks tied back in a loose ponytail looked up. His weathered face broke into a wide grin when he spotted Riley.

"Well, if it isn't the prodigal daughter herself!" His voice was deep and gravelly, the kind that only decades of whiskey and cigarettes could produce. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about your old friend Elvin."

"Never," Riley said, making her way through the cramped space to give him a quick hug over the counter. "Just been in the studio cave. You know how it goes."

"That I do," Elvin nodded, then shifted his attention to Joe, eyes narrowing with open curiosity. "And who's the stranger?"

"This is Joe," Riley said casually. "Joe, this is Elvin Baptiste, legend of the New Orleans blues scene and keeper of vinyl treasures."

Joe stepped forward, hand extended. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Elvin studied him for a moment, taking in the bandana and sunglasses with obvious amusement before shaking his hand. "Any friend of Riley's..." he began, then paused, his grip tightening slightly on Joe's hand. "Wait a minute. I know you from somewhere."

Joe felt the familiar tension seize his shoulders. Riley shot him a quick, reassuring glance before turning back to Elvin.

"He just has one of those faces," she said smoothly. "Joe, why don't you look around while Elvin shows me what he's been holding for me?"

Understanding the escape route she was offering, Joe nodded and drifted toward the nearest bin of records. Behind him, he could hear Elvin's voice drop as he leaned in to speak to Riley.

"That's not just some guy, is it?" he whispered, though not quietly enough.

"Elvin," Riley's tone carried a gentle warning. "Not today, okay?"

There was a pause, then Elvin's laugh. "Your secret's safe with me, Riley-girl. Now, about those imports I promised you..."

Their voices faded into the background as Joe began flipping through albums, relaxing into the anonymity of the task. He moved methodically through the bins, not really searching for anything specific but enjoying the tactile experience of thumbing through the cardboard sleeves, studying the artwork of bands he recognized and many he didn't.

Near the front of the store, he noticed a small section labeled "STAFF PICKS" in hand-painted letters. Curious about what kind of music the eccentric Elvin might recommend, Joe wandered over. The collection was eclectic—everything from obscure jazz recordings to punk albums to what appeared to be world music from regions Joe couldn't even identify.

And there, propped front and center, was Talking Heads' "Speaking in Tongues."

Joe's entire body went still. The exact album. The exact song.

With hands that suddenly felt clumsy, he pulled the record from its place of honor. The sleeve was worn at the edges, but the album itself was clearly well-preserved. He flipped it over, and his eyes immediately found what they were searching for in the track listing: "This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)."

The room seemed to recede around him, the chatter and clattering of vinyl fading to a distant hum as he stared at those words. It wasn't just any Talking Heads album. It was the album. The one with the song that had materialized in his mind the moment he stepped into Riley's house, the one his father had played on those Sunday mornings when everything felt right with the world.

"Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there..."

The coincidence was too perfect, too precise to be random. Joe wasn't superstitious—his entire career was built on practice and preparation, not luck or fate—yet standing here, holding this specific record in this specific store in this specific city with this specific woman... it felt like the universe was trying to tell him something.

He glanced over at Riley, still deeply engaged with Elvin at the counter, completely unaware of the cosmic joke or profound message or whatever the hell this was that had just landed in Joe's hands.

The intensity of his reaction frightened him. This wasn't how Joe Burrow operated. He didn't assign mystical significance to old records. He didn't experience emotional earthquakes in dusty shops. He didn't believe in signs from the universe.

And yet.

Everything about his time with Riley had been peeling back layers he hadn't known existed. The way her house had instantly felt more like home than his own carefully designed apartment. The way her chaotic, vibrant life made his structured existence seem hollow by comparison. The way she filled spaces—physical and emotional—with meaning and history and warmth.

He'd been haunted by that damn song since he walked into her house. And now here it was, literally in his hands, as if it had been waiting for him.

Joe tried to rationalize it away. Talking Heads was a popular band. This was probably one of their most famous albums. Of course it would be in a record store. Of course Elvin might select it as a staff pick. There was nothing supernatural about it.

But the explanation did nothing to quell the tremor that ran through him, the sense that something fundamental was shifting in the bedrock of his carefully constructed life.

Even with Olivia—who he'd genuinely loved during those years together—he'd maintained the walls that separated Joe Burrow the quarterback from Joe the person. She'd ended things not because they didn't love each other, but because she'd wanted more of him than he'd been willing to give, more than football allowed him to give. Or at least, that's what he'd told himself at the time. Looking back now, he wondered if it had been his choice all along—football hadn't built those walls; he had.

He'd spent years building those defenses around himself—the disciplined quarterback, the calculated public figure, the man who left nothing to chance. But in less than twenty-four hours, Riley had somehow slipped past all his defenses, not by force but by simply showing him a different way of being. A life full of color and history and connection. A life where things didn't have to be perfect to be meaningful.

And here was this record, this physical manifestation of the feeling that had overwhelmed him in her living room. This tangible proof that the earthquake he'd experienced wasn't just in his imagination.

Joe became aware that his heart was racing, his palms sweaty against the cardboard sleeve. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he'd accidentally revealed something deeply private in public. Glancing around, he was relieved to find that no one was paying him any attention—he was just another customer browsing records.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. This reaction was irrational, disproportionate. It was just a record. Just a song. Just a coincidence.

Except he knew it wasn't. Not really.

This moment, this discovery, was crystallizing something he'd been feeling since he first walked into Riley's world—a longing for something he hadn't known he was missing. A recognition that the life he'd built, for all its success and discipline and achievement, lacked the very thing Riley seemed to create effortlessly around her: a sense of belonging. Of home.

The realization was devastating in its simplicity. He, Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback with the carefully curated public image and meticulously organized life, was homesick for a place he'd never been. For a feeling he'd only experienced in fragments—in his childhood home on those Sunday mornings, and now, inexplicably, with Riley.

It wasn't just that he was attracted to her. It wasn't just that he enjoyed her company or admired her talent or found her intriguing. It was that being with her felt like remembering something essential he'd forgotten. Something about who he could be, who he maybe was supposed to be, beyond the uniform and the expectations and the constant performance.

Joe looked down at the album in his hands, realizing his grip had tightened to the point where he might damage the sleeve. He forced himself to relax, to breathe normally, to appear outwardly calm even as his internal landscape was being completely reconstructed.

He had to buy this record. It didn't matter that he didn't own a turntable. It didn't matter that he had no practical use for it. It didn't matter that bringing this physical manifestation of his emotional revelation back to Cincinnati would be like carrying a live grenade into his carefully ordered existence.

He had to have it. If only to remind himself, when he inevitably returned to his real life, that this place, this feeling, this possibility existed.

"Hey, find something good?"

Joe nearly jumped at the sound of Riley's voice beside him. She was looking at him curiously, her head tilted in that way he was already beginning to recognize as her trying to read him.

"Yeah," he said, holding up the album with a certainty that contrasted with his internal turmoil. "This one."

Riley's eyes dropped to the album in his hands, and for a heart-stopping moment, Joe thought she would somehow see everything—the connection to the song that had played in his head in her house, the seismic shift happening inside him, the terrifying vulnerability he suddenly felt.

Instead, she just smiled. "Talking Heads, huh? Solid pick. That one's a staple."

The comment landed harder than it should have. Of course it was.

"I don't even have a record player," Joe admitted, keeping his tone even.

Riley lowered her sunglasses slightly, studying him. "So why buy something you can't even play?"

Joe looked down at the album, thumb tracing the edge of the sleeve. He considered what to say, but some revelations weren't meant for sharing. Not yet.

"Just feels right," he said simply, with the quiet confidence that came naturally to him on the field but rarely off it. "I'll figure out the rest later."

Riley held his gaze like she wanted to push for more, but after a beat, she just nodded. "Fair enough."

With a grin, she nudged him toward the counter. “Come on, Elvin’s pouring us a drink while we settle up. But take it easy—one’s plenty. Any more, and we’ll be on our asses before the parade even starts.”

Joe followed her to the counter, the record clutched in his hand like a talisman. He'd come to New Orleans expecting a brief escape from his routine, a pleasant weekend with a woman who intrigued him. He hadn't expected to find himself contemplating the fundamental architecture of his life, questioning choices he'd made so automatically he hadn't even recognized them as choices.

And he certainly hadn't expected to find himself holding a physical manifestation of that questioning in the form of a decades-old record.

As Elvin poured them each a finger of amber liquid in mismatched glasses, Joe stole another glance at Riley—her easy confidence, the way she belonged so naturally in this cluttered, chaotic space. The way she seemed to belong everywhere she went, not because she blended in but because she carried her sense of self so completely.

That was what he wanted, he realized. Not just her, though he wanted that too with an intensity that surprised him. But what he truly coveted was her rootedness, her ability to be fully present in her life, to create meaning and connection wherever she went.

The record in his hand was a promise to himself. A reminder that another way of living was possible. That somewhere beneath the carefully constructed edifice of Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, there was just Joe—a person capable of feeling at home, of belonging, of recognizing when something mattered beyond all reason or practicality.

But as he placed it on the counter and reached for his wallet, there was no hesitation in his movements. Whatever this meant, whatever shift was happening inside him, he was embracing it head-on.

He'd come to New Orleans to visit Riley, but he was discovering himself in the process. And that revelation, more than any Talking Heads album or cosmic coincidence, was what truly shook the foundations of his world.

After leaving the record store, Riley suggested they grab a drink before heading back to get ready for the evening's festivities. For now, Joe was keeping a low profile with just the essentials—mirrored aviators and a bandana he could pull up if needed. His head was still buzzing slightly from Elvin's homemade bourbon, a potent concoction the old man had insisted they sample before making their purchases.

"A little liquid courage for the record collector," Elvin had called it, winking at Joe as he'd carefully wrapped the Talking Heads album.

Riley was still in her green and white striped wide-leg pants and vintage Misfits t-shirt, her hair tucked up in a messy bun under a plain black cap. Her black sandals clicked against the pavement as they walked, the gingham tote bag now containing their record store haul swinging at her side. The gold rings on her fingers caught the afternoon sunlight as she gestured down a side street.

"There's a place around the corner," she said, tugging him away from the more crowded streets. "Little dive bar that tourists never find."

They weaved through growing crowds of revelers, many of whom were already in various stages of costume despite the early hour. The energy in the Quarter was building steadily, street performers setting up on corners, vendors arranging displays of masks and beads, the scent of food and alcohol mingling in the humid air.

Joe was still processing what had happened in the record store, the strange convergence of past and present that had left him feeling both unmoored and somehow more grounded than he'd been in years. He found himself gripping the small paper bag containing the Talking Heads album a little too tightly and consciously relaxed his hand.

"Here," Riley said, stopping in front of an unassuming door tucked between a voodoo shop and a vintage clothing store. The weathered sign simply read "The Jimson Weed" in faded paint.

Inside, the bar was dim and cool compared to the increasingly humid afternoon. Old cypress beams crossed the ceiling, and the walls were covered in local art and faded photographs of musicians who'd played there over the decades. A small stage in the back corner suggested live music happened regularly, though at the moment only a Blues playlist filled the air.

The crowd was sparse—a few locals at the bar nursing drinks, a table of what looked like visiting college students, and an older couple in the corner sharing a plate of something that smelled delicious.

Riley slid onto a barstool, and Joe took the one beside her, careful to keep his profile turned away from the door. The edge of Elvin's bourbon was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a pleasant warmth and a slight loosening of the constant vigilance he maintained in public places.

A tattooed bartender with a shaved head approached, his face breaking into a genuine smile when he spotted Riley. "Well damn. Riley Carter emerging from hibernation."

"Hey, Marcus," Riley said, leaning across the bar to bump fists with him. "You know I can't stay away from your Sazeracs forever."

Marcus's eyes shifted to Joe, curious but not intrusive. Joe tensed slightly, waiting for the flash of recognition, but it never came. Instead, Marcus just extended his hand. "Any friend of Riley's is welcome here."

"Thanks," Joe said, shaking it firmly. "Joe."

"You caught Elvin's special reserve, huh?" Marcus asked, noticing the record store bag. "Man's been bottling that stuff since before I was born. Still haven't figured out what's in it."

"Pretty sure it's at least 90 proof," Riley said. "Joe here needs something to take the edge off."

"Say no more," Marcus nodded, already reaching for glasses. "Two Sazeracs coming up."

As he moved away to prepare their drinks, Riley turned slightly toward Joe, her knee bumping his under the bar. "You've been quiet since the record store," she said softly. "You okay?"

Joe met her eyes, momentarily thrown by her perceptiveness. "Yeah, just... processing. The record thing. It was unexpected."

"The vinyl bug bites hard," Riley said, clearly misinterpreting his introspection. "First it's one album, then suddenly you're installing custom shelving to hold your collection."

Joe nodded, grateful she hadn't somehow intuited the deeper significance. "I'll have to borrow your turntable sometime," he said, the suggestion carrying more weight than he'd intended.

"Anytime," Riley replied, something flickering briefly in her expression that made his chest tighten.

Marcus returned with their drinks—amber liquid in rocks glasses, each garnished with a twist of lemon peel. As he set them down, his eyes flickered to Joe's face, recognition dawning in them.

"Enjoy," he said simply, then paused before moving away. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Hey man, my cousin's a huge Bengals fan. Just wanted to say that playoff run was something else."

Joe tensed, his fingers tightening on the edge of the bar.

Marcus seemed to read his discomfort immediately. "Don't worry," he said with a casual shrug. "We get musicians, actors, all kinds through here. House rule is everybody gets to drink in peace."

"Appreciate that," Joe said, relaxing slightly as he reached for his glass.

Riley shot Marcus a grateful look as he moved away to help another customer. "Told you," she said quietly. "Marcus is good people."

Joe took a sip of his drink, the flavor complex and strong—rye whiskey, bitters, and something sweet with a hint of licorice that cut through the lingering taste of Elvin's moonshine. "Damn, that's good."

"Told you," Riley said, taking a sip of her own. "Man's a wizard."

"You hitting Muses tonight?" Marcus called from further down the bar where he was pouring a beer.

"Wouldn't miss it," Riley replied. "Got a spot near Napoleon and St. Charles."

"Smart," Marcus nodded. "Garden District's gonna be a nightmare this year. Heard they're expecting record crowds."

Joe watched as Riley surveyed the room, seemingly relaxed but with a constant awareness that he recognized from his own experiences with fame. Even in minimal disguise, she was careful—monitoring exits, tracking who entered, keeping her back to the wall. It was subtle, probably unconscious, but he noticed because he did the same things.

"So how long have you been coming here?" he asked, genuinely curious about this piece of her history.

Riley traced the rim of her glass with one finger, smiling at some private memory. "Since before anyone knew who I was. This place is special—one of the last real local spots that hasn't been completely overrun. Marcus has owned it for twenty years, keeps the tourists out by never advertising and charging too much for domestic beer."

"Smart strategy," Joe nodded, respecting the intentionality behind it.

"The band played our first real gig here," Riley continued, her voice softer now. "First place that ever paid us actual money instead of just free drinks."

"How'd that go?" Joe asked.

Riley laughed, the sound warm and unreserved. "Complete disaster. We were so nervous, Pete broke two strings in the first song, Andy was late because his car broke down, and I forgot the lyrics to our opener—just stood there humming until the second verse." She shook her head at the memory. "But the crowd was drunk enough not to care, and Marcus kept booking us anyway."

Her expression turned thoughtful, and she glanced toward the small stage. "He saw something in us before anyone else did. Before we even saw it in ourselves, really."

There was something about the way she said it—a quiet gratitude, a recognition of how far she'd come—that made Joe want to know everything about her journey. Not the version in press releases or interviews, but the real story, with all its struggles and triumphs.

"Your turn," Riley said, nudging his arm. "Tell me something about Joe Burrow that isn't in the ESPN highlight reel."

Joe took another sip of his drink, buying himself a moment. What exactly did he share with her? The Talking Heads album was still weighing on his mind—This must be the place. If he wanted to be known, truly known by her, he needed to offer something real, not the carefully curated anecdotes he saved for media days.

Home is where I want to be...

The lyric circled in his head, reminding him of what had drawn him to Riley in the first place—her authenticity, her ability to be fully present in her life. She'd been honest with him, sharing stories of her early struggles without polish or pretense. Maybe he owed her the same.

"I worry sometimes," he said finally, his voice quieter but steady. "About how long I can keep doing this. The knee, the appendix..." He looked down at his drink, turning the glass slowly between his fingers. "Every time I come back, I tell everyone I'm not thinking about it. That I'm just focused on the next game, the next season. But sometimes, late at night, I do think about it."

Riley watched him, not rushing to fill the silence, giving his words the space they deserved.

"Football's all I've ever wanted," Joe continued. "But lately I've been wondering what comes after. What I'm going to be when I can't be that anymore." He shook his head slightly. "Sorry, that got pretty heavy for afternoon drinks."

"Don't apologize," Riley said, her expression serious but warm. "That's real. Every performer thinks about the shelf life of what we do. My voice won't sound like this forever. Your body won't move like that forever. It's normal to wonder what's on the other side."

Joe nodded, relieved by her understanding. "Yeah, exactly. Most people think we're crazy to worry when we're at the top of our game. But that's exactly when it hits you—knowing it can't last forever."

"So what's the answer?" Riley asked. "What does Joe Burrow do when he hangs up the cleats?"

He laughed softly. "That's the million-dollar question. Coaching, broadcasting—those are the expected routes. But I don't know if that's me."

"What about something completely different?" Riley suggested. "You strike me as someone who could excel at just about anything you set your mind to."

"Maybe," Joe said thoughtfully. "Wouldn't that be something? To completely reinvent myself?" He straightened, shaking off the momentary weight of contemplation. "Anyway, that's probably more than you bargained for when you asked for a fun fact about me."

Riley shook her head, her eyes holding his. "No, it's exactly what I wanted to know. The real stuff." She raised her glass. "To second acts and new beginnings—whenever we need them."

Joe clinked his glass against hers, feeling a strange lightness. He'd never spoken those fears aloud, not even to teammates who shared the same unspoken anxieties. Yet here in this dim bar, with a woman he'd known for barely a day, he'd found the words.

"Enough about uncertain futures," he said with a smile. "Tell me about this parade you keep promising will change my life."

Riley's eyes lit up, and as she launched into a detailed explanation of the Muses parade traditions, Joe found himself simply watching her—the animation in her gestures, the genuine enthusiasm in her voice. In her presence, even his deepest worries seemed less daunting, more like challenges to be met than shadows to be feared.

After their second drink, Riley checked her phone and straightened. "We should probably head back soon," she said. "I still need to get ready, and you haven't even seen your parade disguise yet."

"On a scale of one to complete transformation, how extreme are we talking?" Joe asked.

Riley's smile turned mischievous as she slid off her stool. She dropped several bills on the bar—far more than their drinks cost, Joe noticed—and gave Marcus a quick hug. "That should cover us and a little extra for the tip jar," she said.

Marcus shook his head with a smile. "Always too generous, Carter."

"Consider it an investment in my future drinking," she replied with a wink.

Joe observed this small interaction with interest. Another glimpse of her character—the casual generosity, the way she treated service workers not as invisible background characters but as important parts of her story.

As they stepped back into the late afternoon sunlight, the streets were noticeably more crowded than before. Joe pulled his bandana up as a precaution. The energy had shifted—more costumes appearing, music louder, the atmosphere charged with anticipation for the evening ahead.

The two Sazeracs had left a pleasant warmth in Joe's chest, just enough to lower his usual guard. As they navigated through clusters of tourists already adorned with beads and masks, he found himself walking closer to Riley, their hands occasionally brushing until she finally caught his with her own, intertwining their fingers naturally.

"I'm good," he said, squeezing her hand. "Just forgot how hard a Sazerac hits. And whatever the hell Elvin gave us probably didn't help."

"Not used to real drinks, huh? Too busy chugging protein shakes?" She bumped her hip against his.

Joe scoffed, his free hand landing on her waist. "Please. I could outdrink you and still wake up for a workout before you even thought about getting out of bed."

Riley raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh, is that right?" She squeezed his hand, tilting her head. "Don't play with me, sir. You do not want that smoke."

The casual touches, her fingers linked with his, the easy banter—it all felt at once new and strangely familiar, as if they'd known each other much longer than a handful of hours.

As they turned onto Riley's street, the residential area slightly calmer than the main drags, Joe found himself surprisingly eager for what came next. His thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand as they walked, a gesture so natural he didn't even realize he was doing it until he felt her respond with a gentle squeeze.

"Alright," he said as they climbed her porch steps, reluctantly releasing her hand so she could unlock the door. "Transform me."

Inside, the late afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, creating patterns across the wooden floors. The record from the store sat on her coffee table, a physical reminder of his earlier revelation. Joe found himself staring at it, almost disbelieving of how much had shifted within him in just one day.

"Make yourself comfortable," Riley called over her shoulder as she disappeared into her bedroom. "This might take me a few minutes."

She paused at the doorway, turning back to catch his eye. "No passing out on my couch, mister."

"No promises," Joe replied with a lazy smile, though he was far from actually drunk—just comfortable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

He settled onto her couch, the worn velvet somehow more inviting than his own pristine furniture back home. The combination of Elvin's bourbon and Marcus's Sazeracs had left him pleasantly buzzed, his usual hyperawareness softened around the edges.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself simply exist in this space—this house that had somehow felt like home from the moment he'd stepped inside. The distant sounds of Carnival filtered through the open windows, but in here, in Riley's world, there was a stillness that felt sacred somehow.

"Ta-da!" Riley's voice broke through his reverie.

Joe looked up and froze. She'd completely transformed in the thirty minutes she'd disappeared into her room. A light purple wig framed her face—not a vibrant electric color, but a softer lavender that somehow looked surprisingly natural despite being obviously fake. Her face glittered with gold and purple sparkles concentrated around her eyes and cheekbones, making her features shimmer in the light. But it was the outfit that really caught his attention—a black crop top that exposed just enough skin to be interesting without being too revealing, paired with sequined shorts in alternating bands of purple, gold, and green that caught the light with her every movement. She'd paired the look with her black high-top Converse, a leather jacket slung over her arm.

"Damn," was all Joe could manage.

Riley grinned, giving a theatrical twirl. "Now you."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into her bedroom, where she'd laid out his disguise on the bed—a purple snapback with a fleur-de-lis embroidered on it, mirrored aviators, and a bandana in Mardi Gras colors. There were beads too, lots of them, and a white t-shirt with "Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler" printed across the front.

"Subtle," Joe said dryly.

"The beauty of Carnival," Riley said, handing him the shirt, "is that nobody looks at faces. Everyone's staring at costumes, masks, floats. The more you blend in with tourists, the more invisible you become."

Joe changed quickly, pulling the shirt over his head. Riley stepped closer, reaching up to adjust the hat on his head. Her fingers brushed his temple as she worked, warm against his skin. They stood close enough that he could smell her perfume mingling with the faint scent of the bourbon they'd shared. He found himself fighting the urge to pull her closer, to close the small distance between them.

"There," she said, her hands lingering at the sides of his face as she stepped back slightly to examine her work. "How's it feel?"

Joe looked at himself in her full-length mirror, hyper-aware of her standing just behind him, her reflection meeting his eyes in the glass. Between the hat pulled low, the aviators, and the bandana that he could pull up when needed, he was essentially anonymous. He looked like every other out-of-towner in the city for Carnival.

"Weird," he admitted. "But good weird."

"Perfect. Egan texted—they're already at her place with drinks flowing. Six, maybe seven people."

Joe hesitated, something tightening in his chest. "They all know who I am?"

"I may have mentioned I was bringing someone," Riley said with a casual shrug. "And Egan may have figured out who you are. She's smart like that."

Joe felt his shoulders tense. So much for anonymity. Mark and Bill's warnings from their last conversation replayed in his head.

"Look, we're not trying to kill your vibe here," Mark had said, that forced casual tone he used when he was actually concerned. "But it's Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Joe. The whole city is one giant party, and Riley Carter isn't exactly known for taking it easy."

Bill hadn't even attempted to be subtle. "Her world is different, man. We've all seen her Instagram. Those afterparties go until sunrise. That crowd lives for that shit. One video of you getting wild with her friends, and suddenly we're not talking about your comeback season anymore—we're explaining why you're doing tequila shots at 3 AM."

Joe had brushed them off then, but their words hit differently now. The Riley he'd spent the morning with—cooking breakfast, showing him her neighborhood—seemed miles away from the party girl they'd described. But maybe he was about to see that other side of her, the rock star who thrived in chaos and crowds.

"So much for anonymity," he finally said, his tone more resigned than angry.

"Hey," Riley said, stepping closer, her eyes clear and confident. "These are my people. They've had my back through everything. They know how to keep things quiet."

Joe nodded, but couldn't shake the uneasiness. Every new person who recognized him was another potential leak, another possible viral moment. And if things did get wild tonight—well, Mark and Bill would have a field day with the I-told-you-so's.

"We don't have to go," Riley offered, reading his expression. "We can head straight to the parade spot."

"No," Joe said, making a decision. "I want to meet your friends. Just..."

"Just be prepared to slip out if it gets weird," Riley finished for him. "I get it. We'll have an escape plan."

Twenty minutes later, they were walking through streets that had transformed completely from earlier in the day. The energy was electric now, people in various states of costume filling the sidewalks, music pouring from every direction, the air thick with the mingled scents of food, alcohol, and anticipation.

Joe had the bandana pulled up over his nose and mouth, the hat low over his eyes. He looked like dozens of other revelers—anonymous and unremarkable in the sea of Carnival preparations. But beneath the disguise, his mind was racing. These were Riley's people. Her world. And he was about to walk right into it.

"Nervous?" Riley asked, glancing at him as they turned down a side street away from the main crowd.

"A little," Joe admitted. There was something about her that made it easy to be honest when he'd normally deflect. "I'm not great with new people to begin with. Add in the whole..." he gestured vaguely at himself, "...this thing, and yeah. A little nervous."

"If it helps, they're more nervous about meeting you," Riley said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Egan's been texting me non-stop. 'What's he like? Is he cool? What should I not mention?'"

Joe raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "What did you tell her?"

"That you're just a regular guy who happens to throw a football really well. And that if anyone says anything about the Kansas City game, I'll personally remove them from the balcony."

That got a real laugh out of him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Appreciate that."

As they approached a faded blue double shotgun with a wide front porch already filled with people, the bass of music thumped from inside. Bottles clinked, laughter erupted, and Joe caught the unmistakable scent of something that definitely wasn't tobacco. He inhaled slightly, a small smile playing at his lips. Off-season had its perks, after all, and it's not like he was getting drug tested tomorrow. Still, Mark's voice nagged in his head: Just be smart about it, man. No phones, people you trust, no exceptions.

Riley seemed to sense his hesitation, her hand finding his and giving it a quick squeeze. "Two hours, max," she promised. "Then we hit the parade. And if you want to leave sooner, just say the word."

Joe nodded, squeezing her hand back before reluctantly letting go. In Cincinnati, nobody touched him casually like that. He was already missing the contact.

They climbed the steps, and a woman with a short undercut and colorful tattoos spotted them immediately, breaking away from a conversation to rush over, drink sloshing precariously in her hand.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, hugging Riley tightly. She pulled back to examine the wig, nodding with approval. "Love this color on you. Different vibe from last year's blue situation."

"Thought I'd change it up," Riley said, adjusting the wig slightly. She turned to Joe with a look that said ready? "Egan, this is Joe. Joe, Egan—my oldest friend in New Orleans."

"Hey," Joe said, keeping his voice casual pulling the bandanna down. He'd perfected the art of the neutral greeting after years of meeting strangers who already knew everything about him.

Egan's eyes sparkled with recognition, but she played it cool, leaning in to give him a quick hug that caught him off guard. "Nice to meet you," she said at a normal volume, then lowered her voice to add, "Your secret's safe here, promise. We're not the type to blast stuff on social media."

"Appreciate that," Joe said, relaxing slightly at her obvious discretion. Maybe this wouldn't be the disaster his team had predicted.

"Come on," Egan said, leading them toward the door. "Everyone's inside. Fair warning—Tomas brought his infamous punch, and Jeremy is already three drinks in and talking about the Saints' defensive line, so maybe steer clear unless you want to debate NFL strategy all night."

Riley shot Joe an apologetic look, but he just shrugged. "I can talk defense with the best of them."

"That's what I was afraid of," Egan said with a laugh. "Get ready for the football interrogation of your life. He's been preparing his takes all day since I told him you were coming."

Joe couldn't help but smile at that. At least he'd be on familiar territory talking football, even if everything else about this night was uncharted waters.

As they stepped into the crowded house, the door closing behind them, Joe instinctively pulled the bandana down from his face. Out there, in the streets of New Orleans, he needed to be anonymous. But in here, among Riley's trusted circle, he could just be Joe. The air was warm, thick with conversation and music—the rich aroma of good bourbon mingling with something savory cooking in the kitchen, the subtle notes of perfume and cologne, and the unmistakable sweet scent of good flower hanging in the air. This was a long way from his quiet place in Cincinnati, and somewhere between terrifying and exhilarating.

A tall guy with long hair pulled into a messy bun spotted them from the kitchen doorway and called out over the music. "Carter! Get over here! The jungle juice is going fast!"

"That's Tomas," Riley explained, tugging Joe toward the kitchen. "His jungle juice is legendary, but I've seen it take down people twice your size."

As they navigated through the crowd, Joe felt the weight of curious glances but was surprised by how normal it felt. No one was making a big deal of his presence. No phones appeared, no one asked for selfies. Riley's friends greeted him with casual nods or quick introductions—like he was just another friend she'd brought along.

In the kitchen, Tomas was pouring something purple from a massive crystal bowl into mismatched cups. The sweet, fruity smell barely masked what had to be at least three different kinds of liquor.

"The man of the hour," Tomas said, looking up at Joe with an easy grin. He extended his hand. "Good to meet you, man. I'm Tomas."

"Joe," he replied, shaking the offered hand. "That looks intense."

"Family recipe," Tomas said proudly, ladling two cups. "Great-grandfather was a bootlegger during Prohibition. So, that fourth-quarter conversion against Baltimore? Man, that was something else. The way you read that defense—"

"Right?" Joe replied, immediately animated. "They showed blitz but I could tell by the safety's position they were dropping into coverage. It was all about that pre-snap read."

Riley gave Tomas a look that said now you've done it, but she was smiling. Joe took a long sip of the jungle juice, the sweetness barely concealing the serious kick of alcohol.

A guy in a Saints cap who'd been listening from the edge of the kitchen stepped forward eagerly. "So that's how you knew? I've been arguing with my buddies about that play for weeks."

"You must be Jeremy," Joe said, extending his hand. "Egan mentioned you're the Saints expert around here."

"Guilty," Jeremy admitted with a grin, shaking Joe's hand firmly. "Been obsessing over our defensive schemes all season."

"Actually, your coordinator's making some interesting adjustments," Joe said, comfortably leaning against the counter. "That Tampa-2 variation he ran against the Rams was pretty innovative."

Jeremy's eyes lit up. "You noticed that? Most people missed it completely. The way he disguised the coverage pre-snap was brilliant."

"Damn, that's good," he said, genuinely impressed.

"Told you," Riley said, nudging him with her shoulder. "Tomas makes it once a year, just for Mardi Gras."

A woman with long braids appeared at Riley's side, nudging her with an elbow. "You gonna introduce us, or what?"

"Joe, this is Jen," Riley said. "We went to music school together before she abandoned me for law school."

"Best decision I ever made," Jen said, her eyes moving to Joe with open curiosity. "Your girl's a nightmare to tour with."

“Okay, rude,” Riley said, taking a sip of her drink. “I am a delight to tour with.

Jen snorted. “Sure. If your definition of delight includes panic-packing and losing your phone daily.”

Joe turned to Riley, amused. “That sounds… about right.”

Riley just shrugged. “I like a little chaos.”

The guy in a beanie passed by, already smoking. He paused, offering it to Riley with a casual nod.

Riley took it smoothly, inhaling and holding for a moment before passing it to Joe without comment or question. No big deal.

Joe took it with the same casual confidence he brought to everything else. Off-season had its perks, after all. He inhaled with practiced ease, the familiar routine more muscle memory than conscious thought. The tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying in his shoulders melted away as he exhaled low and slow.

He passed it back to Riley, who took another pull before returning it to its original owner. The entire exchange happened with the ease of people comfortable in their choices – no hesitation, no side glances for permission or approval. Just adults making their own decisions.

The conversation around them hadn't even skipped a beat, Jeremy still deep into breaking down some defensive formation with the same enthusiasm as before.

Joe settled back, feeling the pleasant warmth beginning to spread through him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't calculating risks or considering optics. He was just... here. Present. And it felt good.

Joe felt himself settle.

Maybe it was the jungle juice, maybe the weed, maybe just the hum of the night, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about who might be watching.

He wasn’t thinking about the headlines, or the cameras, or Mark and Bill’s warnings.

"So Joe," Jeremy said, leaning forward, "what are you guys looking at in the draft this year? Our mock drafts have you taking that offensive lineman from Alabama."

"Oh God," Riley groaned. "Please talk about something else besides football. We'll never make it to the parade."

But Joe was already engaged, comfortably settling into the topic. "We definitely need to strengthen a few positions," he said, casually confident in his standing with the organization. "I've been watching film on some of the top receiving prospects. Our front office knows I have thoughts."

Jeremy leaned forward, clearly impressed. "They actually let you weigh in on draft picks?"

Joe shrugged, but there was a quiet assurance in the gesture. "It's my offense. They want to make sure whoever they bring in fits what we're building. I was in the draft room last year."

"That's how it should be," Jeremy said, clearly thrilled with this insider perspective. "When you've got a franchise quarterback, you build around what works for him."

Joe gave a slight nod, taking a sip of his drink. "And honestly, that Alabama lineman you mentioned? Wouldn't hate that pick."

As they were preparing to leave for the parade, Joe found himself in a final conversation with Jeremy and Tomas. The three had moved from defensive schemes to debating the league's best venues, finding common ground despite their team loyalties.

"Man, I still haven't made it to a game in Cincinnati," Tomas admitted, finishing his drink. "The atmosphere looks incredible on TV though."

"You should come out next season," Joe said without hesitation, pulling out his phone. "Here, put your numbers in. I'll set you guys up with tickets."

Jeremy's eyes widened. "Seriously? That would be insane."

"Absolutely," Joe nodded, his tone matter-of-fact as he handed his phone to Tomas. "Good seats too, not nosebleeds. And I can get you both field passes before the game."

"That's... damn, thanks man," Tomas said, clearly surprised by the genuine offer as he typed in his number and passed the phone to Jeremy.

"Riley's friends are my friends," Joe said with an easy confidence. "Just let me know which game works for you."

Riley, returning from saying goodbye to Jen, caught the end of the exchange. The pleased surprise on her face told Joe everything he needed to know - he'd just breezed through an important test he hadn't known he was taking.

"Already stealing my people, Burrow?" she teased, sliding her arm through his.

"Can't help it if they have excellent taste in football," he replied with a half-smile, tucking his phone away.

Twenty minutes later, Egan clapped her hands over the music. "Alright, parade time! Muses waits for no one!"

A flurry of movement followed—jackets thrown on, drinks drained, beads tossed over heads, masks adjusted. Someone passed Riley a silver sequined mask, and she slid it into place effortlessly, her eyes flashing behind it.

"We better move," Jeremy said, downing the last of his drink. "Last year Egan left me behind when I took too long."

"She's not joking about the parade waiting for no one," Joe observed, already on his feet and adjusting his bandana. He pulled his cap lower, ready for what came next.

Riley appeared at his side, eyes bright with excitement. "You ready, babes?"

Joe looked at her, taking in the way she vibrated with energy. The way the city felt alive around her, like it moved in sync with her heartbeat. He nodded, already moving toward the door. "Let's go."

As the group spilled onto the porch, the night swallowed them whole—music spilling from open doors, the distant wail of a brass band tuning up, strangers laughing like old friends. Joe stepped confidently into the current, making his way through the crowd with Riley's hand in his, no longer feeling like a visitor but like someone who belonged in this moment.

The parade route was already packed three-deep when they arrived, but Egan navigated with confidence toward a small section that had been impossibly preserved amid the chaos.

"Trahan family real estate," Riley explained, catching Joe's questioning look. "Egan's family has been claiming this exact spot for generations. I've been watching Muses with them since we were in high school."

A cluster of people waved as they approached—a mix of ages and styles that somehow fit together seamlessly, like most things in New Orleans. Joe recognized the easy familiarity of a group that had history together, the kind of connections that ran deeper than occasional meetups.

"Finally!" called a woman who had to be Egan's mother, their features mirroring each other. "We've been fighting off spot-stealers for an hour!"

"Worth the wait though," Riley called back. "We brought reinforcements."

The introductions were casual, unforced. Val and her husband Marco, Egan's parents Marie and Louis, a couple of cousins whose names blurred together. Nobody made a big deal about who Joe was, though he caught the flash of recognition in their eyes. Here, he was just Riley's guy, which felt both strange and surprisingly comfortable.

"So you survived Tomas's jungle juice," Val said, handing Joe a red Solo cup filled with something that smelled like whiskey and fruit juice. "That alone earns you parade privileges."

"It was touch and go for a minute," Joe admitted, taking a sip. Good bourbon, not the cheap stuff.

Marco appeared with a flask, topping off Joe's cup. "Insurance against the wait," he explained with a wink. "Muses runs on New Orleans time."

Riley slipped her arm through Joe's, leaning into him. "Marco's family has been in the Quarter for four generations. His grandmother used to tell us stories about the prohibition-era tunnels under his building."

"Some of them are still there," Marco said proudly. "Though now they're mostly full of old Mardi Gras props and my aunt's preserves."

Joe found himself drawn into their easy conversation, the kind that flowed without the weight of expectation. Nobody asked him about football strategy or his rehab progress. Nobody treated him like Joe Burrow, franchise quarterback. He was just another body in the crowd, anonymous behind his bandana, free to soak in the moment without performing for anyone.

A roar went up from further down the route, and the energy of the crowd instantly shifted, people pressing forward in anticipation.

The energy in the crowd was electric, the anticipation crackling through the streets like a live wire. Riley's grip on Joe's hand tightened, her eyes locked on the approaching float.

"Here we go," she said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. She glanced up at him, noticing his bandana had slipped slightly. Without a word, she reached up and adjusted it, making sure it covered his features properly. Then, with a quick smile, she rose on her toes and pressed a quick kiss against the fabric over his lips.

Joe blinked in surprise, feeling the warmth of her lips even through the bandana.

Joe glanced down at her, the excitement in her expression making his chest feel weirdly tight. He'd never seen anything like this—felt anything like this. He wasn't just watching Mardi Gras; he was in it, part of it, woven into the chaos like he belonged.

When the float got closer, Riley waved, calling up to one of the masked riders. Beads flew in every direction, but Joe could tell she was tracking something else entirely—the real prize.

"Every year since I was a kid," she said, voice raised over the noise, "I've made it my mission to catch a shoe."

Joe glanced down at her, amused. "And how's that been going for you?"

She shot him a look. "I have a collection, thank you very much."

Still, he could tell she wanted this one.

And when a glittering shoe sailed just out of her reach, Joe didn't hesitate. "Getting you a shoe," he said decisively, gripping the backs of her thighs before she could protest and lifting her onto his shoulders in one smooth motion.

Riley let out a surprised laugh that turned into a whoop of delight as she settled her weight against him. Her thighs tightened around his neck, her hands bracing on his head for balance.

Joe planted his feet wider, holding steady as the next float rolled up. The women onboard were throwing wildly now, and he could feel Riley's excitement vibrating through her legs.

"Hey!" she yelled, waving both arms. "Right here!"

One of the masked riders spotted her, held up a glittering purple shoe, and sent it flying in a perfect arc.

Riley reached up and snatched it out of the air like she'd been waiting for that exact moment her whole life.

Her triumphant scream was loud enough to make Joe's ears ring, but he couldn't stop smiling as she pumped the shoe in the air like a championship trophy.

"We got one!" she shouted, and the people around them cheered, caught up in her infectious joy.

Joe shook his head, grinning. "That was all you."

She didn't hesitate before throwing her arms around his neck.

Neither did he before pulling her in.

As the parade continued, the crowd surged and compressed around them. Joe maintained his position with the same calm awareness he showed in a collapsing pocket, creating a small space for Riley without seeming to exert effort. His hand rested comfortably at the small of her back, guiding her through the masses with subtle, assured movements.

Joe scanned the crowd, quickly spotted a better viewing angle for the next float, and guided Riley toward it with a light touch at her back - decisive but never controlling. They arrived just in time to catch the front of the next procession.

When a flask made its way through their group, Joe took measured sips - enjoying himself but maintaining his characteristic control, even in celebration. Riley tucked herself against his side when the crowd pressed in closer, and Joe's arm draped over her shoulders as they swayed to a brass band.

The parade energy built as floats continued to pass. Joe caught several strands of beads tossed his way with the same easy precision he showed on the field - one-handed catches that drew appreciative cheers from nearby revelers. He draped them casually around his neck, collecting quite a collection as the night went on.

At one point, Riley reached up and selected one particularly vibrant strand of purple beads from his collection. With deliberate slowness, she removed it from around his neck and then looped it back, her fingers lingering at his collar, a touch that said more than words could. Their eyes met briefly in the carnival lights, a moment of connection amid the chaos.

The night continued to unfold around them, and Joe moved through it with the same quiet confidence he brought to everything else - present, engaged, and completely at ease in this new experience.

A hand appeared in his peripheral vision, offering him a flask. He took it, nodding in thanks before taking another swig.

"You surviving?" Tomas asked, grinning as Joe handed it back.

Joe followed his gaze to Riley, who was still showing off the shoe to Egan, her whole face lit up. He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Something like that."

Tomas smirked, tipping the flask toward him in a lazy salute. "Good. Would've been a shame if we had to carry you out."

Joe huffed a laugh, tapping his cup against Tomas's flask before the other man wandered off. Something warm settled in his chest—something weightless.

When Riley reappeared at his side, still clutching the shoe like it was made of gold, she looked up at him, her hand sliding into his like it had been there all along. "You good?"

Joe took in the music, the crowd, the easy way she fit against him.

"Yeah," he said, meaning it completely. "I really am."

The parade's final float disappeared around the corner, leaving behind streets littered with beads, empty cups, and the lingering notes of brass bands. Riley's friends were already making plans, voices overlapping in the post-parade high.

"Egan's cousin knows the bartender at Vaughan's," Val announced, waving her phone. "Says he can get us in the back door, skip the line."

"Definitely hitting that," Tomas agreed, slinging an arm around Marco's shoulders. "You two coming? The night is still young!"

Riley glanced at Joe, her eyes slightly unfocused from the bourbon they'd been passing around. She leaned into him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his ear.

"What do you think? After-party at Vaughan's? Or..." she trailed off, the unspoken alternative hanging between them.

Joe felt the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his system, his inhibitions softened just enough to be dangerous. He looked down at her, at the way the streetlights caught in her eyes, at the purple beads still looped around her neck.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said, meaning it completely.

Riley studied him for a beat, then turned back to the group. "I think we're gonna pass," she announced. "It's been a big day for the out-of-towner."

Egan's eyebrows shot up, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "I bet it has."

"Text me tomorrow," Val called as Riley grabbed Joe's hand, tugging him away from the group. "Details required!"

"No promises!" Riley shouted back, already pulling Joe down a side street that would take them toward her neighborhood.

They made it half a block before Riley stumbled on a broken piece of sidewalk, pitching forward with a surprised laugh. Joe caught her around the waist, his own balance not exactly steady.

"Whoa there," he said, overcorrecting and nearly sending them both into a parked car. "I think we might be a little drunk."

"A little?" Riley snorted, leaning heavily against him. "I passed 'a little' somewhere between Tomas's jungle juice and Val's flask."

Joe steadied them both, one arm firmly around her waist. "Maybe I should carry you."

"You absolutely should not," Riley said, poking him in the chest. "You're as drunk as I am. We'd both end up in the gutter."

"I'm a professional athlete," Joe protested, puffing out his chest dramatically. "My balance is impeccable."

To demonstrate, he attempted to walk a straight line down the sidewalk and immediately almost veered into a streetlamp.

Riley doubled over, laughter echoing off the old buildings. "Oh yeah, very impressive, Burrow. Gold medal performance."

Joe straightened up, flashing a sheepish grin. “In my defense, that lamppost came out of nowhere.”

"Clearly," Riley agreed, rejoining him and slipping her arm through his. "Maybe we should support each other. Safety in numbers."

"Teamwork," Joe nodded seriously. "Smart."

They made it another block like that, weaving slightly but mostly upright, exchanging snippets of conversation that dissolved into laughter. Joe couldn't remember the last time he'd been this relaxed, this unconcerned with who might be watching or what tomorrow's headlines might say.

Riley stopped suddenly, almost toppling them both. "Wait. Important question."

"Hit me," Joe said, steadying himself against a wrought-iron fence.

"Are you hungry? Because I'm suddenly starving, and there's this place that makes the best drunk food in the city just around the corner."

Joe realized he hadn't eaten anything substantial since before the parade. "I could definitely eat."

"Follow me," Riley said, tugging him down another street. "But fair warning—I'm about to ruin all other late-night food forever."

Three blocks and several near-falls later, they stumbled up to a tiny window built into the side of a brick building. A handwritten sign advertised "NOLA's Best 2AM Eats" despite it being nowhere near 2AM.

The man working the window nodded at Riley like he saw her every weekend. "The usual, Carter?"

"Times two," Riley confirmed, leaning heavily against the counter.

Five minutes later, they were walking again, this time with paper boats filled with what Joe could only describe as the most perfect drunk food he'd ever seen—crispy fries smothered in a spicy crawfish sauce and melted cheese.

"Oh my god," Joe mumbled around a mouthful. "This is incredible."

"Told you," Riley said, looking smug as she popped a sauce-covered fry into her mouth. "Local secret. Tourists never find this place."

They ate as they walked, pausing occasionally to steady themselves or to savor a particularly good bite. At one point, Riley reached over with her thumb to wipe a spot of sauce from the corner of Joe's mouth, the casual intimacy of the gesture making his heart stutter.

"You know what's nice?" Riley asked as they turned onto her street, their food long finished. "This. Just walking home like regular people. No cars, no security, no schedule. Just...wandering."

Joe understood what she meant. For people like them, spontaneity was usually the first casualty of fame. "It's been a minute since I've just wandered anywhere."

"Me too," Riley admitted, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Tour life is hyper-scheduled. Every minute accounted for."

"Same with the season," Joe said. "Even the 'free time' isn't really free."

Riley hummed in agreement. They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the connection between them needing no words.

"We're here," she announced eventually, stopping in front of her house. She fumbled with her keys, dropping them once before successfully unlocking the door.

The door to Riley's house flung open with excessive force, followed by the sound of her laughter bouncing off the walls. Joe stumbled in behind her, catching the doorframe to steady himself as he kicked the door closed with his foot.

This time when their lips met, there was no bandana between them.

The kiss was clumsy at first—both of them still unsteady from the night's revelry, finding new equilibrium in each other's arms. But what they lacked in coordination, they made up for in enthusiasm. Joe backed Riley against the wall, nearly knocking over a small table in the process. They broke apart, laughing.

"Maybe we should slow down," Riley suggested, her words slightly slurred. "Before we break something valuable."

"Good plan," Joe agreed, though his hands remained firmly on her waist. "Responsible. Smart."

Riley pressed her palms against his chest, gently pushing him back. "Stay right here. Don't move."

"Not going anywhere," Joe promised, swaying slightly as he watched her navigate the dimly lit hallway with exaggerated care.

Riley returned with two glasses of water, pressing one into his hand. "Drink this. Future you will thank present you."

"Future me is a smart guy," Joe agreed, downing the water in several long gulps.

Riley watched him over the rim of her own glass, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer. "Today was fun."

"Mmm," Joe hummed in agreement, setting his empty glass on a nearby table. "Best parade ever."

"Told you," Riley said, a hint of pride in her voice. "Muses is special."

Joe stepped closer, crowding her against the wall, his hands finding her waist again. "You're special," he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

Riley's breath caught, her eyes darkening as she looked up at him. "That's the bourbon talking and other stuff."

"Nope," Joe said, popping the 'p' sound. "That's just me talking. Bourbon's just making it easier to say."

Riley laughed softly, setting her water aside to loop her arms around his neck. "Is that right?"

Joe nodded solemnly, his face close enough that she could smell the sweet, woody scent of bourbon on his breath. "I've been wanting to tell you all day. You look... incredible. Like something out of a dream."

Riley’s fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck, her expression softening. “Look at you, with the smooth talk,” she murmured, but the way her eyes softened gave away how his words affected her.

Joe’s lips curved into a small, almost hesitant smile as his hand slid up her back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Riley breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t felt this way in… maybe ever.”

Something shifted in Joe’s gaze, the teasing edge giving way to something deeper. He searched her eyes, his own more serious now. “Me neither,” he admitted, his tone low and honest. “Not even close.

”Their mouths met in a kiss that tasted like bourbon and desire, sweet and hot and demanding. Riley pressed closer, her body arching into his. The Muses shoe she'd been clutching all night finally fell forgotten to the floor as her hands found better things to hold onto.

"Too many clothes," she complained, tugging at the buttons of his costume jacket.

"Agreed," Joe murmured against her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "This outfit is... complicated."

Riley laughed breathlessly, pushing him back slightly. "Come on."

They stumbled down the hallway, shedding pieces of their costumes as they went—his jacket in the hall, her skirt pooling at the doorway, his shirt somewhere near the foot of the bed. By the time they fell onto the mattress, they were both down to their underwear, skin flushed with alcohol and desire.

Joe hovered over her, his eyes taking in the sight of her against the tangled sheets, hair splayed around her like a golden halo. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, the words slipping out before he could think.

Riley's eyes softened, her hands coming up to frame his face. "So are you," she whispered.

Their lips met again, the kiss deeper, slower, full of something neither was quite ready to name. Joe's hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, fingers hooking in the waistband of her underwear. Riley arched into his touch, a soft sound escaping her throat.

"Joe," she breathed, the single syllable holding a question and an answer all at once.

"Right here," he replied, understanding perfectly.

The rest of the world fell away—the sounds of distant revelry filtering through the window, the scattered pieces of their costumes marking a trail to the bed, the knowledge that tomorrow would bring complications and distance. For now, there was only this—her body against his, the taste of her on his tongue, the way she said his name like it was the only word worth saying.

Later—much later— they lay tangled together, bodies cooling in the night air. Joe pressed lazy kisses along Riley’s shoulder, missing once and landing on the pillow instead.

She giggled, rolling toward him. “We should get some water.”

“Probably,” Joe agreed, but made no move to get up. His arm flopped dramatically over her waist. “My legs don’t work.”

Riley poked him in the ribs. “It’s my house. Guest gets the water.”

“I just ran a marathon,” he countered, gesturing vaguely at the bed. “Need electrolytes.”

She snorted. “Three minutes is not a marathon, Burrow.”

“Felt like one,” he mumbled into her hair, already half-asleep. The bourbon, the parade, and their enthusiastic—if chaotic—activities had finally caught up with him.

Riley sighed, giving in as she slipped out from under his arm. “Fine, lazy. I’ll get the water. Future us will thank me.”

“Future us are suckers,” he muttered, still mostly out of it.

She just smiled, shaking her head as she padded toward the kitchen, already imagining him half-asleep when she got back.

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was Riley shifting closer, her head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, her body fitting against his like a missing puzzle piece.

Home, he thought hazily as consciousness slipped away. This feels like home.

youtube

#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow fanfic #hide fanfic #nfl imagine #joe burrow fluff #jiley #nfl fanfic #Youtube

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daengtokki · 1 day ago

Note

hey its me again who checks on ur account and notices that mother Tokki wanna go back to writing smut? lol um AM I EVEN READY FOR A SUBBY SEUNGMIN COMEBACK? SUBBY SEUNGMIN X NOONA CHANGED LIVES 🔥🔥🔥

Please forgive my desperate ass

co-worker!Kim Seungmin/noona!reader

WC: 4.1k RATING: fluff/smut contains: soft needy seungmin, sub!seungmin/dom!seungmin, lots of praise, nicknames (pup/puppy), teasing, unprotected sex COMMENT: I've been sitting on most of this story for a very long time, but I finally decided to find a nice ending to this part (though not the entire thing). Part two was posted over a year ago. I’m sorry it took so long 😭

part one part two MASTERLIST

The muffled sounds coming from the break room carry all the way to where you stand, right outside the bathroom door. You recognize Seungmin’s voice, of course, and Changbin’s, but it’s a little more high pitched than usual—his laugh is probably reaching the front of the store. A few more people are in there, too...likely the entirety of Changbin’s jerk friend group. You can’t make out what they’re talking about, though.

You jump when your senior manager clicks the bathroom door open.

“God, they can be obnoxious,” she says, and rolls her eyes as she walks by. But then she stops and turns on her heel. “How have you been doing? Getting along with everyone?”

It’s the first time since you’ve started that anyone cared to ask. Aside from Seungmin. “Yes, everything is fine. Everyone has been helpful when I needed them.”

“Good. I…well, we probably shouldn’t talk here, but, I did notice you’ve been spending a lot of time around one employee in particular.”

Your heart races. Of course, it’s obvious. This was bound to happen. You’ve been careless for the most part, and it’s likely someone saw you grab his ass earlier. Now you get to start looking for a new job. “I am?” Feigning stupidity might work.

“I don’t like spreading rumors, even if maybe they're not rumors, but he seems to have a bit of a reputation around here. I don’t want anyone to think something is happening between manager and employee, because one of you would suffer. Maybe both of you.”

Well, at least she gets right to the point.

“Sorry, but are we both talking about Min…uh, Seungmin? Kim Seungmin?”

“Yes. The quiet, innocent looking one.”

You smile without realizing it, thinking about his sweet, handsome face, but quickly correct yourself when she gives you a look.

“He’s apparently gone after his female coworkers…customers. Don’t misunderstand, he is great at his job and he’s reliable as hell, but he doesn’t seem to know how to stop when it comes to flirting and chasing. He’s a…well…” her head moves like a metronome as she thinks.

“Slut?”

A nod and a smile, then she’s gone, and you’re left thinking of poor Seungmin and the reputation he accidentally made for himself. All because of his stupid friends. At least that’s what you hope. There’s always the possibility that Seungmin did lie about his experience, and his reputation is actually real, but you don’t think so. You took him home with every intention of sleeping with him, and he knows that, slut or not. There was no reason for him to make up a story this morning.

The breakroom door opens and clicks shut, and a moment later, Seungmin is coming around the corner. Head down, hair in his eyes…he doesn’t even see you until you throw a soft pup at him.

He stops immediately and smiles at you.

“Everything okay? You look distracted.”

“I’m okay, just…tired I guess.”

“It’s alright if you cancel on me, I’ll understand.

Seungmin shakes his head, “I’ll meet you across the street in...” he looks at his phone, “one hour.”

･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

You were extra careful and extra paranoid for that last hour, eyes constantly moving between where Seungmin was in relation to the other manager. He was good, though, and he kept his distance. He has a big smile and a coffee waiting you when you finally make it to him.

“Do we know anybody in here right now?”

“What’s wrong?” Seungmin looks around, “no, I don’t recognize anyone from work.”

You bend down and place a kiss on his lips. It’s much too romantic, which you didn’t intend, but you did need to kiss him as soon as you walked through the door. Seungmin kisses back, so softly and sweetly that it doesn’t belong out in public, around prying eyes. Your head swims and your body aches with need, but you somehow pull away.

“I think we’re getting dirty looks,” Seungmin blushes and keeps his eyes on yours.

“We should take it somewhere else.”

･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Seungmin is excited and chatty on the ride to his apartment, and luckily he still isn’t too concerned with the reputation he mistakenly made for himself, “if it doesn’t get me fired, it’s okay. And if it does, that just means we can, uhm…” he didn’t finish that thought, but you could figure it out on your own. You think.

He’s quiet on the ride back, but when you’re almost home, he reaches out and sets his hand over yours. It’s a romantic gesture to match the kiss from earlier, and you find yourself enjoying it more than you’d like. As sweet as Seungmin is, and as enamored he obviously is with you, jumping in feet first the way you keep imagining is still difficult.

“Seungmin?”

The jump of his hand makes your stomach drop, because you think he’s pulling away. But he doesn’t. And then he does, just a little. “Yeah?”

“Minnie…uh, uhm…” You had the words, and now they’re slowly falling apart in your head. You have a chance to look at him—the smile on his face is hesitant, and when he bites down on his lip, it drops completely. “Nothing, it’s nothing.” You can’t stand the unsure look on his face, so you reach for his hand again and squeeze, and you hope his smile comes back when you have to turn away. “What are you hungry for?”

"I'm not picky."

You can’t tell from his voice. “Whatever you’d like. What’s your favorite?”

“Kimchi stew. Is that too boring?”

“Boring? No, not at all. We’ll have that, and something sweet if you’d like.”

He laughs, and it’s music to your ears. “Yes, sweet is always good.

･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Seungmin sits on the far side of the couch with a shy smile on his face—patient and quiet, shoulders slumped a little. He looks small sitting there, but he’s not, and he looks shy tonight, but you don’t think that’s what it is. Seungmin is hiding a lot behind his soft exterior. You wonder if his friends bothered him today, or if Changbin continued teasing about the marks he left n your neck. The senior manager not noticing them (or just not mentioning it) is surprising. But who knows...maybe that influenced her little meeting with you today.

It was you that got things started last night, and you’re thinking that might be the case again tonight, which is fine—you like it like that, that’s how you usually do things. But he also took control a few times, and you liked that as well. Part of you wants him to initiate and take over again, but the other part, the one that’s hungry for him and craving dominance, is going to win soon.

“Seungmin?”

“Hm?” He perks up and lets his smile spread across his face, “yeah?”

Instead of starting anything, you get up and walk toward the bedroom. How you forgot this, you’re not sure, but a vision of the little black box sitting on the edge of your bed popped up just in time. The sound of slow footsteps follows behind you, luckily. You don’t have to call him in, and you don’t have to start things on the couch.

“Wow…this is nice,” he leans against the door jamb and watches, looks around your not-so-spacious bedroom. “Big bed, looks very, very comfortable.”

“Come sit”

Not only does he listen to you, but he goes for it and touches your hip. Both hands grab softy and pull until his lips graze against your shirt, and you get butterflies—of course you get butterflies. Seungmin has you on your knees and he doesn't even realize it. You run a hand down the back of his head and to his neck, squeeze, get a content groan out of him.

“I hope you like it”

You really do hope he likes it, because you paid extra to have it made just the way you envisioned it: deep red leather, gold chain looped across the middle. Hanging off the chain is a small, heart shaped tag. You pull it out and Seungmin squeezes tighter when he sees it, and he reaches for it.

“Oh…can I?”

His fingers run across the soft leather, pull a little on the chain to see how it tightens. Then he goes for the buckle.

“I’ll do that,” you tell him as you undo it and examine his pretty neck, then wrap it around him. His skin is warm—he was cold before, so you turned the heat up; probably too much, but he hasn’t complained. “Is it too warm in here, Minnie?”

“No, it’s nice.” Seungmin reaches back and stops you from slipping it under the buckle. “I think we…” he squeezes, “we should use this next time.”

“Next time?”

Seungmin stands and gently pulls it away, sets it back in its box, then returns to you with a look so heavy, you finally get it. You weren’t expecting this, even though you wanted it, so you wait for his next move. And his next move is a kiss to rival the sweet, slow coffee shop kiss, but his hands close around your neck and his fingers move gently against the nape of your neck. You think he might squeeze a little harder, but he doesn’t—Minnie isn’t there yet, and you know that.

“You don’t wanna be my pup tonight?”

Hands slide down your back, and Seungmin pulls you tight against him. He’s hard, and his cock pushes gently against your stomach.

“I’m always your pup, I hope”

“You are…”

You’re pulled down with him as he sits again, straddling his slender thighs, barely covered by the shorts he changed into. He leans back and watches you look, touch, tug at his shirt until your hands can slide underneath and push it up. And he just sits there and takes it. When you lean in and kiss across his chest, he sighs and falls onto his back, but bucks his hips up to get your attention; to make sure you know where he wants you.

Maybe he will submit, put the collar on, do what you tell him.

“Hey,” Seungmin grabs the back of your neck and holds you steady.

“Hey…” you watch him. He’s thinking—figuring out exactly what he wants, and you’re patient. “I’m all yours.”

Maybe some more encouragement will get him going. You slide your hand down and tuck your fingers beneath his waistband, just short of reaching him. He thrusts up just enough to get to you, and he’s so relieved to feel your touch, he laughs as he moans.

“Let me take care of you, Minnie.” You give in and stroke him as his hips continue to move, “please, pup.”

“No, no…” His hands squeeze your hips. He easily pulls you off of him and flat onto your back. “It’s my turn. Get on your stomach.”

The pounding in your chest is partly the excitement of the moment, but mostly not being prepared for the sharp, brusque sound in his voice. You listen and roll onto your stomach. He pulls down, freeing you of your underwear, and his fingers knead hard into your ass. It’s impossible not to push back against him and get onto your knees, and Seungmin doesn’t seem to mind. He stops for a moment, and you think he might speak. He almost does. Instead, a soft laugh comes out as he strips, positions himself, and you jump when he runs a slow finger from the small of your back to your cunt.

Now you laugh at yourself, and Seungmin giggles again.

“Is that a no touch zone?”

“You can touch wherever you want.”

The sound and feel of him pushing two fingers so smoothly into you makes you whimper, and you find yourself wanting to beg, or encourage…you’re unsure. But he pulls out quickly and slides his wet fingers to your clit. “Minnie…ah,” you whine and spread yourself open even more, “please.”

“You want it?”

His voice is somehow deeper, quieter. So far so good. But maybe he has…no, you shake the thought away. “I want you…”

No response, just his hands spreading you open and coming down to kiss and bite the skin of your hip, then your thigh. He keeps going until his tongue can slide over your cunt, and he licks up the mess his fingers made.

The begging is in your head, please, please… and then it comes out muffled by the sheets, stuffed in your mouth as he wraps his hand around the back of your neck. All of his weight is pushing you down. His cock slides over you and it drives you crazy.

“Seungmin, please”

“Please…please,” he mutters, but he doesn’t tease. He guides himself over your entrance and pushes gently, slides in slowly…out, in, and you know it makes him a little weak in the knees.

But his pace quickens and his thrusts push you down and into the bed even more, forcing you to grip the sheets for some leverage. You look back and catch his gaze—his face is soft and his smile grows as you look at him. Still a puppy.

“I like this,” he sighs and holds your hips tight as he fucks you, but he slows down to reserve himself, to keep going as long as possible. “I…fuck.”

The stutter of his movements, the force of his thrusts when he gets back into the moment, it hits just right. His size stretches you just right, and it feels too good in this position. You lift yourself and push back into his hips, and Seungmin lets you do it a few times before abruptly pulling himself out and leaving you there. “Minnie…no, no.”

It’s quiet, and you can’t see him in the nearly dark room. You don’t get up, though, because you need him to come back, and if he wants to do well for you, he won’t.

“Minnie?”

The bed shifts. He’s there, just watching and waiting.

“Please pup, I’ll do anything you want…please fuck me”

“Yeah?”

The sweetness in his voice is back, but he still doesn’t return. You stick your ass up even higher, turn your head to the opposite side to search, and there he is. Seungmin is watching you, sitting back, completely relaxed as he strokes himself.

“Anything”

“Turn onto your back”

It feels good to stretch out like this, but straightening your back and falling limp onto the bed is even better. “Yes sir.” But he still just stares at you.

“Sir?”

“Mmm…sir…pup”

“Are you teasing me? He tilts his head to one side and crawls closer. “Open up.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” One leg falls open, and then the other.

“I think you are teasing,” his mouth closes around your clit and licks hard, sucks, waits for you to moan, and then he pulls back. “I don’t like being teased.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not teasing…promise.”

But you close your legs, and Seungmin gives you puppy eyes. You can’t help yourself—not being in control of him is harder than you thought it would be. Your legs slowly fall back open. “Promise, Minnie. Please come back.”

He crawls back to you; on top of you, kissing his way up, pulling at your bra and somehow, successfully undoing it. Seungmin kisses softly—long, messy, and wet, tongue pushing in and fighting yours. He loves kissing, and he’s good at it.

“I’m sorry pup, I need you”

“I could just leave you like this, wanting more”

“I’ll be good for you”

“Promise again.” The lightness in his voice contradicts the grip on your thighs as he pulls them apart.

“Promise…I promise”

Your pleading works, and he lifts your hips to his. “That’s better,” he coos, and watches himself slide in so slowly, “much better,” he groans as he pulls out, and his eyes move to yours.

A smile twitches at the corner of his lips, and he can’t help but move faster, and faster. The bed moves with every hard thrust into you, and looking at him like this is so much better. Seeing his face, so full of pleasure, so blissful and so dazed. “Minnie…” you say it desperately between your shallow panting, “Minnie you feel so…aah…”

The smile wins, and it grows with each roll into your hips. “You gonna come for me?” He moves his thumb up and down, touching everywhere he can, and he pulls your hips up until you can wrap your legs around him.

“Spit on me”

“Hmm?” His head tilts innocently to one side again, but he hears you, because he does it, and he rubs it into your clit in fast, soft circles. It’s perfect—his touch, his cock stretching you to your limit. You let it work through you, and you make sure Seungmin knows.

“That’s good…one down.” He slows himself, but keeps going until he’s sure you’ve gotten through it, and when you finally relax and barely catch your breath, his starts again.

Slow and deep, then steadily faster. He’s gripping you and holding so tight and firm, but you’re just a toy for him…finally—you imagined him fucking you like this, daydreamed about it as you walked the aisles at work. His eyes turn glassy and stay fixed on his cock being swallowed over and over, and he holds it together so much longer than you expect. His breathing becomes shallow, and soft whimpers sneak out with each exhale.

“Harder harder, god…I’m gonna come”

“Mm…again?” Seungmin smiles.

You nod and grab his hand, but you don’t have to tell him what to do. As soon as his thumb touches your clit, another orgasm rips through you. His long, drawn out moan turns into a giddy laugh as he follows behind and fills you up.

Thighs tremble, yours and his, as he pulls himself out.

“Fuck”

“Yeah,” he sighs and falls down next to you, laughs again, and pushes his face into your pillow.

It’s quiet for a moment, until the wind picks up outside and pushes against the window. The curtains move a little, and the dim light outside shifts across the bed. Seungmin looks pretty all spread out across the blankets, out of breath and damp with sweat. You roll over until you can run a hand down his back, and gently squeeze his ass.

“You worn out already?”

“Oh, no no. I just need,” he turns his head to find you, “ten minutes.”

“How about five?”

“Five?” He turns a little more and watches you crawl to the edge of the bed and reach, “five minutes,” flips onto his back and closes his eyes, but he feels you come back, and then he feels your hands sliding up his leg, over his knee, his thigh.

Your lips press against his hip, leaving loud, wet kisses all the way up until you reach his throat. “Four.”

Seungmin groans, his eyes open slowly as your thighs press into his sides, and your hands wrap around his neck. He feels the soft, warm leather press against his skin as you buckle it.

“How does that feel?”

He moves his head side to side and swallows. “No bell?”

“You get a bell if you’re a good pup.”

“So I do have a bell?” Proud of himself, and you haven’t even started. He beams up at you and cautiously runs a finger across the chain on his throat. “Feels nice.”

“Good boy. You can have your ten minutes.”

Seungmin meant it when he said he was tired. He slowly dozes off, but the smile on his face sticks. He looks cute when he’s sleeping, arms crossed over his stomach, fingers twitching. The collar looks good against his warm skin, and keeping your hands off of him is more difficult with each passing minute. Ten minutes go by, and then eleven, but instead of waking him, you lie down and wait.

Fifteen minutes, and then twenty…eventually, his eyes flutter open on their own, and he looks at you. “Did I fall asleep? I’m sorry.”

“You did, sleepyhead. How do you feel?”

His fingers close around his chain again, and he pulls until it’s snug around his throat. “Good.” Seungmin keeps his hands off when you straddle him, but he bucks his hips up on purpose. The sight of his cum slowly dripping from you makes his cock twitch, and he whines when he remembers he can’t take over this time.

It’s your turn. You push down and slide yourself onto is new erection. Twenty minutes of rest was plenty for him—his tip is already leaking pre-cum for you, and all you can think about is him filling you up again. He obeys when you tug at his collar; props himself up on his elbows, and licks his lips. He slips in so easily, and makes the sweetest sound when you grind your hips into his. “Good boy, give me a little bit…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah”

Seungmin groans when the collar tightens. His mouth hangs open, and his tongue pokes out as he grinds back, just enough. Your body starts to shake from the pleasure he’s giving you. “So…fuck,” your breath gets caught in your throat, and you let it out in a whimper. “My sweet puppy, you feel so…”

He bites his lip and smirks. Seungmin wants more of your praise. He likes it like this—you on top, his cum leaking as his cock stretches you more and more; the sound of how slick and tight you are around him. Your grip is driving him crazy, but he can last as long as you’re controlling the pace.

“How do you feel, pup?”

“So good…please don’t stop”

“Mmm, we could stay like this all night, but I want to drain you, over and over.” His eyes roll back when you grip his shoulders and pick up your pace. Seungmin’s hips relax. He doesn’t want to come yet no matter how much you want him to, and a tighter pull on his leash doesn’t make him obey. “Fuck me.”

His face turns soft and the puppy eyes come out. “Please.”

“I’m gonna wear you out. Up.” This time, the tug on his collar works. He props himself up on his palms for more leverage, and he whines when he thrusts into you. “Good…good boy.”

“I’m a good boy.”

“You’re mine.”

“I am…”

Another tug, and your lips graze his. This might send him over the edge. Seungmin can’t help but latch onto your mouth and kiss, messy and loud. “What do good boys do for me?”

His timing is perfect. The shake and stutter of his body, and the twitch of his cock as he empties into you puts him on his back again. Muscles in his stomach tighten and relax as he catches his breath, and eventually, he finds the strength to latch onto your thighs and squeeze. “I’m hungry.”

･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

After dinner, Seungmin is sleepy all over again. He doesn’t realize when he opens his eyes to yours that it’s after a long nap, because as soon as his body hit the bed, he was powerless against it. And you let him sleep.

“Hey,” he looks around the dark room, feels for you next to him, and he knows the soft mound he squeezes is you when you squeal. “Sorry, how long was I asleep?”

“About an hour.”

“Was that your ass?”

“Yeah, do it again.”

It tickles, and he likes the laugh he gets from you, so Seungmin crawls closer and does it a third time before moving upward and squeezing your hips, and waist.

You flip onto your back, and you can just make him out in the darkness as he hovers over you. “Are you still tired?”

He shrugs.

“I’ll take that as a yes…c’mere.”

Seungmin doesn’t hesitate. He comes down, buries his face in your neck, and slowly kisses his way up to your mouth. Lazy and wet, across your cheek and back down to your shoulder, his teeth graze over your ribs, and that tickles, too. He laughs when you do. “What if we just slept in all morning and missed work?”

“Both of us call off? Might seem suspicious…but—“

He pops up and stares down at you, “but?”

“One of the other managers noticed how often we’re together.”

“I bet I know which one.”

“Tall, ponytail…glasses that don’t suit her?”

Seungmin nods and mhm’s into another kiss. “I turned her down a few months ago, told her it wouldn’t look good if anyone found out. But I just wasn’t interested.”

“What makes me so special?”

“Is it bad that I…don’t know the answer to that?” The relief on his face cuts through the dark when you shake your head. Seungmin’s body relaxes even more. “You are, though. Special.”

“I’ll call off now, you call off in the morning. Maybe it won’t be as suspicious.”

#kim seungmin x reader #skz x reader #kim seungmin smut #kim seungmin fluff #kim seungmin #skz seungmin #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz x you #skz x y/n #kim seungmin x you #kim seungmin x y/n #anon #sub!seungmin #sub!skz #sub seungmin

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silentnights-stuff · 2 days ago

Text

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

So, I was supposed to write a folktale for my Communicative English assignment… but somehow, I ended up writing a cute fluff story about Pedri instead. Oops.

It’s called Across the Fence, and it’s all about childhood friendship, backyard adventures, and that moment when you realize your best friend means a little more to you than you thought.

If anyone’s interested, let me know, and I’ll post it! But for now, here’s a little preview:

⌗ Across the Fence𓂃 ࣪˖ ᥫ᭡.

– A Pedri Fanfic

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Pedri González in any way, nor do I claim any rights over him. The content I create is entirely fictional, using him purely as a face claim or inspiration. Any similarities to real people are purely coincidental. This work is meant for entertainment purposes only and should be viewed as such.

Warnings: Slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, jealousy, major secondhand embarrassment, nicknames and & Inside Jokes, Mild Angst, Football References, High School Drama, Fluff Overload, Pedri is an absolute golden retriever boy.

You ever meet someone who makes a new place feel like home?

Gabira had spent her whole life in Manila, where jeepneys weaved through the streets, the air smelled of isaw, and every day felt like a song playing at full volume. But Barcelona? It was a different rhythm—beautiful but unfamiliar. Until she met him.

Pedri González. The boy next door. The kid who climbed over her backyard fence like he’d known her forever. The one who turned lonely afternoons into laughter-filled adventures.

From shoelaces tied in a rush to stolen glances under stadium lights, their friendship was the kind of thing written in childhood promises and late-night whispers. But feelings change. Hearts grow. And one day, she realized—she didn’t just want to be his best friend anymore.

Too bad she wasn’t the only one who had noticed Pedri’s charm.

Now, between love letters stuffed in lockers and a ridiculous Valentine’s plan that might just backfire, Gabi has one question left:

Does he feel the same way?

Or was she just another fan in the crowd?

──── ��୧ ────　　　　

Part-1

#pedri x reader #pedri fic #pedri fluff #pedri fanfic #pedri imagine #fc barcelona #pedri gonzalez #football x you #football #football fanfic #fc barcelona x reader #pedri angst

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sentientcave · 3 days ago

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@dragonnarrative-writes tagged me in a WIP Wednesday post and I couldn't decide what to post so here's a few bits of a bunch of things

Here Comes The Sun - Ftm Reader Sugar Baby AU

John sighs. "Sunshine. You can let me handle it."

"Stop bein' stubborn."

"I haven't decided yet."

"I'm not being stubborn, I just think--"

"That it's better not to rely on anyone else?" he asks. "I'd call that stubborn."

"It's not that simple, John. I'm doing alright. I don't want to rely on someone else."

"Why not? Afraid you'll get used to it?"

Is that what you're afraid of? Putting the reigns in someone else's hands is dangerous, but you've never been afraid to strike out on your own. You'll start from scratch if you have to, it's not like you'd have to work very hard to get back to treading water. Would it be so bad to take some time off?

He puts his hand on your knee and squeezes. “It’s okay, sunshine. I want this. Let me do this.”

Love Bug - Johnny Childhood Friends to Lovers

"So," your boss said, leaning in the doorway of your office. "I bumped into your man last night."

Cold sweat breaks out on the back of your neck. "You met Johnny?"

This was bad. Your carefully maintained house of cards, about to fall. Your stomach fell away into a bottomless pit, dread holding you perfectly still, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Johnny was not your boyfriend. You'd been using him as a front for over a year now, a clever idea his mum had given you when you complained about your boss's behaviour. You had a picture of him on your desk, you used his deployments as excuse to not bring him to work socials.

"We set up a double date for this friday. Did he not tell you?"

"We haven't talked yet today. He was out with his mates last night, and we're seeing each other later." The lie slides from your tongue. You've gotten too good at it.

"Why didn't you mention he'd been shot?" Your boss pressed. "I would have given you time off, you know."

You reach out to straighten the picture of Johnny on your desk, hiding your surprise under a sad, wistful look at the smiling, blue-eyed soldier in the frame. "I didn't want to talk about it. When I'm here, I can focus on my work. Pretend everything's fine." You smile at him tightly. "But he's doing better now, thank god."

Alpha to Omega - Omegaverse forced phenotype transition ft. Ghoap

She spent a long moment holding one of the little vials of hormones. She could destroy it all, but it would only delay them by a day or two at most, a couple missed injections would hardly slow things down.

When the insidious thought crept in that maybe she liked the changes, she opened every vial and drained them into the sink, hands trembling. She had a full-on, sobbing meltdown after that, crawling into bed wearing Johnny’s t-shirt from yesterday and Simon’s sweater. She didn’t like that their scents were so comforting now.

She must have drifted off like that, because the next thing she knew, Simon and Johnny were there, stripping off their uniforms and gently pulling her out of bed to join them in the shower. No mention was made of the vials, even though they had obviously noticed, since the bin was no longer out on the counter where she had left it, and the empty vials she’d left lined up by the sink were gone.

They just lavished attention on her instead of saying anything at all. There were cameras somewhere, they must've seen her have her little meltdown, decided on their tactics before coming home. They were trying to make her feel better.

And worse, it was working. Being coddled and fucked sideways, sinking her teeth into arms and shoulders and chests until they whined and showed their throats. Unearned victories, but at least she left her marks all over their topography, and her aching breasts and sore, puffy pussy were acceptable casualties.

#It's WIP Wednesday Baybee #I think I've posted some bits of these before but I haven't been keeping track #WIP: Alpha to Omega #WIP: Love Bug #WIP: Here Comes the Sun

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the-stove-is-divorced · 2 days ago

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AS HE SHOULD BE I LOVE HIM. (*´▽`*)

Oh trust, you’re good on the aro-ace front, I didn’t feel like that at all lol. I was just ranting grumpily about how I’m always squinting at the screen when romance pops up lol! Romance hater for life, and all that. And hehe hell yeah! Queer high five!

I’m cackling, exactly, exactly, let’s just rearrange all the series’ organs, it’d be beautiful! Starting to crack open the ribs myself, excusing the morbid description lol! Stuck of the cracked rib front, though, chewing on the idea of starting the fic with s2 Angstrom levy as a general springboard before diving into s3 perhaps, establish the guilt and anti-kill which would double down post-Powerplex? Though, this is taking more (light, bare bones) planning than I usually do (nonexistent), if it gets off the ground lol. Crying about it, actually. Why can't fics appear? But exactly as I want them lol.

Mystery is so peak!! I love thinking furiously about a show and its details, even if I’m so wrong. A season with a big underlying question that’s weirdly absent this season? Or too fumbled to be as direct and coherent as the previous? S1 had the intrigue with Nolan, his exact motives, when people would discover it, how much could be trusted or love his family, cultivating beautifully with the finale! S2, also amazing build up with “Are You Your Father’s Son?”, literally starting with that question, and the ending with a big ol’’ YES with Angstrom Levy’s battle! Mark blaming himself for indirect, desired kills only to have a purposeful, intended kill (even if he’s horrified or didn’t quite realize what he was doing until after) is poetry to me. S3 is very much not. BIG SIGHHHHHHHHHHH. I think the question SHOULD be about Mark’s morality, his loyalty to non-killing, and all that, which I do get it’s trying to do, but we’ve both discussed it’s too shaky, for lack of better phrasing. Does not stick the landing for a classic darkening arc.

But YES! Keeping up with something mysterious every season would be catnip to me lol, even if it’s just for the Invinci-War! Oh my goodness, but Eve tweaking his suit or Mark incidentally changing his suit AFTER the war would be incredible for the people wondering if he got replaced! People shying and screaming at him, a lingering unease, a closer look at all his mannerisms. IS this your friend, William? Is this your boyfriend, Eve? Is this your son, Debbie? Is this your brother, Oliver? FUN TIMES. Mark on the other hand, could feel like he can’t wear his colors (og suit?) anymore because that Joy is gone, and he cant be the same person anymore, now he’s killed someone, even if it’s him. Something something poetry if that era of his suit, and ergo part of himself, officially dying after he visually killed alternate him’s and all that!

Ones that aren’t different would be INCREDIBLE. Mark killing because Debbie taught him to…? Imma start foaming at the mouth omg omg omg, galaxy brain, ahah! I love these convos so dearly, because YES, humane killers, “gentle” killers, the ones that reassure before doing so quickly and painless it’s not even processed? How does Mark combat that? How does he deal with that? Let alone how similar they are, but how killing others doesn’t have to be in that rigid, violent circumstances he’s dealt with before! How many raised by Debbie’s, are still not rigid as Mark is trying to be? And then, of course, what as Angstrom promised THESE kind of variants to get them there. The quick convo of their desires was incredible, though fleeting (sobs).

And truly, what does Eve do when someone who went through this important parts of her life, who knew her so deeply and intimately, is gone? She can’t reach him anymore? And Rex will die with the secrets and that understanding from being THERE? YEAH, what DOES Eve edit and change, intentionally or not? What does she make sound better? AND YEAH? She HAS to have some personal opinions about murder considering she killed her own siblings, forcibly? Where’s that conversation? It’d be so funny to me that she’s like “nah you Gotta kill these guys” and Mark’s just “darn. :(“ or even heck, it strains the relationship! ‘Cause yeah, shouldn’t she push back on this? Does he think he’s better than her or backtrack? How does he handle being challenged by someone he actually trusts and admires?

There is something so funny about Mark fighting against Cecil, because Cecil is like that??? Like, does one of his agents just mutter, “…perhaps this is teenage rebellion, sir?” Like the mental image makes me cackle. Do they see Eve and Mark talking calmly about morality successfully, and look at Cecil pointedly. I love the peak into the agents we get with Powerplex, would love to see agents judging Cecil’s decisions lol.

Cecil, at this point, truly confirms not being incredibly intelligent, though as a standing secretive agency one would think so, but judge actions and all that, I suppose? Just by position alone he screams Amanda Walker type, to me, but his actions are weirdly fixated at Mark and no one else, so I wanna say he’s controlling and he IS, that’s part of the confrontation’s rapid escalation, but he’s not that way to literally any other hero? For some reason? With the context of Kate and her brother being GDA trained, I’d think he’d be PISSED of money spent on them would be wasted? Or does have a og chip in Kate’s neck after her brother goes? Then again, they are not shown to be particularly useful or loyal either, but I’d think he’d be frustrated at this? It’s weird.

But the description of Nolan’s head being Wii menu Music makes me HOWL. Cecil is over here thinking about what Nolan was thinking and he’s just that… and being baffled by the existence of joy. And being loved. He’s perplexed by kissing, Cecil, he was relatively new to the very concept (tho loving it still), he’s not playing time traveling, 4D dimensional chess with you. Calm down.

Also Debbie yelling at Mark about letting Oliver would be wonderful! Or even herself for risking a child’s life! Maybe some frustration at the fact this is probably where she didn't expect her life to end up! Or, heck, maybe Paul freaks out over "little" things and they end up arguing because Paul's inability to brush off danger or be as casually reckless as her begins to grate on her, and he loathes how he feels insane because she's not "taking it seriously"! Gimme an argument occurring right outside of Mark's hospital room, actually. To Debbie, this is like the (???? third ?????) time, and yes it's scary but freaking out doesn't do shit, Paul, like this could be anything else and I'd be sat.

And yes the way Oliver is about to be so insufferable because yall truly haven’t let the whole care about others and their lives sink in, in the first place, so if you have your little pro-kill moment, DO NOT DRAG THE CHILD INTO IT, WHOSE ALREADY READY TO KILL????? Mark hello?????? ALSO NO SENSE OF CONCERN HE COULD'VE DIED? Where's the jolt of reality that he could die out here, and that's why he's so eager. How cool would it be while Oliver tones down his pro-kill spree because he finally got the feel the fear and PAIN of dying, conceptualizing what he was so eager to do to other people, while Mark becomes more pro-kill, heck, having to lie to Oliver about it to comfort him, and now we've got a Lying Fatherly/Brotherly Figure parallel going! Like, I get why they do this, but also what if we didn't.

And yes! Rex’s backstory makes it so much worse for Rudy to possibly know this, AND STILL DO IT ANYWAY. Like even if he doesn’t, Rae and Eve should know and be beating Rudy to death. Like why are the characters never upset, when the plot determines it’s not convenient? Like Amanda is thrilled Kate is back like why? Why are you thrilled your teammate abandoned you in the MIDDLE OF A DEADLY BATTLE? How does the shock not bleed into danger? You’ve been lied to for months! Why are you only upset when the plot WANTS you to be? And not when it makes sense to be, and can still get the plot moving? Why are they not people! I cannot be invested in a team splitting up, when I kinda don’t care about them as a team from the get-go. Clawing at the walls. Like, maybe instead of Rae sobbing alone for some reason, she smacks Rudy for the audacity! Funeral drama! Give characters their ANGER! RISE RISE RISE!

But seriously, Rex’s death seriously has 0 impact and it’s so bizarre. He’s a legit character the audience, generally speaking, likes and yet, they made his death so utterly useless? What is the point? Does anyone yell at Cecil begging to bring him back to life somehow, even in desperation? What does this change other than people, like me lol, loathing Rudy with their heart and soul? How does real characters disrespect the man’s life and death and NO ONE reacts to that but warmly? Puzzling. Once again clawing at the walls. What DOES it change other than one less character to write?

daily life of a gda staffer would be incredible. How many become supervillains? Is there a betting pool? Do they gossip about Cecil and Donald? Do they have to put Do Not Robotifiy on their ID's?

Mark agreeing to go hang out on a beach w Debbie instead of refusing and the beach is Beach City (am now officially thinking too much about this crossover lol)

The way I got caught up on our back and forth I almost forgot this, lol! AND OH MY GOODNESS, IMAGINE? I forget exactly what which point Debbie makes the beach offer, but I’d love when exactly in SU/SUF-timeline they’d go? There’s something so fucking funny to me about them going during the SUF-timeline and always narrowly missing the strange, Steven-shaped mental breakdowns in the back. I know those don’t occur in a single day, but it’s tickling me. How could they miss anything? I don’t know I just think it’s funny.

Though, post-SUF is interesting if Gems can see the similar “world on your shoulders”, Mark has going on! Steven can shunt the narrative in the Gems’ minds, which I think is neat, if I’m not misusing the phrase since the guy’s on the road far away. Or maybe it’s just before Steven goes and they stumble into each other. I’d kinda love Pearl and Debbie interacting, honestly, if they could talk about loving someone who hurt you, hide things from you, even when you thought you knew them so deeply, and they left you to raise a child. Pearl being in a well adjusted space, and Debbie still grieving.

Honestly, the gems could help train Mark, they’re got experience and similar-ish powers in strength, sturdiness, and they can jump/run fast enough for flying to be vaguely similar enough to lecture about, I think. Or Lapis Lazulis, haha! Peridot with her trash can lid! Garnet, I’d love to see if she told Mark anything about his future in vague, well meaning advice. Or even giving relationship advice considering Amber. Or, importantly, how to convince an entire reign to end their colonizing ways, lol. Is Mark perhaps willing to start a war, take advantage of being related to any leaders, or fake his own death to varying results?

In general, there’s something so fucking funny to me about Nolan, in the sake of comparison, being Pink Diamond coded. Like OH, did an important or well respected of the colonizing empire come to earth and learn the beauty of its people and nature, including faking/lying/omitting things about his identity and background to being in, only to feel conflicted when his responsibility still remained, and he tried to free himself from them? Yikes! We’ve been through that before! Like gimme Pink Diamond and Nolan outfit swap rn. This is tickling me so much oh my goodness.

#Invincible chatter #i think about cecils teleporation sometimes #like how do they not make him appear half through a floor or wall #liek yeah are they fucking losing their shit trying to make sure cecil doesn't die as they quickly calculate where to place him properly #and real!!!#give us the panic inside the gda #the people first spotting the invincibles spot up and having to drag a coworker over in a classic “are you seeing this?”#multiple agents spotting the same green portal!#that's such a fun build up!!#also like when mark broke through for something they ARE doing but not this time...? WHAT DID THEY THINK???#was someone dry heaving in panic in the closet??? while that convo was had?????#where is my stressed asf science team about to lose their minds #or even one senior officer whose seen e v e r y t h i n g and is not phased by death or dead bodies.#does gda have internships yes or no and can mark take one lol.

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silverthelovebug · 8 months ago

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The Handler playlist I made a while back if anyone is curious :3

#jurassic world #jurassic world chaos theory #chaos theory #jwct #the handler #the atrociraptor handler #the raptor lady #seriously what is the tag for her #it changes like every time someone posts about her #character playlist #but I’m a little too into her #if you’ve read my fic you know #Spotify

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aq2003 · 1 year ago

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really love how throughout a lot of smith and jones martha is really skeptical and apprehensive towards ten (+ one of my favorite exchanges between them - "what, people call you 'the doctor'?" "yeah?" "well, i'm not. far as i'm concerned, you've got to earn that title."), not taking everything he says at face value, even doubting the fact he's an alien until over halfway through the episode.. And like. i really truly think the thing that wins her over isn't him kissing her or any of the other insane mixed messages he manages to send, it's this scene here, where he /earns that title/ in her eyes:

(+ david's bit in the commentary, where he says: "[the doctor] has actually sacrificed himself, and - i would say, that that final act of selflessness is what finally, eventually, welds martha to him. [...] and she now returns it. she returns that act of selflessness.")

this is what their relationship is built on. it isn't about martha being the second-best replacement to rose or a rebound or whatever. bc it isn't really about rose. it's about doctor-in-training martha meeting someone (quite literally, "the doctor") whose ideals she aspires to, and doing her best to be the same person to him as he is to everyone else. it's about ten in return admiring her intelligence and inquisitiveness and how she cares for human life, recovering his compassion, letting himself lean on her for support - and then remembering at the most inopportune moments that he's supposed to not need anyone and be on his own forever. And around in their little nightmare loop they go where they save each other over and over until one of them breaks

i've seen ppl look at martha and go "why she does she admire/why is she so in love with ten if he acts like that to her?" or something along those lines and like. it's not just the fact she's in love with him (in fact i'd argue she actively tries to push it aside post-gridlock). it's the fact that she knows he's the kind of person to put everyone else's lives/well-being over his own. she trusts him to save her when she's in trouble even though it's been like two days at most that they've known one another bc she recognizes that same "deep all-encompassing drive to help others" in him. and she also recognizes, much much earlier than him, that he needs someone to save him, especially when he's unwilling to save himself. and yeah for a bit she thinks he returns her feelings and is just playing hard-to-get, but she realizes pretty early on that this probably isn't the case, and i think that realization fully solidifies here:

(this is when she's listening to ten talk abt gallifrey). And idk it might just be me but i think this expression isn't just her empathizing with his loss. it's also guilt, for wanting something from him that he's clearly unable to give when he's wracked with so much grief. (and you see it in the next episode, where tallulah asks if they're together and martha says for certain that they're not, and that he doesn't know about her feelings for him. she keeps everything to herself bc she now knows that when he shut her flirting down at the end of 3x01 it was the genuine reaction of someone who a) isn't interested and b) is scared of getting close with someone else again)

freema described their dynamic as "she's keener than him" and i think about this all the time. martha doesn't really take what ten throws at her. what she does instead is constantly poke holes in his already-failing front of "i will show someone the wonders of the universe so i can ignore what is wrong with me". what she does is stand up and fight him when he tries to go off on his own. what she does is put aside her well-being in favor of helping someone - just like what she saw him do for the people in the hospital when they first met. tldr, that's the doctor and his doctor and rip martha you would've loved who's gonna save u now by rina sawayama

#THIS ISNT ABOUT ROSE WE CAN STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT WHITE GIRL FOR 1 SECOND. IDC #ALL SHE DOES W REGARDS TO MARTHA IS REMIND HER THAT TEN ISNT GOING TO FALL IN LOVE W HER.#ALL SHE DOES W REGARDS TO TEN IS REMIND HIM THAT EVERY TIME HE LOVES SOMEONE HES FATED TO LOSE THEM. WE CAN IGNORE HER PAST THIS. GBLESS #martha jones #tenth doctor #dr who #ten and martha #'theyre like a rebound' shooting you with my laser eyes sorry. martha says it when she still thinks he's taking her on dates #if he hadn't opened up about gallifrey she would've been totally fine w him taking her back home #and meanwhile ten is very unaware of any kind of romantic element until like the fuckinn. last possible moment lmfao #they are doctor and mentally unstable bus driver. Or perhaps grieving man (genderneutral) and their One (1) friend that has to support them #um idk what this post is. i wanted to pick apart martha's brain for a hot second.#edit:#it's not like 5 am and i'm reading these tags and they're a lot more mean than i meant to put them down as #Not changing them bc i already wrote so much it's out there in the world already sorry. just imagine i'm saying this all nicely #10 era

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bunabi · 9 months ago

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I really wonder if the Romanced Lavellan dialogue for those who chose to stop him will still be affectionate

I keep remembering Virelle is 42* now and mourning whatever they had a decade ago feels silly.......I wish the time jump was shorter

If the unromanced dialogue is funnier & makes them sound more divorced than starcrossed I'll just lie in the CC

#this is proof that mfs be picky and they cant and shouldnt account for everyones little headcanons about this or that #but at the same time I am a Solavellan and deep inside me beats the heart of an entitled shipper I must confess this honestly #would dating the dread wolf destroy her marriage prospects: yes #would that stop her from meeting someone new who loves her: no #*the exact number of years seems to change with every mention of it but its like 8-9 years post trespasser

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apatheticsunday · 18 days ago

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Gotham TikTok

AKA "Danny moves to Gotham and records TikToks with absolutely deranged captions. He films Get Ready with Me in Gotham videos, fit checks, and even A Day in the Life of a Ghost in Gotham! Except everybody is freaking the fuck out in the comments" prompt idea!

No, you don't understand, I'm obsessed. Like, what if Danny's idea of "safe" is just... anything that doesn't actively try to kill him? So Metropolitians, Star City, and Central City citizens are literally biting their nails and sweating bullets every time he posts, because what if he gets merc'd by the "Eight Heads in a Duffel Bag" Red Hood?? And that's one of the nicer villains in Gotham. And Danny's just like wow, this place is niiiiiice, I haven't even been murdered yet!

Maybe Jazz took a 12-year-old Danny to Gotham to escape their parents. Gotham's cheap, dirty, and doesn't ask questions: it's the best place to go to disappear because damn near half the city's population are either super villains, hostages, dead, or vigilantes. She gets a job at an understaffed hospital as a clinical psych intern. She enrolls Danny for online schooling because she's scared a public high school would be too easy for their parents to track.

Which leaves Danny alone for hours. He makes a TikTok account called "Danny Phantom" because, c'mon, he's a kid. And, like most kids, he doesn't really comprehend the idea of a digital footprint or that his account is public, accessible by literally anybody.

He's also a little shit. So, the first TikTok he uploads is of a man getting carjacked, but the caption reads: love to see people helping each other. remember it's always okay to ask for help! it's okay, I don't know how to parallel park, either :)

And you just see this guy in a mask shove a businessman away from his car, gesturing with his gun, before getting into the driver's seat. Except the car is parallel parked so the carjacker just slowly inches back and forth between a Prius and a Honda until he can wedge himself out of the parking space. And then gets stuck in stand-still traffic. The TikTok goes viral. It's talked about on the Gotham news and Gothamites are losing their shit, pointing out the exact moment you can see the carjacker start to soundlessly cuss through the car's windshield or the way the businessman is just... standing on the side of the road, watching with a deadpan look.

Danny doesn't know about it being on the news, but he sees all the comments, likes, reposts, and feels something. He wonders if this is what Ember feels every time people listened to her music. So, he keeps posting. Usually, it's short three-second videos of a hilariously unexpected situation with an even more deranged caption. But then he's accidentally caught in the reflection of a store front while recording and doesn't know, posts it like he always does; only for this TikTok to go viral, too. Because "Danny Phantom" is a child??

He doesn't notice the shift in his comments, but the public opinion quickly changes from wow, Gothamites are just like that huh lol to what the FUCK, kid, get inside!!! anytime he posts.

Except Danny never gets hurt. Even in the most dangerous situations, when you'd think this kid is a goner for sure, he's just happily yapping in the background. He's so different from Gothamites because he lacks that dead-eyed, despair-inducing aura of someone who's lived in a hellmouth their whole lives. (A couple people post that Danny kind of reminds them of Golden Boy Brucie Wayne, all air-headed and unrealistically optimistic, and suddenly there's memes of "what happens when you've never gotten shot in Gotham" or "how i act when Commish Gordie accuses me of shoplifting again" with them side-by-side.)

And then Danny's posts go viral again and again. Danny doing a fit check with a blond-haired woman with a checkered outfit, she ruffles his hair and kisses him on the cheek. A picture of him wearing an old jean jacket with a bright red lipstick smear on his cheek is trending for weeks. Spoiler, fully suited up in an all-purple vigilante attire, and him shoving gas station hotdogs in their mouths. He even has videos of him clearly in Killer Croc's lair, with comments of are you in the sewers??? DANNY??? and he responds, no, i'm in mom & dad's basement :) (Waylon Jones is actually sitting behind him in one of the videos, intently watching a TV show on an iPad.)

Everybody adores Danny - Rogues, Gothamites, even the Bats. (There's at least six videos of Nightwing teaching Danny how to do backflips, handstands, and other acrobatic moves. Even the youngest Robin has been caught on camera quietly talking with Danny, a shocking lack of violence that left half the city's population suffering from cuteness aggression for the kids.)

So, yeah, Danny belongs to Gotham.

But the internet is widely accessible and Danny made it so, so easy to find him. Jazz obviously didn't know he was posting videos of himself publicly; she was too tired after back-to-back 12 hour shifts at the hospital that she hadn't even checked social media in months. Otherwise, she would've told him to be careful, to never show his face or post his real name on the internet. Then again, Jazz would never have expected all of Gotham (and Superman himself, totally endeared by the kid after Kon and Jon showed him a couple TikToks) would beat the absolute shit out of anybody going after Danny.

Imagine GIW's surprise when they track down Amity's former residential Ghost only to find an entire city frothing at the mouth to protect their Phantom.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton #danny phantom #batfam #i had to add waylon in here somehow #he's my boo my poor misunderstood scaley boy #who eats people sometimes #its not cannibalism if you're technically not human folks #danny's not in danger though because he's already dead

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pencil-n-pen · 2 months ago

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ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

#girlblogging #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #dr spencer reid x reader #soft dom spencer reid #soft spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff

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anxiouscherubs · 27 days ago

Text

find you in my heart

✦ summary: the one where you get dumped and your best friend is there to help you realize what you truly deserve… what’s been in front of you all along.

✦ warnings/tags: MDNI! 18+, explicit, smut, slight angst, some fluff, oral sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), fingering, throat fucking, big dick yh, unprotected sex (be safe!), yh is desperately in love, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, mentions of cheating (past relationships), yh and reader met as baristas, pet names, au where jeong yunho can actually cook, yunho is a lil possessive

✦ pairing: nonidol!yunho x reader

✦ author’s note: as a yunho ult, a yh best friends to lovers has been at the top of my list of things to write. i started this fic after yun posted these photos because i just could not get the vision of late night walks with him out of my head! i am new to writing so any feedback is appreciated. i hope you enjoy ♡ as always, thank you to my lovely best friends for enabling me and proofreading my depravity. love you guys forever. ♡

✦ word count: 12.9k

✦ read it on ao3: here

Two years. Two years down the drain because your ex decided he “wasn’t feeling it anymore.” You had a sneaking suspicion his change of heart had to do with his hot new coworker, but you couldn’t think too far into it or it would rip you apart more than he already had.

He had grown distant, and you chalked it up to the stress of his new job. But when he started staying late every other day and missing your sacred Thursday date nights, you knew it was the beginning of the end. You were happy together (most of the time), but you were never certain you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with him. There were certain things about him that you tolerated, but you wanted your forever to be spent with someone who felt perfect for you. And he… didn’t.

Even though you knew he wasn’t who you’d spend your life with, it stung just the same to receive his messages.

loser: hey y/n… i’ve been thinking about this for a while now but i think it’s time for us to part ways.

loser: we’ve had a good run, but i’m just not really feeling it anymore. i hope you understand.

loser: wish you the best. xx

You’d changed his contact and blocked his number immediately, saving yourself from the hurtful words he’d throw your way if you tried to ask for any reasoning or clarification. He always turned into a different person the moment you tried to express your emotions.

“She’s just a coworker, y/n, stop being crazy. You don’t have to worry about her.”

You push his words out of your brain again before they take over. So what if he left you for her? They probably deserve each other. You knew you were better off, that wasn’t the issue. It was that you settled for two years, letting this man who clearly didn’t respect you treat you like an afterthought the entire time. The more you think about it, the more you blame yourself for placing such little value on your own time and energy.

You sit on your couch, your coffee table littered with tear-soaked tissues and instant ramen cups. You haven’t left the house since you got The Texts last night, and you've watched a season of your favorite crime show and eaten your body weight in Buldak since then. You know you can’t sit here and wallow anymore or you’ll start to lose your mind, so you drag yourself to the bathroom to assess the damage. Eyes red and puffy from crying, hair tangled and tied loosely in a scrunchie, tear drops lingering on the same sweatshirt you’d been wearing for the last 24 hours. You look like hell.

“I need to get out of this apartment,” you say to yourself. You pull out your phone and send a quick text to your best friend before hopping in the shower. After washing your hair 3 times, shaving your legs, and exfoliating the sadness away, you’re finally starting to feel human again. You wrap yourself in your favorite towel before checking your phone again.

y/n: yunnie… are you free tonight?

yunho: for you? absolutely. you ok? haven’t heard from you all day.

Of course he’d notice you going MIA for a day. You and your best friend texted every single day, sending quick little updates or funny videos. He’d probably been worried sick, but he never wants to pry. He’s always respected your space like that.

y/n: long story. i’ll explain later.

y/n: meet me in front of blossom in 30?

Blossom was the cafe you and Yunho met working at. You were both burning the candle at both ends working nearly full time as baristas during your senior year of college. Your closing shifts together kept you sane during finals, blasting music and sharing your life stories while you cleaned up the shop. He’d even walk you home, after every closing shift, never wanting to let you walk alone so late. You both gave your two weeks notice right after graduation, but promised each other you’d make up for all the time you wouldn’t spend working together anymore.

That was four years ago, and he’d been such a stable presence in your life since then. You’d grown closer over the years, spending countless movie nights and BBQ dates together. He knew everything about you (after a movie night with too much wine and lots of oversharing) and hadn’t gone running for the hills, so you knew he really cared. You didn’t really have time to make friends in college because you were either working, in class, or studying, so he was really all you had. He was your safe space. You both stayed close by after graduation, staying in your apartments in the city 2 blocks from the cafe on either side. It was nice having your best friend so close by, and the cafe remained a staple in your friendship as a middle point between your two homes. In your reminiscing, you realize you missed your Saturday morning coffee date with him.

yunho: of course, bean. i missed you this morning.

Your heart fluttered in your chest at the nickname. It always does. That, and when he calls you sweetheart. Your heart almost came up your throat the first time he pulled that one. Yunho started calling you bean after you spilled an entire bag of light roast on the cafe floor trying to refill the hopper for the openers. He’ll never let you live that one down. You remembered giggling and scooping coffee beans off the floor on your hands and knees together, his hand brushing over yours when you both reached for the dustpan, your eyes meeting, breath quickening…

You shake the memory from your brain, coming back to reality just as you both had snapped out of it in the moment four years ago, scattering to finish cleaning up and avoiding eye contact the rest of the night. You always dismissed the electricity you felt when his skin touched yours, blaming the exhaustion from working a closing shift after being up all night studying. He had a girlfriend at the time, he wouldn’t have been interested in you that way anyway. He’s your friend, y/n, be realistic. You’re reaching. You send another quick text before getting dressed, and he of course responds right away.

y/n: i missed you too, i’m sorry i should’ve texted. it’s been a shitty 24 hours. i’ll see you soon

yunho: no need to apologize. i’ll be there, see you in a bit.

25 minutes pass and you somehow manage to make yourself look somewhat presentable. You dried your hair and pulled half of it up in a claw clip, leaving some pieces out to frame your face. You threw on some concealer and a bit of blush, trying to hide how puffy your eyes still were. It was a chilly fall night, so you opted for your favorite pair of light wash jeans and an oversized black sweater, accompanied by your beat up black chelsea boots and your gray wool coat.

After a quick 5 minute walk you round the corner to see Yunho standing in front of the cafe, his back facing you. Of course he’s right on time. His broad shoulders fill out the black jacket he’s wearing, his crossbody bag tucked under his arm. The neon sign in the cafe window leaves a purple hue reflecting off his freshly dyed dark gray hair. He turns his head at a car passing by, and you catch yourself smiling at the lost puppy look in his eyes. He must’ve seen you approaching in his peripheral, his head snapping in your direction. A subtle smile plays on his lips as he locks eyes with you. His warm brown eyes are full of an emotion you can’t quite name.

Your chest aches at the realization that your ex, in the two years you were together, never looked at you like that. Why did you ever think you were important to him? Your throat suddenly tightens and your vision starts to blur, tears welling in your eyes for the millionth time today. Yunho’s smile drops, his brow furrowing as he takes two long strides to meet you.

“Y/n, what is it, what happened?” He reaches for your shoulders to hold you steady, but you push forward to bury your face in his chest. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other snakes around your shoulders. Your hands find his waist, gripping his shirt underneath his jacket. His familiar scent of jasmine envelops you, and you realize how badly you needed your best friend to help you through this.

”H-He dumped me,” you sniffle, letting out a shaky breath into Yunho’s chest, “he d-dumped me yesterday, through a fucking t-text message,” another unsteady exhale as you try to level your breathing.

“He did what?!” He pulls you in closer to him, the disbelief lacing his tone reassuring how rational your feelings are.

“It’s over,” you blink away your tears, tilting your head back to look up at your best friend. You’ve never seen the expression on his face before, like anger and worry are battling it out in his brain, and he can’t decide which one should take center stage first. “He texted me last night, saying he ‘wasn’t feeling it anymore’ and he ‘wished me the best,’” your mocking tone repeating his words reignited the angry flame in your chest.

“Wished you the best,” he scoffs, “is he kidding?” He rolls his eyes. “That’s how you end a two-year-long relationship?” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, taking a half step back to give you some more space to catch your breath.

“I can’t believe I wasted two years of my life with someone who just kicked me to the curb without a second thought,” you pinch the fabric of his shirt between your fingers, your eyes lingering on his collarbone peeking out from his slightly unbuttoned shirt. “I’m convinced he left me for a coworker, the one he told me not to worry about.” A humorless laugh leaves your lips, the burning feeling behind your eyes returning as more tears come. “I’m more upset with myself for letting him treat me like this for so long,”

“Hey, look at me,” Yunho cautiously brings his hands to your face, cradling your head gently. You lean into his touch, dragging your gaze up to meet his.

“He doesn’t know what he just threw away, sweetheart,” Yunho holds your teary cheeks in his hands. “You are the most beautiful creature this world has ever seen, and if he doesn’t see that, he doesn’t deserve you.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” You choke out between sniffles.

“Oh y/n… of course I do. I always have,” he wipes a tear from your cheek before it reaches your lips, “since the day I met you.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his admission, your chin wobbling as you try to hold it together.

His eyes search yours, that unspoken emotion taking over his features again. You almost catch the moment he shakes it away, reminding himself that he’s here to support you. His hands fall from your cheeks to grab your hands instead, that familiar electricity prickling your skin as he rubs his thumbs over your knuckles.

“Do you wanna go inside? I called ahead and ordered you a maple latte and a raspberry scone as soon as I got your text.” He tilts his head in the direction of the cafe next to you.

You look inside to see two to-go cups and a brown paper bag sitting on the counter. “And an iced caramel latte for you, I’m assuming,” you poke his stomach teasingly, “thank you, Yun, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did,” he gently squeezes your hands, a warm smile taking over his features. “Come on, it seems like we have a lot to catch up on. I have a feeling you have a lot to get off your chest.” He lets go of one hand, keeping hold of the other to walk you to the door. You lace your fingers through his, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

You’d spent the last hour sitting in your favorite booth with Yunho, hashing through every single thing you hated about your ex. He was appalled by the things you’d told him, wishing he knew sooner so he could’ve tried to help you see you deserve someone better. Someone who valued your emotions, understood your needs, respected your boundaries… Someone like —

“Yunho, are you with me?” Your voice shakes him out of his daze, bringing him back to the conversation.

“Sorry bean, I just can’t believe he was such an asshole behind closed doors,” he recovers, “I wish you told me sooner. I feel like I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been.”

”It’s not your fault, I could’ve told you and I didn’t. I think I was in denial,” you scoff. ”I was settling and I knew it, I was just trying to pretend things were better, but I think I’d been checked out for a while.” You swirl your coffee around in your cup, avoiding the concerned look in his eye. If you looked at him too long, you’d risk reading something deeper in the way he cares about you, something that made your heart flutter and ache all at once.

”Y/n, do you remember the girl I was dating when we met?” His tone shifts, a slight vulnerability creeping in. You stop moving your cup, watching the drink settle. You nod hesitantly, still avoiding his eyes.

Of course you remember her. You had developed a crush on Yunho in your first week working together, but you had to smother it at the first mention of her. Any hope you had left for a chance with him disintegrated the first time you saw her — she was the kind of beautiful you only saw on TV. Flawless skin, no split ends, a perfectly sculpted body. Even her voice was smooth. She seemed perfect for him.

“She cheated on me.”

Your head snaps up to him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

You remember him telling you they broke up in passing — it had been a month after you started a relationship of your own. Part of you always wondered if you had just missed your window to pursue something with Yunho, but you pushed that thought out of your head so you could be present for your best friend. He didn’t want to go into detail about the breakup at the time, and he never did in the two years that followed.

“For the last six months of our relationship, she’d been sleeping with someone she reconnected with from high school. They realized they loved each other, and she ended things.” He offers a sad smile, but the bitterness lingers beneath the surface. You feel a tightness in your chest wondering why he didn’t want to share his pain with you while all of this was going on.

”Oh, Yunnie,” you reach for his hand across the table, holding his large palm in yours. “I’m so sorry. I don’t understand how anyone could ever do that to you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Maybe we can call it even?” He lets out a breathy laugh, ignoring your question. “You didn’t tell me your relationship troubles, I didn’t tell you mine. Now it’s all on the table and we can leave it in the past.” He squeezes your hand, waiting for your response.

“Fine.” You flash a tight lipped smile, wanting to hash this open again with him at a later time. You didn’t keep secrets from each other, so why was he avoiding getting into this with you?

“Well, it’s almost closing time.” Of course he’s gonna change the subject. “Do you need a night alone or are you coming home with me tonight?” He forces a smile from across the table, and you could’ve sworn his ears turned the slightest bit red asking you to spend the night. Sleepovers weren’t out of the norm for the two of you, but this proposal felt different for some reason.

“I think if I’m alone at my place tonight I’ll revert to the sad couch potato I was before I texted you earlier.” You don’t really believe that, feeling like you’ve moved past the depression stage of grief and slowly inching toward acceptance. But you still wanted the company.

“I’d love to come home with you, Yunnie.”

“Then let’s go, sweetheart.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Your neighborhood was so beautiful at night. The soft streetlights cast a gentle glow on the sidewalk, illuminating little puddles of water from last night’s rain. The fall air feels cool and crisp, carrying the faint smell of the changing leaves. This late at night, the stillness is calming… usually.

You two had found this to be the perfect environment to have your deepest talks. Taking regular nighttime walks with Yunho had become one of your cherished rituals, especially when one of you needed to get something off your chest. You’d shared fragments of your lives, from your family drama to his frequent arguments with a stubborn coworker at his new job. But tonight, a suffocating silence swirls around you.

You’d taken a full lap around the neighborhood in silence since leaving Blossom, the familiar path devoid of your usual chatter. As you approach Yunho’s place, his brisk pace and hands shoved deep in his pockets told you he wasn’t going to be the one to acknowledge it. He was never one for confrontation. If he wouldn’t tell you what’s going on voluntarily, you’d have to coax it out of him.

You stop walking, the cool air feeling sharper on your skin. He takes three more strides before he stops too, spinning back around to face you, confusion etched on his devastatingly handsome features.

“You okay, bean?” he asks, tilting his head at you, genuine concern flickering in his eyes.

“I feel like I should be asking you the same thing,” you reply, barely above a whisper. Maybe you weren’t one for confrontation either.

He takes a step closer to you, “I’m fine,” he says with a quick shrug and a slight shake of his head.

“Then why haven’t you spoken to me since we left Blossom? Did I say something to upset you?” You try your hardest to grab your frustration before it bubbles up, but you can already tell it’s too late. His dismissive tone, both here and at the cafe, gnaws at you. It triggers something inside of you from your recently ended relationship, and you feel on the verge of either shutting down or letting your emotions spiral.

“I just thought you might want a quiet walk is all.” He can barely look you in the eye, and that’s when you know something is very wrong.

“Come on Yun, you know that’s not what’s going on. Something is bothering you.” The frustration claws higher and higher, an unwelcome tightness gripping at your chest. Don’t cry, y/n.

He opens his mouth, the words hanging on the tip of his tongue, but stops himself, his hands finally pulling from his pockets to rest on his hips. He stares at a fallen leaf swirling in a puddle between you.

“Is it because we talked about your ex?” He winces just a little at your words. “I didn’t mean to open old wounds, I just thought after everything we’ve shared with each other that you’d want to talk to me about it.” You don’t mean for your words to sound accusatory, but based on the way his body tenses, you realize they must have.

“It’s not that, y/n, it’s not about…” his voice trails off into a sigh. His eyes search yours, his mind racing trying to decide if he wants to get into what’s really going on, what he’s been keeping inside for so long.

“Then what is it?” You’re grasping at straws, desperately trying to get him to give you anything to go off of. When you’re met with more silence and an indiscernible look in his eyes, you push forward.

“I just don’t get why you wouldn’t tell me she cheated on you Yun, we help each other through everything.” Anger wells up in you, more at yourself for not asking him to open up to you about it at the time.

“Y/n, please, it’s more complicated than just her cheating, and I just don’t know if now is the best time to get into it, you’re still—”

“Still what, Yunho? Grieving my own relationship? Just because I just got dumped doesn’t mean I can’t be here for you!” Your voice rises, each word sharp, the tension in your throat threatening to break. “You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle, that’s not up to you—”

“Fine,” he interrupts, “do you wanna know the real reason I didn’t tell you, y/n? Is that what you want?” His ears redden, and you can’t tell if he’s angry, embarrassed, or a combination of the two. You nod hesitantly. “I didn’t tell you she cheated because I didn’t care, okay? I didn’t care. Her heart wasn’t in it anymore, but neither was mine.” His chest heaves, squeezing his eyes shut tight for a brief moment to brace himself.

“I didn’t care that she cheated, because I didn’t want her anyway.” He lets out a shaky breath. “I wanted you.”

Oh.

His eyes burn into yours as his words hang in the air between the two of you.

“Yunho…” You take a step toward him only for him to take a step back. Your heart is pounding so hard in your chest, you wonder if he can hear it. What is happening right now?

“I’m sorry y/n, I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I’ve held it in for so long, and I just can’t do it anymore, I—” He stutters over his words, “I wasn’t grieving my relationship, I was grieving yours. You found someone just before she ended things with me, and I realized maybe you and I weren’t meant to be. That we’d never have the chance to try.” His eyes gloss over with pent up emotion, thinking about all the time he spent wondering what could’ve been. “I wanted you, but I had to act like I didn’t, and we were becoming such good friends, I didn’t want to ruin it, I just—”

”Did you think I didn’t feel the same?” You interrupt him. “That I don’t feel the same now?”

He tilts his head at you, the tension in his body visibly disintegrating. “What are you saying?” Brows furrowing, cheeks blushing, so many emotions flying through his features at a speed neither of you can process. He runs his hands down his face before resting them on his hips. “Sweetheart, what are you saying?”

“I wanted you, too, Yun…” The words tumble out of you, a rush of honesty that feels both exhilarating and terrifying. “I want you too.”

He takes another step toward you, his mind racing as he searches for answers to never ending questions. “You did?” Another step. “You do?”

“Yes, and yes,” you nod, feeling warmth flood your cheeks at your admission—both to Yunho and to you. You realize you’d never said it out loud before, not even to yourself.

“Say it again,” he urges, closing the gap between the two of you. One hand finds your waist while the other gently cradles the back of your neck. His touch lights a fire on your skin, his hands feeling heavier on your body than they ever have before. Your hands find their way to his waist, tugging him closer to you. Chests heaving, hearts racing.

“I want you, Yunho.”

The tension between you peaks, your grip tightening on one another, like if either one of you lets go, the moment will slip away. Yunho’s eyes search yours, looking for confirmation.

He gently cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, igniting the familiar spark that had always lingered between the two of you. Your breath hitches in your throat, caught between the fear of moving too fast and the undeniable pull you have always felt towards him.

You bring a hand up to his cheek, your fingers gliding over his skin, feeling the warmth radiating from him. You linger for a moment before wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you.

“Y/n,” he whispers, “sweetheart,” his gaze drops to your lips, and you swear you can hear your hearts beating in time with one another in the quiet.

You take a deep breath, searching his gaze for the same spark of desire you feel coursing through your body. He inches closer, breath mingling with yours, heating the space between you.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, his voice trembling slightly.

You nod, breathless, as you lean in just enough to finally close the distance between the two of you.

The tip of his nose brushes against yours, the contact making your head spin. You’ve thought about this moment countless times, and being here feels so right.

“Yunho,” you breathe, “please kiss me alr—“

His mouth molds to yours before you can finish your sentence, pulling all the remaining air from your lungs. The world around you explodes in a flash of warmth and tenderness, all the hurt you had been feeling melting away into a puddle at your feet.

You feel a rush of emotions— relief, joy, and a deep, intoxicating desire— as he deepens the kiss. Your hands tighten around the back of his neck, pulling him closer as he sweeps his tongue across your bottom lip. You lose yourself in the sensation, the taste of him and the feeling of his lips on yours erasing everything else you’ve ever felt.

His fingers tangle in your hair, holding you as if you might disappear. This moment, this kiss, feels like a declaration— a culmination of all the unspoken words, the hidden glances, the years of longing between the two of you. It’s exhilarating.

He finally pulls away, resting his forehead against yours, your heavy breaths the only sounds on the quiet street. Your hands slide from his neck, traveling down his chest before settling on his waist.

“Sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean to cut you off,” he chuckles, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I’ve just been waiting a really long time to do that.” He drops a gentle kiss to your forehead before wrapping his arms around you to pull you close.

“You can cut me off anytime if it means I get to kiss you,” you nuzzle into his chest. The steady thud of his heartbeat slows yours to match.

“Oh yeah?” He looks down at you, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Yes, abso—“

His lips connect to yours again, a fire igniting in your belly when his tongue tangles with yours. He tastes like caramel, the sweetness of his latte lingering on his tongue. Wide hands wrap around your hips, dragging you closer, rolling your body into him.

You snake your hands up his lower back, digging your nails into his skin through his shirt. A low groan rumbles deep in Yunho’s throat at the sensation, sending a bolt of heat straight to your core. A whimper crawls up your throat before you can stop it, and Yunho smiles against your mouth. He draws your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently.

“Your lips are even softer than I imagined they’d be,” he gives you one more lingering kiss before pulling back. His deep eyes find yours, his blushed cheeks glowing under the streetlights.

“You’ve imagined kissing me?” Shyness creeps in at the realization that Yunho thought about you in the same way you thought about him.

“Among other things, yes,” he brushes your hair out of your face, his palm settling to cup your cheek. “You’re cute when you blush.”

“I am not blushing!” You hide your face in your hands. “Maybe I am, but how can I not when you talk to me like that,” you muffle into your palms.

“I’ll talk to you any way you want if it means you’ll react like this,” he teases, gently pulling your hands from your face to hold them in his. “Your hands are freezing, sweetheart,” he brings your hands to his mouth, holding them between his and blowing his hot breath onto them to warm them up.

”Well we have been out here a while,” you shiver at the feeling of his breath on your skin.

“Am I still allowed to take you home tonight, or would that complicate things?” He’s either nervous, or hesitant. Either would make sense, you just got dumped and 24 hours later you’re confessing your feelings for your best friend (and kissing him). Anyone with a brain might wonder if you’re rushing, or worse, rebounding. Once you get out of this cold, you can talk things through.

“Yes, please, let’s go.” You take his hand in yours, kissing his knuckles before pulling him in the direction of his place.

“You got it, baby.” He slings an arm over your shoulder, planting a kiss to the top of your head. Your heart flutters as you walk toward his apartment.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

As soon as you walk through Yunho’s front door, he breezes past you to grab two wine glasses and a bottle of your favorite rosé while you kick off your boots. As you shed your jacket, he sets two full glasses on his simple wooden coffee table, heading back to his kitchen to grab a bag of chips and some chocolates. He returns with his hands full, confusion lacing his features when he finds you standing in the middle of his living room stifling a laugh.

“Is something funny?” He chuckles at your reddening cheeks as you let out a giggle.

“When did you get so nervous to have me in your apartment?” Part of you feels bad for teasing, but he looks so cute when he’s flustered, you can’t help it. “I’ve never seen you move so fast to get me a glass of wine.”

“Well, when you decide to tell me you want me in the middle of the street, that tends to change things, baby,” he grins at you, clocking you for the second time now having a physical reaction to his newest pet name for you. You thought sweetheart sounded beautiful coming out of his mouth, but baby is a whole new level of intoxicating.

”You said it first, but I guess that does change things, huh, baby?” You cross your arms, challenging him. “Do I make you nervous, Jeong Yunho?”

“You make me a lot of things, sweetheart, but nervous isn’t one of them.” He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, the gesture making your head spin. After setting your snacks down on the coffee table, he finally takes off his jacket and kicks off his shoes. He plops down on his couch, patting the empty cushion next to him. “Come sit with me,” the deep, inviting tone of his voice has you moving to him immediately. Grabbing your wine, you sit next to him, folding one leg up onto the couch to turn to face him. He copies your position, his knee resting just an inch from yours.

“What do I make you feel, then?” You swirl your wine in your glass as your gaze flicks over his handsome features. Landing on his eyes, your heart jumps at the way they shine for you.

“Fulfilled,” he starts, scooting closer to you so your knees are just barely touching. “Cared for, understood,” the corner of his mouth quirks up slightly, “and loved.”

A bloom of warmth floods your chest at the word. This is what you’ve been missing the last few years. You thought your ex would give you this sense of gratification if you gave him more time, but what you were searching for was in your best friend. You always knew in the back of your mind that it was him. The one who held you when you cried, who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who would drop everything to be there when you needed him. You take a big sip of your wine.

“I was settling,” the words fall off your lips before you can stop them, the alcohol warming your cheeks right away. “I thought that if I kept giving him everything he would eventually give me half of what I was craving, but in the back of my mind I think I knew he’d never be what I really needed… I settled for him.”

Yunho offers a soft nod, zero judgment, only understanding. “And what is it you were craving?” He moves even closer to you, your shins now pressed together.

“You,” you sigh, his deep eyes boring into yours, waiting for more. You tap your fingers on your wine glass, contemplating your next words. “The connection, the comfort, the joy, the love that you gave me,” your throat tightens thinking about the nights you spent longing for your best friend. “I wanted you, how you made me feel…but I settled for him.”

“Right person, wrong time,” Yunho scoffs, a gentle shake of his head, “kind of applies to us, right? We’ve wanted each other for years now, but we just never had the chance.”

“I should’ve told you sooner, Yun,” your hand rests on his, his fingers immediately lacing between yours. “We’ve wasted so much time,” hot tears blur your vision, but you blink them away before they fall.

“Hey, we have all the time in the world, baby,” he brings your hand to his mouth, planting a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “All the time in the world,” he muffles against your skin. You turn your palm to hold his cheek, and you notice his eyes roll back before they flutter closed.

“All the time in the world,” you repeat, threading your fingers into his hair. A future with Yunho flashes through your mind. Lazy Sunday mornings, celebrating milestones and holidays together, late nights tangled in the sheets, his body taking over yours —

“Y/n…” His deep, smooth voice brings you back to the moment, the sound of your name on his lips heating your cheeks.

“Hm?”

He gently takes your wine glass from your hand, setting it on the coffee table next to his untouched one. When his eyes find yours again, warmth pools in your belly at the darkness that’s taken over his features. “I really want to kiss you again, but I feel like we should talk first,” he takes both your hands in his, and your heart pounds a beat faster in your chest. “If you spend the night tonight, there’s no going back. Once I have you, I don’t think I can let you go.”

“I don’t want you to let me go, Yun,” you squeeze his hands in yours. “I’ve waited too long to get here, I don’t wanna go back… You already have me, don’t let me go.” The thudding in your rib cage intensifies with every second of heated silence.

“I couldn’t if I tried,” he finally says, pulling you in, crashing his lips into yours. His hands find your waist, his tongue exploring your mouth, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into his lap. You straddle him, resting your knees on either side of his hips, deepening the kiss as his hands wander to cup your ass, pulling you closer to him. You roll your hips against him, his grip tightening on you as he drags your body over him. A groan rumbles in his chest and you feel his cock stiffening beneath you, grinding on him slower and harder.

“I can’t believe you’re finally mine,” Yuhho’s hand snakes up your back and into your hair, gently removing your clip and tossing it to the floor before gripping your locks and tilting your head to the side, exposing the sensitive column of your neck to his mouth. He nips at your skin, licking the spot with his tongue, moving up to the tender spot under your ear. “My beautiful girl,” his hot breath in your ear has your entire body blooming with goosebumps.

”Yunho,” you roll your hips over him again as his lips travel down your neck to your collarbone, a whimper crawling up your throat at your rough jeans catching on your swelling clit. He feels harder and harder underneath you with each rock against him, and you’re cursing yourself for wearing such thick pants. You just want to feel him.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He tightens his grip on your hair, kissing back up your neck until his lips connect with yours again. You moan into his mouth as his other hand guides your hips back and forth, shamelessly grinding your bodies against each other like horny teenagers.

“Touch me please,” you beg, catching his bottom lip between your teeth, sucking on it gently.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” he teases. He snakes an arm around your waist and smoothly rolls you onto your back, laying you down in the soft cushions. He kneels, settling between your legs, spreading them wide to roll his hips into your needy clothed core. His mouth finds yours again, tangling his tongue with yours.

The hand in your hair loosens, trailing down your body, ghosting over your breasts, down your belly, and lifting your sweater slightly to get to your jeans. He makes light work of the button and zipper, his nimble fingers undoing the fastenings with ease, all while keeping his mouth on yours. You feel him tapping on your ass, signaling you to lift your hips. When you do, he shimmies your jeans down your legs agonizingly slowly, breaking the kiss to admire the bits of your skin he’s dreamt about for years.

He tosses your jeans on his living room floor, and a timidity slithers up at the realization that you’re in your underwear on your best friend’s couch. His broad hands rest on your thighs, letting you close them slightly, your shared shuddering breaths the only sound in his quiet apartment.

“Getting shy on me, sweetheart?” He teases you, reading your mind. He knows you so well. You giggle as he slides his hands to your sweater, dragging it up your body, exposing your panties, shifting it higher and higher until the bottom hem of your bra is barely showing. He slides his hands under your top, expertly cradling your bra-clad breasts in his hands, letting out a restrained groan. The energy shifts and you whimper, watching his eyes locked on the way his fingers swim beneath the fabric of your sweater. You let your legs fall open slightly as Yunho slots himself between them, peppering your belly with gentle kisses and thumbing one of your pebbling nipples through the thin material of your bra.

“Yun…” you sigh, running your fingers through his hair as he kisses you lower and lower, “please,”

“Mhm,” he nods against your soft skin, shifting down to lay on his belly between your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders. You feel his searing breath over your pussy, cooling the growing wet patch in your panties, making you clench around nothing. He picks up on your reaction, gripping your hips before blowing a steady stream of air over your sensitive heat.

“Oh,” you breathe, wriggling under his strong grasp, spreading your legs wider for him.

“You’re so reactive,” he murmurs, biting down on your inner thigh, soothing the spot with his tongue. You yelp at the sensation, covering your mouth in shock of the sound that just came out of you. Yunho chuckles darkly, “don’t hold back, baby, I wanna hear all the noises you make.”

He hooks an arm over your hip so his hand rests on your mound. He grips your panties in his fist, pulling them up until the fabric slips between your wet folds, gliding firmly over your clit. You stifle a sob as he tugs them harder, biting you once more.

“I thought I told you not to hold back, sweetheart,” he licks your skin again, soothing the angry bite mark that will surely be bruised by morning. Another tug of your panties has you mewling, one hand gripping his hair for dear life, the other blindly searching for anything to ground you.

“Yunnie, please, stop teasing me,” you never thought your sweet and wholesome best friend could have you whimpering and begging beneath him, hardly having touched you. He has such a dark, dominating presence about him in this moment, and it’s making your head fuzzy.

He lets go of your panties, swiftly pulling them to the side, exposing your wet heat to the cool air. You suck in a sharp inhale, finally bare to him.

“Fuck,” he moans, “look at you, baby,” he runs two fingers through your heat, the sudden contact making you cry out. He spreads you wide to see every inch of you, taking his time. “So pretty,” he breathes.

“I need you, please,” you whine, “are you gonna make me keep begging?”

“Baby, I’ve wanted to touch you like this for years,” he drawls, “let me savor it a little.” Before you can protest, he teases your entrance with two fingers, slowly thrusting them deeper and deeper inside you, little by little, until his palm is flush with your cunt. Your head falls back into the cushions, your chest heaving. You had daydreamed about how his fingers would feel inside of you, but nothing compares to the real thing. He pumps in and out a few more times before he curls his fingers, hitting the spot that makes your back arch. You grip his hair, tugging on it harder than you mean to, but you can’t help it. You miss the way his eyes roll back, his mouth hanging open at the pain.

Yunho lets you guide his mouth to your core, his fingers keeping a steady pace as he uses his free hand to spread you open, swirling his tongue around your clit.

“Yunnie…” you whimper, grinding your hips on his mouth. He nods against you, sucking your clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the swollen bud over and over in time with his fingers moving in and out of you. Pleasure blooms in your belly as he works you, each flick of his tongue bringing you closer to the edge.

“Feeling good, sweetheart?” He replaces his tongue with his thumb, circling your clit softly to ease you into the sensation. You push yourself down into his hand, needing more. He chuckles, applying more pressure until he feels you melting under him.

“Yes, so good Yun, fuck,” the pressure low in your belly builds rapidly, and you know if he keeps going at this pace, you’ll fall apart in no time. You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, and once your eyes lock with his you know you’re a goner.

His hair is mussed from your tugging on it, his cheeks flushed, his mouth glistening, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple as he picks up the pace ever so slightly. He smirks at you, letting your legs fall from his shoulders so he can kneel between them again, sitting back to get a good look at you, never slowing his ministrations. You make the mistake of glancing down, your mouth drying at the sight of his cock pressing against the confines of his jeans. He hits that spot deep inside you again, and you fall back into the cushions, breathy curses falling from your mouth over and over.

“You look so beautiful like this, fucking hell,” he drops his free hand next to your head, caging you in beneath him, watching his fingers pistoning in and out of you faster and faster, circling your clit in a matching pace. “Mine, mine, mine,” he repeats over and over, like he can’t believe this is finally happening. He brings his lips to yours, mumbling the words against your mouth as you nod wordlessly in agreement, the taste of yourself on his tongue making you dizzy. He kisses you down to your neck, nipping at your sensitive skin, praise after praise whispered into your ear.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he emphasizes his words with a sharp thrust of his fingers, and you cry out at the sensation.

“I’m yours, I’m yours— fuck!” You feel the cord in your belly tightening and tightening.

“Good fucking girl,” he whispers in your ear, nipping at your earlobe, “come around my fingers, baby,”

“Oh, oh,” you shudder underneath him, his words pushing you over the edge as your orgasm rips through your body, pleasure burning from the inside out. He kisses you hard, slowing his pace bit by bit to ease you through your climax, your body trembling in his hold. “Yunho,” you mumble into his mouth, “I’m yours,” you whisper.

“You sure are,” he peppers your cheeks with soft, tender kisses, your brain slowly coming back online as he slows his fingers, coming to a stop. “And I’m yours,” he kisses you gently, easing his fingers out of you, slipping your panties back into place. He lays down on the couch next to you, pulling your favorite throw blanket over your exposed bottom half, tracing hearts and stars on your skin while your breathing steadies, running his fingers through your hair as you let your eyes flutter closed. You snuggle into him, the warmth of his body keeping the flame in your core burning.

“You are incredible, Jeong Yunho,” you giggle as he kisses every inch of your face, his soft lips mapping the details of your skin. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Why, because I made you come in 5 minutes flat?” His low drawl has desire coursing through your veins, part of you feeling embarrassed he can turn you on so easily with just his words.

Your breath hitches as you nod, trying to keep your cool, but he knows you better than that by now. “You really like when I talk to you like this, don’t you, baby?”

“Apparently I do,” you turn to look at him, a teasing glint in his eyes, his fingers dancing across the bare skin of your belly. “I’d love to hear what else you have to say,” you tease.

“Well for starters, I want to take you to bed” His mouth hovers over the shell of your ear, the combination of his hot breath fanning over your skin and the vibrations of his deep voice have lust taking over your thoughts once again. “I want to fuck you properly, and we just don’t exactly have the space for that here,” you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh,” you giggle, his straightforwardness taking you by surprise. Just like that you’re throbbing for him again, your mind racing thinking about where your night with him is going to go. “I’d like that.”

Before he can catch you, you jump up from the couch, leaving your throw blanket behind, beelining for the hallway toward Yunho’s bedroom, giggling the whole way.

“Hey!” He laughs, clamoring up to chase after you. A few long strides and he’s caught up to you, right in the doorway of his bedroom. He hooks an arm around your waist and you yelp as he spins you around to face him, the momentum of both your running carrying you to the foot of his bed. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, but he holds you upright, pressing your body against his. Your eyes lock, both of you breathing heavily.

“Someone’s excited,” Yunho chuckles, giving you a firm kiss before pushing you back onto his bed. You let out a breathless laugh as you plop down on the mattress, pushing yourself to sit upright.

“A little,” your hands find his torso, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He smirks down at you as you run your hands under his shirt and up his stomach to chest. He lets out a shaky breath at the feeling of your hands on him, and pulls his shirt off over his head, discarding it on the floor. You’d seen him without a shirt a handful of times, but this close he looks ethereal. Your fingers dance across his bare skin, reveling in the feeling of being able to touch him like this. You want to see more of him, touch more of him, taste more of him.

“Yun,” you start, hesitant to take the lead. You slide your hands down his body until your fingers feel the smooth leather of his belt. Your eyes meet his, not breaking contact while you smoothly undo his belt buckle. “Can I?” You whisper.

“You can do whatever you want to me, y/n,” he breathes, looking down to where your fingers are undoing the button of his jeans, sliding the zipper down slowly. You pull his jeans down, and he kicks them to the side, standing before you in only his boxers, his hard length pressing against the confines of the fabric.

His fingers lace through your hair, gripping it gently to tip your head back. Keeping your eyes on him, you slowly pull your sweater over your head, letting him let go of your hair to take it from your hands and toss it to the floor. You reach behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra, slowly sliding it from your body and dropping it next to your discarded sweater. Yunho’s chest heaves as he pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, drinking this image of you in, dragging his gaze across your exposed chest.

“So beautiful,” his voice has dropped even lower, a tone you’ve never heard from him, the deep timbre stoking the fire deep inside you. “You are so beautiful,” he cups your face in his hands, bending over to kiss you softly. He parts your lips with his tongue as you rest your hands on his abdomen, sliding one down to palm his cock over his boxers.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, your fingers wrapping around him as much as you can through the fabric, stroking his impressive length as he licks deeper into your mouth. You pump him from base to tip, running your thumb over the wet patch at the head of his cock, drawing another guttural moan from his lips. Your mouth is watering at the feeling of him, but it’s not enough.

You dip your fingers under the waistband of his boxers, and Yunho breaks the kiss to watch you pull them slowly down, down, down, until his cock springs free, hanging heavy in front of you. You absentmindedly lick your lips at the sight of him, feeling the wetness in your panties growing. Lust prickles across your skin thinking about feeling him inside of you.

“Yunho,” you sigh, wrapping your fingers around him, pumping him slowly as he stands up straight, tugging your hair in his fist to tip your head back again. “I want you to fuck my throat,” you whine, “please,”

“Oh, baby,” he grips your hair tighter at your words while you stroke him, the sting making your cheeks warm, “you want me to stuff your pretty little mouth? Wanna wrap those beautiful lips around me?” Towering over you like this, you start to realize just how much he could overpower you, and the thought spreads heat through your abdomen.

“Please,” you nod, “I wanna taste you,” you open your mouth, sticking your tongue out for him, keeping your eyes on his. You pump his length twice more as you guide his hips toward your mouth, dropping your hands into your lap as his tip rests on your tongue.

“Mmh, so pretty,” he whispers, wrapping his fist around his cock, tapping his tip on your tongue before sliding past your lips. “If it gets to be too much, just tap my thigh, okay sweetheart?”

You nod, wrapping your lips around him, sliding your tongue over the sensitive underside of his tip. His head falls back, a beautiful moan falling from his lips as you slowly start to bob your head. You take more of him, inch by inch until his cock taps the back of your throat. You swallow around him, and he absentmindedly thrusts deeper, chasing the sensation.

“Fuck,” he groans, his grip on your hair tightening again as he holds you there. “I’m gonna move now, is that okay?” He brings his free hand to your cheek, caressing it gently as you nod in confirmation. As soon as you give him the signal, he pulls back slightly, rocking his hips slowly, savoring the feeling of your lips wrapped around him and your tongue gliding over him. “So beautiful with your mouth stuffed so full,” he praises you, thrusting deeper into your mouth, down your throat, testing the limits of what you can take. He finds a steady rhythm, and you match his pace, bobbing your head and licking over every inch of him as he pumps in and out of your mouth, the stretch burning your throat deliciously.

You can’t take your eyes off of him, tears blurring your vision as you admire his lustful features. His furrowed brow, his blown pupils, his flushed cheeks. The bead of sweat dripping down the tip of his nose, the tensing muscles in his stomach as he pumps into your mouth… he looks so beautiful. You find yourself rocking your hips, grinding into the mattress, looking for any friction you can get.

He thrusts deep into your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat again, and he holds you down on him, your nose brushing over his abdomen. The lack of air makes your head spin, and you want him even deeper. You reach up to grab his hips, but your hand bumps his thigh on the way up, which he takes as your signal that it’s too much.

“Shit,” he pulls out of your mouth, and you gasp for air as he drops to his knees in front of you. “Are you okay, baby? I’m so sorry, was that too rough?” His eyes are full of panic and he brushes your hair out of your face, wiping the saliva that had bubbled up at the corners of your mouth. It all happens so fast, it takes you a moment to process the man waiting in front of you, waiting for a response. Before you can stop yourself, a smile breaks across your face and a giggle rises up your throat.

“Yunnie,” you laugh, cradling his concerned face in your hands, “I’m fine, more than fine,” you try to catch your breath. “I was trying to…grab your hips to pull you closer, but I … bumped your leg by mistake,” his panicked face relaxes, a beautiful smile taking its place, and he lets out a deep sigh of relief. “I do appreciate how quickly you stopped though,” you tease him, your breathing finally steady, “it’s nice to know my boundaries will be taken very seriously.”

“You scared me!” He laughs, dropping his head in your lap.

“It was an accident!” You laugh with him, brushing through his hair with your fingers. “I actually wanted you to be more rough with me,”

He straightens up. “Is that so?” He plants his hands on the mattress on either side of your hips, the darkness returning to his gaze as he stands again, leaning over you. You lean back onto your elbows as he towers over you, his eyes raking over every inch of your body.

“It is,” you whisper, suddenly feeling so small beneath him, all lightheartedness suddenly sucked out of the room. “I would enjoy that very much,”

“Mmh,” he hooks an arm under your waist, lifting you easily and moving your body further up the mattress. You let out a small yelp as he drops you, heart warming as he reaches above you to grab a pillow to prop under your head. Once he’s sure you’re comfortable, he hooks his fingers on your panties, and you lift your hips for him to peel them off of you. He tosses them to the floor, turning his attention back to you, spreading your legs wide open, kneeling between them.

“I would enjoy that too, however,” he runs his hands up your calves, your thighs, until he reaches your center, using both hands to spread you wide open. You watch in awe as he runs two fingers through your arousal, teasingly dipping them inside of you. “I want to savor every moment of this,” he dips down to kiss you softly as he drives his fingers even deeper, prodding that tender spot inside of you, drawing a whine from your lips. “Let me be gentle this time, let me show you how much I–” he pauses, something indiscernible flashing through his eyes. “Let me show you how much I’ve been wanting you,” he recovers. “Then next time,” his thumb flicks over your clit, “I will do whatever you want me to do to you,” he circles the sensitive bud, your mind reeling. “Does that sound good, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod, “so good,” you whimper as he scissors his fingers inside of you, surely trying to stretch you open for what’s to come.

He reaches for the drawer in his nightstand with his free hand, but you stop him. “You don’t have to wear one,” you interrupt.

“Are you sure?” His fingers keep moving inside of you, stretching you wider with each thrust, but still giving your conversation his attention.

“I’m on the pill and was tested recently, so yes, please Yunnie, I want to feel you,” you mewl, “please let me feel you,”

“So good for me,” he praises you over and over, “are you ready?”

“Yes, please,” you whine when he pulls his fingers from your cunt, desperate for him. He lifts your hips, pulling you closer to him, nestling himself between your legs, being sure to adjust your pillow once more. He spreads you open with one hand, tapping the tip of his solid cock on your swollen clit before rubbing it up and down your slit, lining up with your entrance. You both freeze at the same time as the reality of what’s about to happen finally hits you.

The feeling of this moment is nothing you’ve experienced before. For years, you’ve longed for Yunho, wanting the intimacy of your friendship to go beyond just emotional intimacy. You’ve yearned for him as long as you’ve known him. You wanted him– all of him. Finally, the universe decided it’s time for you two to experience that.

You realize he’s feeling it too, his hand finding your cheek in the silence, brushing away a tear that you didn’t realize had fallen down your cheek. “I know, baby,” he whispers, and that’s all you need to hear.

He presses his lips to your forehead as he slowly pushes inside, easing you into the sensation, gently stretching you out on his cock. You feel grateful that he prepped you with his fingers, the sting you feel only lasting a few brief moments before he’s smoothly gliding into you. He pushes in deeper and deeper, until you’re filled to the brim. He drops his hands to the mattress on either side of your head as he bottoms out. Almost in unison, you both let out a shuddering exhale.

“You feel incredible, fuck” he breathes against your forehead, finally pulling back to look into your eyes, your bodies finally connected physically in the way they’ve felt connected spiritually all these years. “And you look so pretty, my angel,” he whispers, his eyes shining.

“I don’t know how you can still manage to make me blush when you’re literally inside of me,” you pant, shyly giggling as your cheeks warm under his loving gaze. He hisses at the way you squeeze around him when you laugh. “Sorry,” you cover your mouth with your hand to stifle your giggles.

“I’m learning so much about you today,” he pulls hips back slightly before burying himself inside you again, all teasing coming to an instant halt as the tip of his cock presses against your g-spot.

“Oh my–” your back arches at the feeling, “God Yunnie, I feel so f-full.”

“You’re doing so well baby,” he praises you again, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. “Look at you, so beautiful taking my cock.”

“I need you to fuck me,” you scramble to grip his forearms, feeling the taut muscles under his skin. “Please,” you wriggle your hips beneath him, “move,”

“Mm,” he pulls out almost completely, just the tip of his cock resting inside of you, “say it again, sweetheart,”

“Fuck me Yunnie, please,” you beg, trying to push your hips down on his cock.

“God, I’ve waited so long to hear you say that, I’ll never get tired of it” he slams into you, and you cry out as he bottoms out inside of you again. He sets a steady pace, rolling his hips into you over and over, the feeling of him pumping in and out of you more delicious than you could’ve ever imagined. He kisses you hard, licking into your mouth, swallowing all of your pretty little moans.

He cups one of your breasts in his wide palm, running his thumb over your nipple, stoking the fire in the pit of your belly. He straightens, admiring how beautiful you look while you take him. Your lips red and puffy, your eyes half lidded, your breasts bouncing with each thrust.

“So pretty, taking me so well,” he praises you as his hand coasts up your chest, fingers gently wrapping around your neck. He holds his hand there for a moment, making a mental note of the way your eyes light up when he briefly squeezes the column of your throat.

“F-feels so g-good,” you choke out between thrusts. His thumb slides along your jaw toward your chin, prodding at your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open. You wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking on it briefly before he pops it out of your mouth, trailing it down your body until he reaches your clit. The contact has your head spinning, the cord in your center tightening and tightening as he flicks your sensitive bud.

“Baby, look,” his voice cuts through the foggy lust in your head, grabbing your attention. He nods down to where your bodies are connected, gesturing for you to take a glance.

One look at him splitting you open has your climax threatening to wash over you, warmth running up and down your spine at the sight of your arousal shining on his cock as he pistons in and out of your heat relentlessly. He swirls his thumb around your clit faster at the feeling of you squeezing around him.

“You close, sweetheart?” He’s breathless as he fucks you, hitting so deep inside you that you can feel it in your stomach.

“Mhm, fuck, yes,” you cry out, scrambling for his free hand, lacing your fingers between his.

“Come on, I want to watch you fall apart around my cock.” He’s fucking you impossibly hard, each thrust hitting just right, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. “Let me feel you, love,”

“Oh my god,” you stammer out a string of curses as your second orgasm washes over you, your heart thudding in your ears as your body tenses underneath him. He barely slows his pace, keeping his thumb resting on your clit, fucking you through your high.

“There she is,” he coos, slowing little by little until your body starts to relax. He thrusts all the way inside, bottoming out, collapsing over you.

“Wow,” you laugh, bringing your hands up to cradle his flushed face. “That was,”

“Incredible?” He finishes your sentence, kissing your sweaty forehead over and over. You let out a soft moan in agreement, and his cock jumps inside of you at the sound.

“Mmh,” you whimper, the warmth creeping back into your belly, and you squeeze around Yunho’s cock.

“Wanting more already?” He teases, pushing his hips against you, thrusting himself in even deeper.

“Absolutely,” you squeeze around him again, craning your neck up to capture his lips with yours. “Fuck me however you want, baby,” you whisper against his mouth. His cock twitches inside you again and you giggle, waiting for his next move.

“Flip over,” he pants, “I wanna fuck you like this,” he slips out of you and you whine, feeling empty. He helps you roll onto your belly, kneeling behind you as he pulls your ass in the air and plants a hand in the middle of your back, guiding you to arch for him. You squish your cheek into the mattress, trying to look back at him. “Fucking hell,” he palms your ass with both hands, admiring your delectable form, “you are unreal.”

“Yun, please, I need you,” you whine as he bends over your body, planting hot, wet kisses up your spine until he reaches the nape of your neck, bringing his lips to your ear. You feel his cock bump against your backside, his body flush against yours.

“You are insatiable, my love,” your heart flutters at the word, but your lust pushes any overanalyzing to the back of your mind in favor of how desperate you are for him.

You push back into him, feeling the tip of his cock bump against your heat. He straightens at the feeling, rubbing circles into your hips with his thumbs as he watches you move. You roll your hips, catching the tip of his cock between your folds, wiggling and rocking to find the right angle before it finally slips inside.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpers as you push back, taking him deeper and deeper until your ass is flush against him. You start bouncing your hips, taking him in and out, slowly at first, the sounds of his moans filling your ears and soaking your center.

“Feel good, baby?” You muffle from beneath him, moving your hips quicker with each bounce on his cock. You open your legs a little wider, the new angle rocking his cock against your g-spot.

“The best thing I’ve ever felt,” he rolls his hips to meet yours, the sound of skin slapping filling the air of his bedroom. “I can’t believe how long we’ve waited for this,” he grips your hips, meeting your thrusts in earnest, fucking into you impossibly deep. You match each other’s pace immediately, moans and whines filling the air.

He threads his fingers through your hair, tugging you upwards until your body is flush against his, your sweat-slicked bodies rocking together. His hand drops from your hair to wrap around your neck, holding you firmly in place as he threads his other hand between your legs, his middle and ring finger easily finding your swollen clit.

“I want you like this forever,” he whispers in your ear as he drives into you, your motivation to bounce on him melting into the mattress beneath you. You want him to take you however he wants you, your body molding into his grip.

“Forever,” you nod as he kisses your neck, “you have me forever Yunnie,”

“Again,” he groans as you tighten around him, his fingers swirling around your clit, your third orgasm of the night building rapidly low in your belly. “Say it again,”

“Forever,” you repeat, “I’m yours forever,”

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m so close,” he growls into your ear, “you take me so well, like you were made for me,”

“I was, Yun,” you assure him, “I was made for you,” he rubs your clit faster, “and you were made for me,”

“God, yes,” he kisses your shoulder, his pace faltering as he gets closer to the edge, “I love you, y/n, fuck.” His fingers swirl around your clit as his hips stutter, spilling hot and fast inside of you. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeats over and over as he ruts into you.

“I love you, Yunho,” you cry out, your heart exploding as your orgasm follows, your body shuddering against him as you come together, your words and his swirling around you in the afterglow.

He holds you tight against him, guiding your spent form back down to the mattress, kissing every inch of your skin as you both come down from your highs. He slips out of you, lowering your hips, massaging your sore muscles before rolling onto his back next to you. You mimic his position, flipping over so you’re both staring at the ceiling, processing the words you both just confessed. You lay together in silence, the sounds of both of you trying to catch your breath filling the room. You let your eyes close, processing the moment.

“Jeong Yunho,” your voice is hoarse once you speak. “Tell me you love me.” Your eyes flutter open, turning your head to see him already beaming at you. He rolls onto his side, bringing himself nose to nose with you.

“I love you.” He declares, clear and confident, your heart swelling in your chest. His lips brush over yours, both of you smiling as he kisses you softly. “Your turn,” he whispers. You copy him, rolling onto your side, brushing his sweat slicked hair from his forehead as he throws an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“I love you,” you giggle, kissing him again.

“One more time?”

“I, love, you,” you emphasize each word with a gentle kiss on his lips,

“I will never get tired of hearing that,” he whispers. “Let’s go get cleaned up.”

You whine in protest, but Yunho eventually gets you into the bathroom, running a hot shower for the both of you. You wash up together, hardly able to keep your hands off of each other. Once you’ve fallen apart in his hands twice more and the water’s run cold, he helps you into a pair of his boxers and his biggest, softest sweatshirt.

“This feels like a dream,” you think out loud once you’re snuggled up in Yunho’s bed together. “Is this a dream?”

“If it is, I never want to wake up,” he smiles at you under the dim street lights flooding through his windows. “This is all I need, forever.”

You kiss him at that, soft and tender, his arms wrapping tighter around you, holding you close. You fall asleep shortly after, nose to nose, hearts full.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

You wake to the morning sun shining through Yunho’s bedroom windows, the sweet smell of vanilla flooding your nose. Stretching your tired limbs, you roll over to find the other side of the bed empty. Panic floods your mind at the sight, your past making you assume the worst. Is he sleeping on the couch? You wonder. Does he regret what he said and now he’s avoiding me? Before you can reason with yourself, you jump out of bed and speed walk down the hallway, stopping dead in your tracks when you reach the kitchen.

“You’re not freaking out, are you y/n?” Yunho drawls, his voice still laced with sleep, low and raspy. He hasn’t even looked at you yet, his focus being on the plate on the counter in front of him, but he already knows where your mind is at just by the sound of your footsteps coming down the hallway. Of course he does. His bare, wide shoulders shake as he laughs to himself. His pajama pants hang low on his hips, the muscles in his back moving beneath his skin as he throws the final touches on what’s in front of him. He spins around to face you holding a plate of pancakes, littered with strawberries cut into hearts. Your heart flutters at the scene in front of you. “You think I’m gonna make love to you, tell you that I love you, and not make you breakfast in the morning?”

Suddenly feeling self conscious over your immediate assumption that he regretted your night together, you cross your arms, avoiding his gaze. “I got scared,” you whisper.

“That I left you in my apartment all alone? Baby,” he puts the plate down, “I would never, especially after last night,” he crosses the kitchen to reach you, pulling you into his warm embrace, his hot skin beneath you melting away the coldness you felt from waking up alone. “I’m not like…him,” he reminds you, brushing his fingers through your hair. “You are safe with me. Safe, loved, protected, respected, I could go on and on. Do you understand me?” He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

You nod against his chest. “I do,” you feel a tear slide down your cheek, spreading from your skin, onto his. He squeezes you in a tight hug.

“Come on, let’s get some food in your system. You haven’t eaten since our pastries at Blossom last night,” he releases you to grab your plate, as well as a second he made for himself, and drops another quick kiss to your forehead before carrying them to the coffee table in his living room.

“Come sit,” he beckons you, and you follow automatically, plopping on the couch. He grabs your favorite throw blanket before sitting down next to you, draping it over both of your laps. No matter how hard you try to ignore them, negative thoughts are still plaguing your mind. You both pick up your plates, eating in silence for a few moments before Yunho speaks up again.

“Y/n, what’s on your mind?” His tone is so sincere, you immediately feel guilty for making him worry.

“I’m just–” you hesitate for a moment. “I’m scared it’s too good to be true.”

“What is? Us?” Worry flickers across his features, his heart aching seeing you so distraught.

“Yeah,” you sigh, poking at one of your pancakes with your fork. You know you’re being unreasonable, and that Yunho has shown you nothing but love and commitment as long as you’ve known him. But your self doubt and your history of awful relationships is screaming at you that you don’t deserve him. You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t even realize that you’re crying.

Yunho gently takes your plate from your hands, putting both his and yours back on the coffee table. He shifts his body slowly until he’s kneeling on the floor in front of you, resting his hands on your blanket-covered thighs.

“Y/n, look at me,” he pleads. You wipe the tears from your cheeks, patting the dampness into the blanket in your lap. You rest your hands on top of his, tracing the lines of his veins for a moment before dragging your gaze upwards to meet his. His eyes are glazed over with tears of his own.

“Yunnie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I–”

“Listen to me,” he interrupts. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. The most precious thing in this world to me. Each moment that I spend with you fills me with a joy that I never experienced until I met you.” He turns his hands over to cradle yours as his tears finally fall down his cheeks. “I love you. And I will spend every day of the rest of my life proving that to you. And proving to you that you deserve the love that I give you.”

You stifle a sob at his words, trying to take all of it in as the beautiful truth. You know he means it, he’s always meant every word he’s ever said to you, and you know you need to silence your anxieties in favor of what you know to be true.

“It’s gonna take time,” you whisper. “It’ll take time for me to believe that I deserve what you give me,” you wipe your own tears, then his, both of you laughing breathlessly at your own emotions. “But I will get there,” you continue, “I just need you to be patient with me.”

“Of course. I will spend the rest of my life reminding you what you deserve, sweetheart. That’s a promise.”

“I love you.” You cradle his head in your hands, memorizing every inch of his face, savoring the first day of the rest of your lives.

“I love you,” he kisses the tip of your nose. “Let’s go finish our breakfast in bed.”

“Okay,” you giggle watching Yunho jump up to grab both your plates, giddily walking toward his bedroom with a wide smile on his face.

“You coming?” He glances over his shoulder at you, his ears blushing bright red as he waits for you.

You nod, hopping up to follow after him, to your new forever.

#ateez yunho #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #yunho x reader #ateez imagines #yunho #yunho smut

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renthony · 8 months ago

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Funniest thing in the world about the movie Fight Club, to me:

People stick so hard to the first rule of Fight Club (being, of course, "don't talk about Fight Club") that the first time I saw it, I genuinely had no fucking clue what it was going to be about. Every time I'd ever heard it brought up in conversation with friends, someone in the room would inevitably say, "no! Don't talk about Fight Club!", everyone would laugh, and then they would actually change the subject. I never heard anyone talk about the actual plot of the movie. I didn't even know there was a book for years.

All I knew was that there was a secret club, presumably where people would fight. When my wife picked it for a movie night early in our relationship, I asked her why there was a bar of soap on the DVD cover and she was like, "oh my god. You really have no idea what you're getting into. This is going to be great."

And it was, friends. It was fun to experience the plot twist with absolutely no prior spoilers. To this day, I, too, do not discuss the plot of Fight Club with people who haven't seen it (unless they're directly asking for content warnings/genuinely aren't enjoying the bit).

There's no point to this post. I don't have any particularly profound Fight Club analysis. I just think it's really funny how committed to the bit people are.

#original post #fight club

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andypantsx3 · 1 month ago

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FILLING IN | BAKUGOU x READER ˖˚˳⊹

summary: A production assistant for an erotic arts studio, you think you've seen every ridiculous plot line under the sun. But not even porn tropes can compare to the absurd reality you find yourself in when the on-screen talent drops out, and you're asked to fill in opposite the studio's number one star Bakugou Katsuki. contents: The classic oh-no-the-porn-talent-has-gone-missing-let's-sub-a-rando-in trope, no quirks au, pornstar Bakugou, soft dom Bakugou, gn + afab reader, unrequited-requited crush, slight bondage, descriptions of afab genitalia, nipple sucking, cunnilingus, piv sex, pet names used: angel and sweetheart, porn with surprise feelings, 18+, 8.2k words notes: This is my Bakugou x Reader commitment for @ficsforgaza, and I am sorry it is late enough to also count for Valentine's Day (but also Happy Valentine's Day!!) Additionally, a special thank you to my angel princess @ofmermaidstories for handing me the nerd + pornstar combo when I was worried about Bakugou's characterization. I think this is the only way I could have ever written a pornstar Bakugou that felt right to me. Love you, Mermie.

The studio was churning in chaos by the time you arrived.

The first sign that things weren’t right was Komori, one of your fellow production assistants, propped against the wall outside. Her cellphone was pressed against her ear, and she looked nervous, her foot tapping a thousand miles a minute. She had a thumbnail pressed to her mouth and was chewing steadily through the nail like a rabbit through a lettuce leaf.

You didn’t want to disturb her, so you buzzed inside the studio, only to find the hallways filled with an equally nervous energy. Yaoyorozu, one of the production managers, hovered in the doorway of a dressing room. She looked to be arguing with someone, her normally sweet expression pinched in profile. A small circle of people took up the hallway behind her, shifting apprehensively.

A shrill voice filtered out of the dressing room as you tried to wedge yourself by. “I said I’m not doing it. We’re getting married and we agreed I wouldn’t do this anymore.”

“Bibimi—” Yaoyorozu started.

“Effective immediately. Find someone else,” Bibimi’s voice replied.

You stopped in your tracks, blinking as you turned back to the doorway, peering over Sato’s shoulder.

Bibimi Kenranzaki was one of the studio’s top actresses, the very performer scheduled to shoot the production you were working on this afternoon. The shoot was a Valentine’s Day special, and had already been delayed at Bibimi’s request several times. If you’d understood Yaoyorozu’s previous concerns correctly, today was the last possible day to shoot it with enough time for it to make it through editing to post on Valentine’s.

This was not good.

“Bibimi, of course we would never force you to do something you did not consent to,” Yaoyorozu said patiently. “But you can see how having delayed this shoot many times already puts us in danger of not delivering on our commitments.”

You heard a dismissive snort issue from the room, and peered over one of Yaoyorozu’s slender shoulders. Bibimi lounged across one of the waiting room couches, arms crossed over her chest. An enormous diamond ring you’d never seen before glinted from one of her fingers, clearly the source of today’s change of heart.

Oh, production was not going to be happy.

You winced as you ducked out from behind Yaoyorozu, heading back down the hall to stuff your things into one of the vacant lockers. It was a struggle to fit everything in as today you’d come directly from a lecture—two textbooks the size and weight of cinderblocks choking up all the space in your bag. You would have thought that, considering that a wide swath of the production staff were college students—including several of the performers themselves—the studio would have had a better set up. But it was often a fight to the death to even find an open locker amongst the many other bookbags, and an equally Sisyphean struggle to get the door shut on the tiny cubbies.

Once you finally managed to finagle the door shut on your backpack, you made a beeline for the supply room. Typically, your first task of any shoot was acquisition of about a million pounds of baby wipes and lube, though you wondered if they would be needed today, given the scene with Bibimi you’d just witnessed.

You checked the film schedule posted in the staff entry to find the allotted set room. Then you made your way down the twisting maze halls carpeted with ancient olefin to the set for You Cumplete Me, the obnoxious working title Kaminari had come up with for this particular Valentine’s Day project.

The room was set up like some generic apartment, a large bed with a wire-framed headboard dominating the majority of the space. A cherry wood nightstand cluttered with fake knick knacks stood diligently at the bedside, and two fake windows with their curtains drawn shut overlooked the whole affair, red dressings fluttering slightly in the breeze from a fan.

Most of the production staff was already inside the room, the cameramen and director huddled together in the corner, whispering nervously. You spotted Mina, the wardrobe coordinator and makeup artist, fussing with her phone in the other corner, her various products and brushes spread out across a plastic folding table, looking put out.

“You know if we’re going to be able to sub anyone in for Bibimi?” you asked as you approached her, flopping down in one of the chairs set up at her makeshift dressing table. You arrayed your armful of lube and plastic packs of wipes at the corner so as not to disturb her arrangement.

Mina’s eyes flicked up to yours and she grinned, the upturn of her mouth accented with perfectly-applied hot pink lipstick.

“Komori’s called like ten other actresses so far and can’t get anyone,” Mina answered. “And Shiozaki and Kendo are in-studio but both just got off another shoot so we contractually can’t use them. I think Yaomomo is ready to start shaking people down.”

You winced. Yaoyorozu never lost her cool, but the pressure must be mounting. You knew marketing materials had already been put out on the studio’s website, specifically promising the return of the studio’s highest-grossing star—Bakugou Katsuki—opposite Bibimi.

While Bibimi might be the highest paid actress, Bakugou was the real draw of UA Productions. UA churned out projects that were largely targeted towards less traditional markets—largely women—porn that was often of higher production value, higher quality scripting, and careful coordination showcasing enthusiasm and consent. It also subsequently employed more than its fair share of beautiful men.

And Bakugou Katsuki crowned that pile of performers. Though foul-mouthed and often irascible, he was undeniably breathtaking to behold, both on screen and in person. He was the typical blend of tall, strong, and well-muscled that most UA actors were. But he moved with a singular precision and intention that drove fans wild, and came equipped with bed-rumpled blond hair, mile-long lashes, a surly, pouty mouth, and a facial symmetry that Euclid himself would have wept over.

He was also nearing the end of his doctoral and would not be filming for much longer, you were given to understand. So the studio stood to lose a significant amount of audience trust and money, should this production fall through.

As if on cue, Bakugou Katsuki himself stomped through the doorway. The expression on his face told you he was already well-aware of what was happening with Bibimi, and he was getting annoyed with the hold up. He set a direct line for you and Mina, mouth twisted in dissatisfaction.

Your ears promptly went hot, the way they always did when Bakugou was in your line of vision.

You’d unfortunately had something of a crush on him from the minute you’d become a production assistant at UA, your third year of college. Funds were tight and your masters program loomed large in front of you, its meager stipend like a slap in the face. You’d needed something else flexible, and you’d found UA through the friend of a friend—its proximity to the university, and ever changing schedule of ongoing productions offering the perfect amount of flexibility for your situation.

Bakugou had been there that first day as Yaoyorozu gave you the tour, too. He’d been tucked up on the couch of the waiting room as you passed through, blonde hair rumpled, someone’s lip gloss still smeared at the corner of his jaw. He looked like a soft, relaxed mess—clothes askew like he’d pulled them back on after a shoot and immediately migrated to the couch—though his scarlet eyes tracked intently across the page of an enormous engineering text spread across his thighs. His long fingers twirled a pen absently, tapping against a notebook peeking out from just under the textbook, headphones jammed over his ears.

He did not look up as you made your way inside, but your stomach had flared to life with a sudden flutter of butterflies. You were startled by the pretty set of his mouth, the long lashes that swept over his cheeks as he read, the flex of those long, beautiful fingers on his pen. You had never seen a person so perfect in real life, and the effect was dumbing.

“That’s Bakugou, one of our performers,” Yaoyorozu had told you, leading you through the room. She did not stop to introduce you. “He’s working on a PhD in chemical engineering, and performs once every couple of months for us. He’s—erm—not quite friendly, so we’ll skip the introduction today.”

You’d followed her, nodding obediently, leaving Bakugou behind. You’d dutifully concluded your tour and signed all the paperwork, and met several other members of the staff. It was only when you’d been released from your onboarding obligations that you saw Bakugou again, as you ran out into the parking lot to start your car.

It was raining out, a torrential downpour much worse than when you’d arrived that came down in thick, pelting sheets. Visibility was bad enough that you almost missed the tuft of blonde hair across the parking lot, ducking under the awning of the nearby bus stop.

You knew the route headed back towards your university, and subsequently your apartment, and it dawned on you that Bakugou’s would most likely be attaining his cited PhD at your same college. You felt your mouth twist, impressed. PhD tracks were notoriously difficult to attain at Musutafu University—no wonder Bakugou needed a job that was, for lack of better phrasing, quick and dirty. He probably was drowning in post-grad labs and dissertation materials.

The memory of those long fingers tapping at the edge of his text suddenly flickered again in your brain, and something possessed you as you started up your engine. Before you knew what you were doing, you had pulled your car around into the bus stop bay, leaning out to call out to him.

“Hey—Bakugou, right?” you said, watching as scarlet eyes found yours, narrowing suspiciously. His pretty mouth lifted in an immediate, reflexive snarl, and those broad shoulders squared off, like he was getting ready for trouble.

You cut in, quickly explaining yourself when you realized he had no context for the rando hanging out of their car window at him. “I’m Yaoyorozu’s new production staff. Just joined today. Are you headed towards Musutafu U and do you want a ride?”

A blonde eyebrow lifted. “You’re with UA?” he asked. His voice was a kind of low growl, not unlike the thunder suddenly echoing overhead, and the sound shot through you like a bolt of lightning.

“I—yeah. Just signed the paperwork this afternoon.”

Several spatters of rain dampened your cheeks where you had your head poked out of the window, and Bakugou’s eyes tracked them closely as he leaned in. “Then let’s get one thing straight right off the bat—I don’t fuck coworkers off the clock.”

You recoiled, horrified at the conclusion he’d immediately brought himself to. “No! That’s not what I—I didn’t mean like—! I just thought because it’s raining out, you might want—”

“I want you to fuck right off, is what I want,” Bakugou said, crossing his arms over his chest. He made a show of leaning back against the glass wall of the bus stop, its interior papered over with moldering ads. It was a clear dismissal.

You blinked at him stupidly for a moment, mind reeling that your gesture had been received so poorly. But then you realized he hadn’t seen you, in your trek through the staff room during your afternoon tour. You’d only just seen him, and you hadn’t spoken to him besides. Despite your immediate interest in and respect for him, he knew nothing about you.

And he was a pornstar, come to think of it. He probably had had a fair number of creeps proposition him out of the blue. Enough that he was suspicious now, as you might have been, were you in his position.

Your cheeks heated, suddenly ashamed. You nodded, gritting your teeth as you ducked back inside your car.

“Right, fucking off, as requested,” you said, turning your blinker on to move back out into the road. “Sorry to scare you. See you, um—see you at work sometime.”

“Oi—I ain’t fuckin’ scared,” you heard him growl, but then you were turning back out into the street. You rolled your window back up as you sped up, resisting the urge to look back at Bakugou in the rearview.

What a humiliating first impression that had been.

You'd fretted about it for another week before your first official day at UA, and for several weeks more when you didn’t immediately run into Bakugou. When you’d finally met him properly, however, Bakugou acted like he’d never even seen you before in his life, and you somewhat gratefully followed his lead. He treated you like anyone else, with the same kind of universal severity he turned on the other production staff. You discovered very quickly that he was impatient, brusque, no-nonsense. He stalked onto every set with all the latent energy of a nuclear missile strike, and never softened until after the shoot was over.

His general attitude, and your humiliating first encounter should have been enough to turn you off of him. But the occasional glimpse of him after a shoot—rumpled, relaxed, open in a way he normally wasn’t, in the way that you'd first seen him—was unfortunately enough to keep those initial butterflies aflutter.

The fact that he was smart—and annoyingly adept in the bedroom, considering the number of reshoots his costars often needed after they accidently came too early—did not help matters.

“Where the fuck is Yaoyorozu?” he demanded of you and Mina, as he approached you in the set room now.

You met his scarlet gaze, holding very still under his regard.

“She was negotiating with Bibimi just now when I came in,” you told him, cheeks heating as his eyes flicked over you. He had a very direct way of evaluating people, and rarely missed a detail. You hoped your makeup wasn’t smudged from where you’d had your head propped up in your hand, valiantly resisting falling asleep in your earlier lecture.

“Bibimi’s a waste of fuckin’ time,” Bakugou growled.

You rolled your eyes. He couldn’t very well act opposite his own hand, so someone was going to have to fill in.

“Well Mina says we’re not having luck finding anyone else either so Bibimi is your best bet,” you told him.

Bakugou looked down his perfect nose at you. “Anyone in this damn studio could do better than she does.”

You felt your eyebrows raise. Bibimi was popular with a variety of audiences for her exaggeratedly dollish features—you doubted just anyone could fill in for her and look as good. You said as much to Bakugou, and he scoffed.

“‘S not about looking good, it’s about showing that you’re feeling good,” he said plainly, igniting a wave of fire across your cheeks. The flames worsened when he crossed his arms over his chest and you had occasion to notice he was in nothing but a workout tank, his bare biceps flexing enticingly in the studio lighting.

You were thankfully spared from having to form a coherent response by Yaoyorozu stepping into the room. She was tailed by Komori, and wore a troubled expression. She waved an elegant hand that encompassed both your camp in the corner and the directors on the other side of the room.

“Bibimi is unfortunately out. And we cannot use Shiozaki or Kendo. I am afraid we may have to call off the shoot this afternoon,” she said.

“So get someone else in,” Bakugou said, with his usual brisk directness. He turned to face her. You caught the whiff of something light and clean on him as he did so, laundry detergent and recently-applied shampoo.

Yaoyorozu fixed him with an expectant look. “We’ve unfortunately worked our way through the roster of available performers. Unless you know someone else?”

Bakugou stared back at her evenly, arching a blonde brow. “There’re a bunch of extras already here, aren’t there?”

A little shock went through you. Extras. As in the…people in the room right now? Did he really mean the production staff?

Yaoyorozu blinked, apparently taken aback. Then her gaze slid thoughtfully between Komori, Mina, and you. Another little thrill raced through you, like you’d suddenly missed a step. Surely they both could not actually be considering that.

“I’m a hoe but I’m a loyal hoe,” Mina said from next to you, immediately putting up a rosy palm. “Eiji is my one and only, sorry babes.”

Yaoyorozu nodded. “Of course, I would not expect you to violate any commitments you already had to a significant other.”

“I am also seeing someone,” Komori volunteered, a shy little blush sweeping across her cheeks. You smiled a bit at her obvious regard for whoever it was—until you sensed a dozen pairs of eyes suddenly turning to you.

Your stomach dropped—less of a missed step then and more of a sudden push off a cliff.

Worst of all was the pair of scarlet eyes suddenly burning with undue regard in your direction. You stared straight at Yaoyorozu, unable to meet Bakugou’s gaze. You still felt like you might burn up under his scrutiny, like an ant under a magnifying glass.

“I—uh—” you said dumbly, floundering for the right set of words to explain yourself. “Uhh.”

“You seeing anybody?” Bakugou prodded, prompting a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks.

“Well—no—”

“You clean?” he asked.

Your face burned hotter. “Yes, if you must know—-but uh—”

“Then what?” he prompted.

“Is it that easy for you? To just switch partners like that?” you asked. You weren’t exactly a blushing virgin but you still had only slept with partners you had cared for. Bakugou had worked with you for years and never signaled anything beyond dismissal and semi-professionalism—so it wasn’t like he had that same level of interest in you, despite your enormous crush on him. How could he just switch, just like that?

Bakugou uncrossed his arms to settle his hands on slim hips instead, and he gave you another evaluating once over. “Something the matter with you?” he asked. You noticed he did not ask if you thought something was the matter with him. You wondered if your crush on him was that apparent.

“No,” you said defensively. “Just—I don’t know that I’d be any good on camera.”

“You’ve been in videos before,” Mina pointed out, tugging playfully on your belt loop. “You were in Bibimi’s Christmas special a couple years ago.”

“That was different,” you said, staring at her. “I was her evil coworker who sent her running into Tetsutetsu’s muscular arms. I didn’t have to get naked.”

“We can give you time to get prepared,” Yaoyorozu promised kindly. “If you wanted to um, clean up or trim—”

“It’s not that!” you said quickly, waving your arms. Your ears burned. “I just mean I would be shy.”

Bakugou watched you silently for another long moment, his full mouth pursed in thought. His gaze dragged down your body and then back up to your face, and you felt it like a physical touch.

“Then if you forgot you were on camera?” he asked, a rasp in his tone.

You blinked at him dumbly. “If I—forgot?”

“If I made you forget,” he said, flashing a sharp smirk. The arrogance looked so good on him, zinging through your veins like an electric current. Your cheeks and ears flared even hotter, until you thought you might actually be emitting smoke from them.

You tried to form words but seemed to have trouble shaping the proper ones with your tongue, making a series of choking noises before you managed. “There is no way you could—you’re not that good.”

Something hot flared to life behind Bakugou’s eyes, and his smirk curled even sharper. “We’ll see about that.”

“What if Bakugou helps you get over your nerves, and we just try it and see how you do.” Yaoyorozu prompted gently. “Is that something you would be willing to do? Of course we won’t pressure you.”

Your gaze jerked back to her as you startled. For just a second you’d sort of forgotten there was anyone in the room but Bakugou.

“I sort of doubt—but if you really need—I mean I could—try…” you fumbled out.

Yaoyorozu nodded gratefully, looking pleased again. “Alright, then let’s at least try it. Mina please find proper costuming and help get Y/N ready. I will draw up a short contract with the same terms we promise all our on camera talent for you to look over when you’re done.”

You nodded, a little dazed. Had you really just agreed to—?

But then Mina was laughing, grabbing you by the elbow and drawing you out of the room. She marched you towards the back of the studio building where she’d amassed a respectable wardrobe, racks upon racks of clothes. “Alright, this is going to be so fun! I love dressing new talent! It’s always fun to work out what’s going to work with your coloring and style on screen.”

The mention of you doing anything on screen had all the blood draining from your veins, but Mina didn’t seem to mind. She kept up a stream of happy, easy chatter as she pecked around in the racks like a chicken hunting a grasshopper. Eventually she emerged with a robe in a deep pink, slippery and silky and glistening faintly under the overheads.

“Okay so you’re supposed to be a loving couple celebrating your anniversary and looking for ways to spice things up,” she said. “So you’ll be waiting for him to come home, looking delicious in this little slip of a thing. He can unwrap you like a V-Day present!”

Her callback to the plot of the shoot suddenly made you realize there were way more things involved in the project than just being pawed at on screen—and you did not know any of Bibimi’s lines. How the hell were you supposed to deliver any kind of performance?

“Don’t worry about it, I assure you the gears are already churning in Momo’s big brain,” Mina said when you asked as much. She peeled you out of your sweater and jeans, and ushered you into the robe. Cheeks burning, you let her look you over to make sure you were properly groomed for the camera.

Then before you could get cold feet, she bundled you up and shepherded you back into the set room and set to work on you with her various pots of paint and ointments. She worked a couple things into your hair, applied something glossy and sticky to your mouth, and adjusted the fit of your robe to her liking until she pronounced you ready.

Yaoyorozu was already leaning over you by the time Mina released you, laying out a packet of sheets in front of you. She detailed the terms to you in the professional, clipped tone you’d heard her conduct business in before, and soon enough you were penning in your own name in a shaky hand. The strokes looked almost foreign on the page, and you felt a little more than lightheaded thinking about what you’d just signed yourself into.

“So—what am I supposed to do about Bibimi’s lines?” you asked, your voice coming out kind of dry and crackly.

“We’re going to improvise,” Yaoyorozu said. “Bakugou will guide you. Try to respond as best you can to what he says, along the framework of being a couple celebrating their anniversary. It’s most important to capture your intimacy, however, so we can always come back and reshoot any dialog as needed after. You can call him Katsuki, there are no aliases for this shoot.”

You nodded, feeling even more nervous now that all the prerequisites had been completed.

That left Komori waiting for you. She was apparently assuming the duties you’d abandoned by becoming the star of this absurd alternate dimension. She led you over to what had been meant to be Bibimi’s starting mark on the bed and helped you spread your pink robe out enticingly. You almost laughed as you helped her, feeling foolish and distinctly unsexy for the deliberateness of it all.

There was nothing less romantic than half a dozen other people in the room with you, cameras and hot lights trained on you like you were an escaped convict under a helicopter floodlight. You got the impression that it was going to be a monumental task to work up the nerve to even loosen the tie on your robe, nevermind remove it.

Except then Bakugou walked in.

He’d changed, sometime in the half hour or so Mina had had you in her clutches. He prowled into the room in a dark charcoal suit, the consummate businessman home from his generic businessman job.

He looked unfairly good in it too—the close cut of it highlighted how his broad shoulders slashed inwards into a trim waist, and his pants showcased the flex of a strong, hard thigh. He’d acquired a chunky wristwatch in a dark metal, and it glinted dully under the overhead lights.

He looked sleek and dangerous, even though you’d just seen him stomping around in sweatpants not thirty minutes prior. You felt your breath escape you in a whoosh, your heartbeat kicking up as he prowled closer.

“I’m home, angel,” he said, a smoky rasp curling on the end of his voice. Despite the pet name, he sounded enough like his usual self that you almost answered him in turn.

You vaguely remembered you were obliged to playact with him, and you summoned up your nerve. “Hi, Katsuki,” you said. You hoped your voice did not sound too shaky. “Happy Anniversary.”

Bakugou’s scarlet eyes dipped down to your robe, fastening to the spot where it gaped open suggestively over one thigh. Your skin buzzed like a hive of bees was trapped beneath it.

“This my present?” he asked, stalking closer. He snagged the tie of your robe in his long fingers, toying with it speculatively.

“It should be easy to open,” you joked, then almost cringed.

Sexy. You were supposed to be sexy, not goofy as hell. And what happened when he really did try to open it?

A small amount of panic crept up your spine again, seeping into your veins. You did not feel ready to be naked before all of the eyes in this room, nevermind the roving gaze of the internet. What had you been thinking, signing up for this?

Your hand came up defensively to tug the robe tie back out of Bakugou’s hand, only for it to be captured too. Bakugou tugged you up and to him, and your face broke out in another sweeping wave of flame as you felt the hard planes of him against you. He was so warm, and smelled so good up close and you could not even begin to know what to do or where to put your hands—

Before you could ask him what the heck he was doing, however, he brought your captured hand to his mouth. You almost leapt out of your skin when you felt the gentle press of his lips on the inside of your wrist, the careful flicker of a tongue. Those scarlet eyes slid over you knowingly, near enough that you could see tiny flecks of deep purple in them.

His other hand came up to take your chin, his thumb stroking over the side of your jaw. The feeling made you shiver slightly, and it must have been clearly visible because the corner of Bakugou's mouth lifted into a smirk against your wrist. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, every inch of your skin thrilling with the feeling of your longtime crush doing something this to you.

“Think I’m gonna enjoying opening you alright,” Bakugou intoned.

You struggled to remember what he was talking about, giving up almost immediately as his mouth trailed along the inside of your arm. It traced up and up and up, until he was hovering dangerously close to your face. His fingers tightened on your chin, tilting your face up to his.

And then he bent his head, and crushed his mouth to yours.

Immediately, everything else disappeared.

Kissing Bakugou was three thousand zillion times hotter than you could have ever even imagined. You’d sort of imagined that with an attitude like his, he would be all power and impatience. And the power was there, but leashed, somehow. His mouth was hot and shockingly sweet on yours, and his fingers cupped your face to his, holding you there like he planned to kiss you for hours yet.

Your head was spinning by the time he let your mouth free, and the dip of his blonde lashes as he looked you over was extraordinarily self-satisfied.

His hand on your chin went to your robe instead, pulling the collar wide so that he could lower his mouth inside instead, kissing over your throat. You seized fistfuls of his suit, clinging to him, as he mapped a hot path across your shoulder and collarbone, one of his hands coming up to up your chest.

You heard yourself let out a soft hiss as his thumb pressed over your nipple through the silky fabric. Bakugou sucked a careful bruise into the side of your neck as he did it again, letting out a barely audible snort when you jerked in his hold, unconsciously arching into his hand.

“So sensitive for me, angel,” he drawled as his other hand came up to carefully pinch your other nipple.

You heard yourself make a small, choked off noise like a whine, and you could feel Bakugou’s lips pull into an answering smirk against your throat. You didn’t think you had been quite this responsive to a partner before—but something about the careful, purposeful way he was touching you had your blood running quicker in your veins.

Bakugou’s thumbs traced slow, deliberate circles over your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to make you groan. He teased you again and again as his mouth traced higher on your neck.

Within minutes you were panting, a slow, syrupy pleasure dripping down into your core.

Bakugou tugged your robe wider, then bent his head. You felt the tickle of his hair against your collarbone, softer than you would have thought, as his mouth closed over the point of one nipple. The draw of his mouth had you arching up into him immediately, pleasure zinging through your veins.

“Oh my god,” you said, seizing a fistful of that blonde hair.

Bakugou’s tongue teased at the nipple, and you writhed in his hold. Then he did the same to your other one, and you thought you might die. He hadn’t even touched you yet and you already wanted to crawl out of your skin with impatience.

“Katsuki—please,” you heard yourself say, almost distantly. “Katsuki—oh!”

“Please what, angel?” he said into the skin of your chest, before laying his mouth back over your nipple and giving a sweet suck.

“Oh my god—please!” you said, stupidly. Not an answer to his question but you’d forgotten how to string words together, your brain-to-mouth connection running on autopilot.

“Gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” Bakugou said, and you heard the relish in it. Your face burned, and you yanked his hair a little more firmly. He just groaned, and then sucked you a little harder.

“Touch me! Please—Katsuki,” you panted out, hips flexing unconsciously with the pull of your nipple.

“Thought this was my gift, angel. I can’t enjoy it how I want?” he asked.

You considered his words muzzily, having no idea what he was talking about. Gift? What gift was he talking about?

Bakugou’s scarlet eyes flicked up to yours, and something in your expression must have told him you had no idea what he was on about. His mouth pulled up into a self-satisfied grin, and he leaned up to kiss you again.

You flattened yourself out against his chest, all but velcroing yourself to him. You wanted to feel every inch of that hard body against you, wanted to climb as far into him as you could. Something gratifyingly hard pressed against your stomach as you kissed him, and he grunted, locking you to him with a muscled arm across your back.

“Want me to touch you, angel?” he asked.

You nodded. A smile played across his lips.

“Get on the bed for me then, sweetheart.”

It took a minute for you to process but then you were scrambling to obey, scrabbling your way onto the bed, turning and watching as Bakugou stepped nearer.

He shed his jacket as he approached, yanking off his tie too and flinging it somewhere behind him. Then he crawled over you, his fingers seizing the ties of your robe as he did. He pulled it open gently, then yanked a little harder until the silk tie slid free.

His eyes picked over it speculatively, then flashed back up to you. A look of intent interest settled over his features.

“You ever been tied up before, angel?” he asked.

You shook your head, even as it swam with the implication. Your skin prickled, somehow growing even hotter. He didn’t mean to…?

“You gonna let me?” he asked.

You rather thought you would let him do anything he wanted with you. The question was barely out of his mouth before you were nodding hurriedly. A shocked laugh punched out of him, and he gathered up your wrists, scooting you backwards until they pressed against the headboard.

He looped the silk around your wrists, gathering it into a series of complicated knots. He moved with a purpose and precision, his movements sure and practiced. You tested the give of the ties when he sat back on his haunches, finding that they held firm, even when you put a little more muscle into it.

Bakugou’s gaze blazed over you, hot like coals. His eyes traced over your body, spread out under him now, your silk robe pooling at either side of you in a pink puddle.

He bent his head and kissed you again, until you were fuzzy with the feeling once more. Then he worked his way downwards, softly biting your shoulder, licking over one nipple, pressing deep kisses into your belly and then indent of your left hip.

A shock of pleasure raced through you when you realized where he was going with this, and you let out an involuntarily little gasp as he hooked your thighs over his broad shoulders.

“Katsuki,” you began, though you had no idea what you meant to follow it up with. Bakugou didn’t wait for you to finish, ducking his head and licking a hot stripe up the cleft of you.

Immediately you arched, thighs flexing under his hands. Your face heated when he laughed again, but any embarrassment was instantly forgotten when he licked over you again, slower and more deliberate this time.

“Oh my god,” you said again, biting off into a groan when his tongue dipped deeper between your folds, flicking up over your clit.

“Yeah, angel?” Bakugou asked, his voice a heady rasp. “You like that?” He layered another open mouthed kiss over you, slow and thorough, until you were arching up into his mouth again.

It would have been evident to anyone on earth how much you liked it from the noises you made, the way you kicked and squirmed with the movement of his mouth. He sucked your clit gently into his mouth, then laved over it firmly as he pressed his fingers to you, the pads of his index and middle slowly sinking into you.

Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head when he gave another slow suck, the feeling almost too much. His fingers pressed deeper into you, easily slipping in with how comically wet you were for him. The gentle suction of his mouth made everything a million times better, everything a million times worse, as he carefully curled his fingers within you. He seemed to immediately find a spot within you that felt like he was touching your clit from the other side too, and the feeling was immediately far too much.

“Holy shit,” you heard yourself say, cutting off into an honest to god whine when his tongue swirled around your clit, just as he teased a finger along you from the inside too. “Katsuki—oh! Katsuki please! Please oh my god oh my god.”

Bakugou’s ministrations grew a fraction firmer, and you heard him groan too as he kissed you messily.

“So fucking hot for me, sweetheart. So sweet,” he said, then sucked again, a tiny bit harder this time. His fingers stroked you from the inside, a firm, deliberate rhythm that had you turning your face and muffling a keen into the meat of your arm.

Your hips flexed against his face, wild and uncontrolled, wanting less, more, not enough, too much, oh my god—

“Katsuki!” you cried, as you suddenly hit the crest of your pleasure. Your wrists pulled against their bonds, and the feeling of helpless restraint suddenly made everything feel a thousand times more intense. Every single nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire, so that even the air of the room seemed too harsh on your skin. You screamed as you rode out your pleasure against Bakugou’s face.

He worked you through it diligently, licking and sucking until you collapsed back to the mattress, panting like you’d just run a marathon.

“Good, angel?” Bakugou asked.

You nodded breathlessly, turning your face to his when he crawled up your body to kiss you again. The taste of yourself on him was both embarrassing and thrilling, but Bakugou didn’t give you much leeway to consider it, kissing you into a stupid, pliant little puddle against the mattress.

You could feel him hard and hot against your hip as he did so, but he didn’t make any move to get inside you yet. Instead, his hands moved over you, slowly teasing you from satiation back into want. His fingers played with your nipples again, pinching them softly and rolling them. It felt like he'd rigged up some kind of wire, leading from your nipples right to your core, that lit the pilot flame of your interest again.

A couple minutes of diligent teasing, and easy, unhurried kisses had you wiggling under him again soon enough. It was only then, when you realized you were unconsciously rocking your hips against Bakugou’s, that he finally sat back to shuck off his shirt and pants.

He was so unfairly beautiful, bared in the bright light of the room. You’d known he was gorgeous, of course, but up close he was something else entirely. He was chiseled with thick muscle, his chest and arms hard and glowing faintly with perspiration. The light and the shadows of the room played over the divots of his muscles with a deliberate care, like he was a painting instead of a man, highlighting him in loving shades. A set of perfect abs trailed down into the hard jut of hip bones over his pelvis, and his cock was just as upsettingly gorgeous as the rest of him. It was thick and full and flush with his arousal, and he wasted no time crawling back between your thighs.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” he asked. His voice had gone even more gravelly than usual, and it plucked at your core like a string.

“Please, Katsuki,” you said, your voice embarrassingly breathy. You couldn’t help yourself though, couldn’t be ashamed with the easy way your thighs fell apart for him. Your ankles hooked across his back, trying to pull him closer still.

He groaned and surged up over you to grab a condom off the nightstand. He quickly rolled it onto himself in one practiced movement, before immediately pressing himself into you.

He sank in mortifyingly easily, you already half out of your mind with want. He didn’t seem to mind, though—you heard the soft, sibilant hiss of his own pleasure as he filled you, and your robe tugged the skin of your shoulder as he fisted a hand in it, just beside your head.

“Been dying to fuck you, angel,” he said. “Thinking about how hot and tight and sweet you would be for me. Been thinking about it nonstop.”

You made a vague noise of agreement, moving your hips with his as he drew back and pressed inside of you again. The slide of him inside you was mind-numbingly good, the pressure against your stomach as he pressed back in almost sparking stars in your vision. The flex of his abs between your thighs as he found his pace was almost immediately too much for you, and you had to turn your face away. You tilted your face up to his, watching him as he watched you.

Bakugou seemed to read your expression easily, finding the angle and pace you liked incredibly quickly. He slid an arm under the small of your back to angle your hips up into him, yanking you up like you were nothing, and the show of easy strength had your toes flexing and curling against his back.

He kissed you again, catching the sounds of your pleasure in his mouth as he rocked into you. You moved against him, hips bucking, delirious with the feeling of him. Eventually he freed his arm from under you, pressing his thumb to your slit again with deadly precision.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned into his mouth, legs tightening on him as he played with your clit. The almost-too-gentle sensation of his thumb on your clit, coupled with the relentless drive of him inside you had your vision sparking and greying at the edges. His face swam in front of yours, and all of your limbs began to feel shivery, almost too weak to lift yourself into him the way you needed, to rock against him and find relief from the friction.

Bakugou continued to tease at you, carefully pinching and petting. His hips drove into you tirelessly, slapping the bottoms of your thighs, as you strained in your silk bonds, wanting to grab him, pull him even harder into you.

“Katsuki, please please please,” you heard yourself begging. You felt him smile against your mouth, tasted his reply more than heard it.

“You want me to let you cum, angel?” he asked, doing something with his fingers that made your breath catch in your lungs.

“Unhh, yes—please!” you cried, desperation coming over you in a white haze.

You had never—never—been so desperate for anything in your entire life. You didn’t know how Bakugou was doing it, why his touch felt like so much more than anything else you’d ever felt in your life. If he didn’t let you cum you were certain you were going to die, right here and right now.

“You gonna scream for me, sweetheart?” Bakugou asked, his voice raspier than you’d ever heard it. He grit the words out, like he too was on the edge of his own climax, barely staving it off.

“Anything, I will do anything,” you babbled senselessly. “Yes—going to scream for you—Katsuki!”

Bakugou’s gaze was hotter than you’d ever seen it, scarlet eyes clouded with pleasure, glowing like banked coals. “Then you can come for me, angel. Come on, sweetheart.”

“Oh!” you cried in answer, your feet planting themselves on the bed to jut your hips up hard. Bakugou’s thumb pressed hard against your clit, then, firm and merciless, and he fucked into you harder, his pace growing faster, furious.

Your second orgasm hit you like a truck, snapping your spine into alignment, locking all your limbs up as if in rigor mortis.

“Katsuki!” you wailed as you writhed against him, clenching and fluttering around him as you sobbed.

“Oh fuck,” you heard him say, and his hips stuttered. You realized he was coming too, fucking into you sloppily and disjointedly as he rode out his own pleasure. You arched and spasmed with him, clawing uselessly at the silk that bound you, twisting in blissful agony.

When you finally came back to yourself you found yourself slumped on the bed, Bakugou’s weight pinning you down into the mattress. His chest was slicked to yours with sweat, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of it against you as he caught his breath.

“That good, angel?” he asked, his voice heady with satisfaction.

You nodded, absently turning your face back up to his for a kiss. He granted it, kissing you almost possessively. He looked soft and rumpled, just the way you'd always liked him, and something in you purred with satisfaction at finally getting to have him like this for you.

Gradually, you became aware of other sounds in the room as you came down from your high. Quiet murmuring and the sounds of shuffling met your ears, the shutter click of a camera lens slicing through the atmosphere like a knife.

A sudden shock raced through you when you realized you and Bakugou were not alone—and you were on the set of a porn film, half a dozen eyes glued to you just over one of Bakugou’s thick shoulders.

A porn film. You had been shooting a porn film!

“And cut!” you heard the director’s voice ring out, like a bucket of water dumped over your head.

You tensed up beneath Bakugou, mind racing. Holy shit, he had actually managed to make you forget, exactly the way he'd promised.

You could tell Bakugou was thinking the same thing as he went to untie you, looking extremely satisfied with himself.

“Told you, angel,” he said, flashing something of a feral grin. You hated how good the self-conceit looked on him.

You went to draw your wrists back to yourself as he let them free. But Bakugou caught them instead, carefully massaging the skin there as if to make sure things were circulating properly. It was a startling note of unexpected care, as was the way he drew your robe closed around you again against the sudden chill of the room.

You found yourself saying wonderingly, “Wow. It was just that easy for you to switch partners like that.”

The thought somehow stung, even though you’d known going into this what you were getting yourself into. Somehow, the latent care and intention with which Bakugou had fucked you had addled your brain, made you think your connection had been something more. He had felt like he had feelings, beyond those mimed for the camera.

But here was evidence to the contrary, plain and simple. There literally was a camera.

Except then Bakugou looked down at you, a frown marring his pouty mouth. “Well yeah. ‘Course it was gonna be that easy when it’s you we’re talking about.”

You blinked at him, not understanding what he was saying. “Uh. When it’s—me?”

A crease came in between Bakugou’s blonde brows. “I said it, didn’t I? While we were fucking? Wanted to fuck you for a long time. Of course it was easy.”

Your stomach dropped, like a rug had just been yanked out from beneath you. “You—have? What? Since when?” you demanded.

Bakugou leveled you with an unimpressed stare. “Since the second time we met,” he said, and your mind flashed back to the way he’d seemed not to recognize you, that second time you'd spoken to him. “Once I realized you did work for UA and weren’t actually a little fucking creep trying to lure me into your car.”

You felt your eyebrows shoot towards your hairline. “Then—? For years? You cannot be serious. You never acted like we were anything other than coworkers!”

Bakugou scoffed. “We fucking were coworkers. And I told you, I don’t fuck coworkers off the clock.”

You blinked again, startled by the level of professionalism couched in the crassess of his statement. It made sense, you supposed, for a pornstar of Bakugou’s caliber to have put boundaries like that in place. Probably everyone in the world would just be dying for a shot at him.

“Wow,” you said, almost to yourself. You didn’t know what to do with this new information, wondered how it was going to be possible to behave professionally with Bakugou at all going forward. It was probably obvious to him how big your crush on him was, given that he’d known all along he could make you forget you were on camera. Given the way you reacted to him embarrassingly easily.

Except then Bakugou leaned forward, putting his face startlingly close to yours. “Emphasis on were, since this is my last shoot,” he said.

You stared at him, wondering if you were interpreting the implication correctly. There was no way he meant—?

“Uhhhh, meaning what, exactly?” you prompted, heart beating just a little bit quicker despite yourself.

Bakugou’s mouth turned up into a gorgeous smirk, and he ducked his head even closer, voice going softer.

“Meaning you’re going to get dressed and I’m going to take us to get something to eat,” he said, fingers playing at the edge of your robe. “And then you’re going to give me that ride home in your car after all. And we are going to do this all over again.”

Flames erupted across your face, sweeping across your cheeks. And you were up out of the bed before you even realized what you were doing, catching yourself on the bedside table as you stumbled.

Bakugou’s laugh chased out of the set room as you raced towards the wardrobe again. But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, this time.

Not when your heart felt like it was going to beat right out of your chest. You smothered a smile as you ran down the hallway.

Much like Bakugou had just done to you—it looked like your hopes and dreams were finally lining themselves up and filling themselves in.

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou smut #bakugo smut #bakugou x you #bakugo x you #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader

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naburi · 2 months ago

Text

MY TEAMMATE’S DAUGHTER

SANA X READER

TAGS: DADDY KINK

2.7K WORDS

“There she is! Look at my daughter!” Your teammate points in the stand. He found out that he had an illegitimate child, now a beautiful young woman. He pays her visits occasionally and brings her every game to make up for the time he missed, not knowing that his daughter is already receiving the attention that she needs. “F-fuck me harder daddy!” Sana’s plea echoes through your room.

“You’re such a slut.” You said while you slapped her ass. You are holding Sana by her thin arms as you pound her from behind. Her thin body shakes in every impact. “You want harder?” You said as you tighten your grip in her arms to pound her with more force. You take a pause after pulling it out just to ram your cock again in her now messy wet slit. The sound of her juicy slit getting pounded, the sound of flesh colliding as your hips bumps her meaty ass, Sana’s whales of pleasure. These noise made you fuck your slut even more.

Driving back home, a few notifications pop out on your phone screen. You just know they are from the fans that want to congratulate you after a win. You have no idea that one of those fans will change your life overnight. Finally arrived at your home. You went straight to bed to get some needed rest. Scrolling through the notifications bubble, you notice a familiar display photo, but you didn’t mind it as you thought that you probably saw them in the stadium. You are grateful to receive some encouraging messages from your fans, thus you take your time to read each and every message. After opening the first few bubbles, this notification bubble led you to an instagram story that mentioned you. It’s a picture of you and two of your teammates. “Hold on, is this her daughter?” You said as you went to check her account. You saw some of her posts where she is in the game. “That’s why she mentioned me, I’m with her father in the photo.” You concluded. Sana is laying in her room, waiting for you to notice her story. She smiles as it notifies her that you give it a like.

The next game is concluded in a loss, the locker room is silent. It’s an unspoken rule that nobody should go out or have fun at night after a loss. You went straight home. you quickly drove home to get this night. Fewer notifications pop in your phone. You 're not expecting any good messages with how you lost this game. You saw the name of the daughter of your teammate again in your notification bubbles. You click on it first which brings you to an instagram story again. This time it’s a video of you with a caption “great play!” Attached with your mentioned name. You appreciate her compliment and contemplate if you should send her a message. Thinking about it for a minute, you settle in giving it a like again. Scrolling through the other bubbles, a new notification pops up. Sana followed you on instagram and sent you a direct message. “Hi! You did your best! Let’s win the next one!” You left a chuckle while reading her message. You haven’t heard her voice before but you read it like someone is cheering you on. “Thank you! Father played well today as well!” You responded to her. After sending the message, I saw that she had already seen it. It means she’s waiting for your message all along. “He’s a good player just like you! I want to meet you in person!” She sent another message but you were too tired to look at it. You toss your phone to the side before falling asleep.

You drove to the stadium for an early game today. Walking at the facility, it’s strange that you have not met anybody from your team yet. You continue to look for anyone in your team as you hear a noise coming out of one of the rooms. The whole team and staff are here and they are circling around a woman? “Your daughter is so pretty!”,”this can’t be your kid, she doesn’t look like you!”,”she’s too gorgeous to be your daughter!” The whole team is making fun of her father. Sana is standing on the other side, just smiling with the jokes. Her brunette hair shines from the sunlight behind her. Her silky white skin glows brighter than the light itself. Your teammates take turns shaking the woman before going out to the dugout. As more people leave the room, Sana finally caught a glimpse of you. Her innocent smile widens just enough that it looks seductive. It’s your turn for a handshake. You reach out your hand for sana to hold. Her slim fingers touch the back of your hand, her soft hands graces on your skin so slowly that it gives you chills. Her small hands look small compared to yours. She holds your hand a little longer than the others. “Goodluck!” She said while tightening her grip before finally letting your hands go. This is the first time you heard her voice. It didn’t help that her seductive smile didn’t go away when she held you. You won this game, the coach invited the team to celebrate this win with liquor. Some of your teammates are joking that they should also invite Sana with them but her father and some of the other players say that it should be a team only celebration. It’s still early in the night but you and some of your teammates excuse yourselves to go home to take an early rest.

Driving back home, your phone started to pop off with notifications again. You smile expecting a mentioned story or a message from Sana again. You sit on the sofa before you check your phone. You were baffled that no notification is from Sana. Checking your conversation, you saw that you haven’t responded to her message last night. “Should I message her?” You asked yourself. Sana has been putting you in a story in every game but today. You want to know the reason why you haven’t heard from her today thus finding yourself being the one to message her first. “It’s nice to meet you up close.” You said in your chat. Sana usually responds right away. It’s been 10 minutes now and she still has not read your message. You started to worry that you might have done something wrong that made the woman step away from you.

It’s past 10 pm, and a series of notifications wakes you up. You found yourself sleeping on your sofa, waiting for a response from Sana. You hurriedly sat up as you saw the new notification bubbles. “Hi! I grabbed drinks with a friend!” She said while also sending a picture. It’s a picture of her with her drink beside a drawing on the wall. You may get the hint but you act oblivious. “Have you made it home? Stay safe.” You responded. You are finally at ease knowing that she’s just busy. “Thank you, I’m walking with my friend on the way home. We are just a few houses apart from where she lived.” She quickly responded. “Let’s grab a drink some other time as well :)” she added with a smiling expression. The idea of going out with Sana excites you but the realization that her father might take it the wrong way holds you back. you don’t want to create any distraction with the team. “Your father might have found out,” you responded. “We can grab some drinks and spend some time in your house,” she suggested. You don’t like where this is heading, you know what will happen if the two of you are left alone in your home. “No one will find out” you said to yourself before agreeing with Sana. “Meet me after the game on Friday” you said to her.

In the locker room, the players are doing their pre-game routine and changing clothes. Sana is off your mind as you are focused on winning against your rival team. She didn’t leave your mind that long enough as you saw the woman standing outside of the locker room door. Sana is wearing less than what you are accustomed to. She usually is in jeans while paring it to your team's jersey. The locker room got quiet as they were too stunned with how attractive she is. The woman is wearing a small skirt that exposes her long lean legs paired with a tight folder jersey that shows her midriff. She walked inside the locker room to hand something to her father. She said it’s for good luck as she knows that this game means more as it is against your historically rival team. Sana gives you a long glance with a smirk on her face before she walks out. You both knew that she was not there for her father. She’s in there to give a glimpse of what you will see more tonight.

The game ended in a victory. Your coach invited the whole team to celebrate but you politely declined this one as you said you have a date. Your teammates are making fun of you that what you meant is really that you are going to hook up with someone tonight. It is not further from the truth as your mind gets clouded by how seductive Sana looks at you and how inviting her outfit is. You hurriedly walk your way out of the stadium. You tried to call your date for tonight but you were surprised that she is already in front of your car, waiting for you. “What if someone saw you?”,”I’ll just say I’m looking for my father.” She smirked at you. You look around to see if any player or staff saw the two of you but it seems like they are still inside. “How did you know which one is my car?” You asked in disbelief. Sana just gives you a wide smile. You guide her to the passenger seat and open the door for her. She thanked you as she sat inside.

You drove off to the nearest convenient store to grab drinks and some snacks. Sana is waiting in the car while you buy those items in the store. After returning to your seat. You felt her slim fingers wander on your pants. “What took you so long?” Sana’s voice changed. Her voice became higher pitched than usual, almost acting like a baby that’s waiting for her food. Her left hand is now moving up and downward on top of your forming bulge. You have not said anything as you don’t know how to react to her fast advancement. “I want to feel you now, Daddy,” her voice changed again. From a baby-like voice to a slow and alluring voice. Something clicked into you when she called you “Daddy.” It woke up your instinct for sex. Sana noticed this too as she felt how hard you got just by hearing that. Sana smiled and didn't leave her face as she knows that she will get what she came for. The two of you have now arrived at your home. You bring down the drinks and snacks to a small table in your living room. You sit on your sofa as you are about to open the drinks but Sana has other plans.

“I’ve waited long enough, daddy.” Sana unzips your pants down to your ankles. She smiles when she sees your cock begging to be let out on your underwear. She pulls your underwear slowly as she wants to see it spring back up in total hardness which she saw when she finally let your hard cock out. Sana gives your hard cock a few strokes before she measures it with her forearm. “It’s bigger than my forearm!” Her thin forearm has no match with the girth of your cock. You chuckled as even in this situation she can still look as cute and innocent as ever. Sana laughs with you before she holds your cock and pat her face with it. She let your cock rest on her face. Your hard cock is resting beside her sharp nose bridge, your shaft is on top of her left cheek while she closes one of her eyes as your cock is covering half of her face with your tip on her forehead. Sana smiles as she gets turned on by feeling your big cock on her soft face. She holds your cock again to now pat her tongue with it. She gives the tip a few licks before trying to swallow all of your cock in one go. You groan as your cock is not even lubricated enough for a deepthroat. You can feel her soft inside as she slowly swallows all of your cock. Her sharp nose touches your abdomen before she pulls her head back. Sana gasped some air as she left a chuckle. “You have a big dick, daddy.” She smiles again with her eyes widening from excitement.

You had enough of her gimmicks, you know what she came for and you will give her exact what she wants. You hold Sana’s brown hair in a makeshift pigtail to have something to hold on. Sana even opens her mouth wide as she waits for your movement. You bring down her face again, impaling her mouth with your hard cock. Gagging sounds come out every time you put all of your cock in her mouth but she didn’t care. Sana let you use her mouth for your pleasure. You stand up to give yourself a better angle. You know moving your hips to meet her face every time. Sana looks up at you with tears flowing down her eyes. You fasten your face until Sana’s face turns red due to lack of oxygen. You get worried for a bit as you pause to check on her. She coughs when you finally let go of her face. “Why didn’t you tap out?” You asked. “I want my daddy to use me just as he pleases” Sana gives you a wicked smile even in her messed up face.

You carry Sana to your room, she wraps her legs onto you while she kisses your neck before you carry her down to your bed. You unbutton her small skirt and tossed it on the other end of the room. Sana tried to fasten the process by pulling her underwear on her own but you caught her hand. “Someone is being inpatient.” You said while removing her hand on her underwear. “S-sorry, daddy” she said. You eventually remove her underwear. “Fuck me please, daddy.” “Fuck me now,” she continues to plead before you hold her cheeks to open her mouth. You put her underwear inside her mouth as a consequence of her impatience. You aligned your hard cock on her wet lips before slowly plunging it in. Sana's loud moans are muffled by the underwear inside her mouth. You can feel how her slit stretched out due to your girthy cock. You hold her by her thin legs and start your movement. Sana's muffled moans are still loud. She tried to remove her top while you're on top of her but you slap her hands away. “What did I tell you about being inpatient?” You shouted at her. Sana got turned on with how aggressive you're becoming. You pull up her folded jersey top and her bra in one go, exposing her perky boobs. You slapped her boobs with force until red marks appeared. You squeezed her boobs to hold onto it while you continue to fuck her. Sana can’t take it anymore. She removes her underwear in her mouth and starts to plead more. “Fuck me just like that, daddy!” She shouted as her body arched back in pleasure. “You like getting fucked like a slut?” You shouted back. “Yes! Yes! Fuck me! I’m your slut!” She said before she left out a loud moan. You pulled out your cock and instructed her to bend down. Sana quickly obliged and even spread her ass cheeks in front of you. You hold her thin arms as you continue to plunge your cock inside her again. “F-fuck me harder, daddy!”

#twice smut #twice x reader #twice sana #reader smut #k pop smut #sana x reader #sana smut #twice sana smut #sana minatozaki

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tojisun · 4 months ago

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the hand that feeds you

— “i take care of her, s’all.”

johnny mactavish x f!reader

cw: 18+ work - minors dni; age difference; daddy issues (kinda the central plot); cooking as a love language; slow burn but in high speed; a breath of angst; power imbalance; canon divergence - regular/non-military life au // amazing divider by @gildui! // 6.5k words

extra notes: this is a very self-indulgent work. there are holes in the plot, 100%, so ignore those holes pretty pls </3 also ik this is more of a captain johnny-verse but midway through, i started projecting so i might’ve written him incorrectly and im really sorry for that!!

being roommates with johnny is not as weird as it is; he’s amicable, at first, then full blown nice when days passed. he’s not loud, per se, but there’s always a constant chatter streaming from his space, like he physically can’t sit still through the silence which is great because you don’t fare any better with the stillness too, so reminiscent of how it was in the suburbs.

you moved to a neighbourhood just skirting past the inner city just because it’s a lot cheaper. but even then, rent was always high and your little box in a rundown complex wasn’t going to sustain you forever even if you wished it would. then, an opening in johnny’s townhouse was posted, almost half-price than whatever is up in the market, and it’s great despite your skepticism. hell, it’s more than great — it’s lifesaving.

your shitty job at the bookstore really can’t cover much of your expenses anymore, and sure student loans and the grant is great, but the growing debt makes you wince so it’s whatever at this point. you’re about to graduate soon anyway, pooling work experience from volunteering and club organizations, and it’s not like you can even go back to how it was.

(underway to law school, primed up before your father’s scrutiny but the burnout got to you before you could even write the LNAT. you realized that being a barrister wasn’t really what you wanted so you changed programs, midway, and switched to children’s education.

god, the disappointment in your pa’s eyes was so big, you knew to pack your shit before he could even kick you out.)

it’s… tough.

god, is it tough. none of your old friends and colleagues could stay in contact, which you don’t hold against them because most of them, by now, have graduated and entered law school. you’re straggling about two years back because of the switch in programs, and everything’s gone too tight. your budget. your social life.

your dating life.

johnny often distracts you from it all — he works in downtown, in one of those high-rise buildings often reserved for limiteds or holding companies, and has to travel off the city every three months. he makes good money, he said jovially, and you know it’s a nudge as to why your portion of the rent is cheap in the first place.

when you finally bit the bullet and asked why he put up one of the rooms in the market, johnny just shrugged and said he needed someone to house sit but sort off permanently. said something like last time he left, the pipes bursted and he couldn’t really fly back to help with the repairs.

it’s great being with him. he’s bright and bubbly, but also dependable in ways you never really thought about. like—

well, it’s all mundane things so listing them feels embarrassing, and it makes you feel as though you’re a touch-starved damsel and johnny just so happened to be the next older man to give you any attention and his time. but you can’t help it. god, you can’t help preen at the way he exists beside you.

he’s just so… beautiful, is what it is.

rugged and charming and loud and filling. the townhouse is too big for the two of you, but johnny makes it work. makes it feel like the two of you just fit into each other’s spaces.

early mornings are spent with him lilting between english and scottish, his exhaustion plastered onto him even after he’s downed two cups of coffee. he bumps his hip onto yours when he ambles out to prepare for his work, grumbling something like good morning and how’re you. afternoons are more lively and productive; it’s of you coming back from campus at six in the evening only to find him in the kitchen, fixing up dinner. it’s always something fancy and rich in flavour; something he always eats with wine on the side.

you, uh, you never thought he could actually cook, let alone feed himself well, but there he was, always a plate ready for you too like it’s expected that you’ll eat dinner with him. like spending time with him was just natural — the sky is blue, the ocean’s deep, and you and johnny fall into each other like there is an invisible string pulling you close to him.

it’s a beautiful change of pace, and there are more days now when you can breathe in a little easier, and you know it’s all because of johnny. it’s all him who pulled you out of your slump and out of that darkness and gave you the room, literally, to grow.

he’s beautiful, but you’ve said that already, haven’t you? he’s just… so good to be with.

then, johnny began picking up and bringing some home.

the first time it happened was shocking, really.

you had an early morning, something that’s so murky now in your memories so you’re unsure if it was anything uni related or work related, just that it was five in the morning and you were clambering downstairs as quietly as you could. you rounded the length of the hallway from the platform to the kitchen when you ran into someone.

“steady,” she’d said, voice hoarse and loud in her shock too.

you yelled, jumping, arms swinging because was there an intruder, and it took johnny physically subduing you for you to calm down. looking back now, you burn in embarrassment, but then you had been so worried, your body wound up so tightly in your fear.

“shh,” johnny had murmured with that wry grin. “s’just me, lass.”

your eyes danced between him and the brunette — pretty even in her rumpled shirt, with long legs and a small waist — trying to understand what was going on. you are sure johnny had told you before that he wasn’t seeing anyone so who—

“your girlfriend?” she asked johnny, turning to him with her lips pursed and her brow cocked up.

the question settled in your stomach, doing wonders to your already-fragile psyche. you’d just spent hours thinking about johnny and what he meant to you; what living with him meant. how it eased up something carved within the trenches of your being, like you’d always been waiting for someone like him.

the question was a reminder, like prickling you with icicles, leaving you to navigate the swoop. but johnny had laughed, nothing mean but so dismissive that you felt the curl of shame brandishing from the base of your spine like johnny was laughing at you.

“oh, nah,” he replied, arm still slung over your shoulders. “she’s sorta my ward, yes? i take care of her, s’all.”

that’s all. you’re nothing more to him but a ward. a tenant. not even a friend—

she hummed, then leaned over to kiss johnny, her eyes still drawn to you like she’s watching, waiting for a reaction, and when she got none, she trudged to the door. you and johnny watched as she bent down to slip in her shoes, some stilettos with red bottoms, before wordlessly disappearing into the darkened morning.

“pretty,” you chirped, trying to break the tension of whatever that was.

johnny laughed in that way that surely crinkled his eyes, only to steer the conversation away by asking why you were up early. you remembered what you had to do and you dived to the kitchen in a flurry, chatting about the deadlines and due dates — so it was a school thing — and johnny just watched, silent, humming, eyes still curved in his glee.

you left no sooner than his… paramour did and, for a while, that was that.

but your semester is coming to a close and your schedule is changing, but so is johnny’s. he’s coming home later and later, but always seemed to offer apologies in the form of easy-to-microwave meals for your dinner. they’re still homemade, probably cooked up in the morning before he left for work, and you’d messaged him to say that he didn’t need to worry about you. that, sure, you came to him amidst financial struggle, juggling work and school, and trying to decide if you would have to starve this month because of rent, but you can cook. for yourself and for him too.

johnny’s face did a terrible thing when you mentioned that in person, the first in a while after things got hectic.

“what,” you bit out, embarrassed.

“nothing,” he said, blinking like he was realizing things he shouldn’t. “s’fun doing things f’r you.”

then he clamped up, spooning soup into his mouth, some of it messily dribbling into his chin. it’s not like you were doing any better, with how your throat closed up at his words, eyes going wide.

it’s been a thing, is what it is, but neither of you two have ever acknowledged that it’s a thing. it’s been a wordless experience — of johnny taking over things when it comes to the house because of course he will, it’s his home, but he always covers things for you too. things you’re sure normal landlords don’t really worry about, but not johnny.

there’s always extra food in the kitchen, extra blankets when the weather dips. there’s even a new cooling machine for the summer even though you know johnny’s room already has an installed air conditioning. he’s even changed the seats in the dining room because he caught you once hitting your hip after an all-nighter on a project.

then, he refurbished the den to make it your office.

“you didn’t have to,” you told him, mind racing at your savings, wondering if he was going to increase your rent.

johnny just shook his head with an almost fond roll of his eyes and clapped your back, arm hovering there. “s’all yers, hen.”

everything he did always accounted for you. so why the women?

they’re all long limbed and trimmed waist, with eyes that sparkled even when all you’ve seen of them is always within the poorly-lit hallway. they have voices that curl teasingly, breathy like they’re enticing johnny for one more night. and they’ve always, always, treated you like a—

like a kid.

a burden, almost, of johnny’s.

and, hell, maybe you are. johnny’s almost twice your age; he’s also already well-established in his career, some senior position that you can’t really follow but one he talks about with fondness. he’s got land rover-money, the car in his garage big and black and almost military grade, and it looks so expensive especially beside the crappy civic you were able to snag for a cheap price because it’s got about three-hundred-thousand mileage already.

you’ve got nothing to give him, other than the lousy rent payment that he doesn’t even really need but is just asking for courtesy because it’d be so weird for him to offer a room, or two now given you have the den too, for free. you’ve got nothing on your name, and if it isn’t pity that makes johnny care for you, then you don’t know what.

maybe his string of one-night stands are right — you are just a kid.

that maybe you really are still too wet behind the ears for the real world that you go running to the next person that could protect you from it, stumbling into his life and licking up every drop of his attention, mistaking his kindness for devotion. his care for love.

you should have known, then, that the thoughts would ripple, leaving you to feel like the days are unnavigable. obsession quickly took root, growing fangs, and it ensnared you; a vice noose at what had been a pleasant coexistence.

hell, you can barely stand being with johnny because of the jealousy. it’s a shameful thing, but a part of you thinks you deserve johnny more than the others do.

you tell yourself that nobody knows about johnny’s nightmares and the horrors that spill from his lips when it’s twelve in the morning and the two of you have hit the bourbon. you tell yourself that nobody knows about johnny’s aversion to the windows in the living room; that the reason why the curtains are a deep green is not to match the new plants he’s allowed you to fill up his home but because they shroud the panels more than the cream ones had. you tell yourself that nobody knows that johnny can sing; that he can cook a mean tomahawk; that he likes reading; that his wrists were hurting so he’s currently scheduled for a surgery; that he’s soft to you.

the women don’t know this johnny, you tell yourself, nails clawing at the hems of your chest. they don’t know him the way i do.

it’s a pathetic whisper. it’s so laughable. so juvenile.

they’re right. they’re right.

(you’re just a—)

“i don’t see you anymore,” johnny murmured one morning, when things have gone quiet again, a cup of coffee sitting on the counter while he watches you throw orange peels into the garburator.

he just got back from a work trip in aberdeen, his exhaustion loud on his face. his hair is overgrown, the bottom ends of his mohawk curling along his nape. he was there for over three weeks, skirting almost close to a month — the longest he’s ever been away — and you had tried so hard not to message. not to drop casual check-ins because you’re sure no tenant ever does that to their landlord, but johnny had remained just as friendly; asking things like if you wanted another potted plant, a monstera or a dragon tree, or if you still had that swiss chocolate he brought home as a gift, or—

the list of his questions grew, but you’ve given him clipped replies, not knowing how to act right anymore since your quiet realization. even the “thing” that you thought you shared with him had fizzled at the drop of the women coming-and-leaving, and you are left to pick up the pieces.

it’s not like you’re broken or ruined or angry. god, no you aren’t.

but you feel unsteady, like now that you know that you liked him more than he liked you, you forgot how to breathe. how to live without that looming burden because your affection is nothing but a burden.

what will johnny do if he finds out? you can’t afford a new place to move into, not when you’re so close to graduating, the finish line just about to graze your very fingertips with how near it is. money is still tight, and johnny has already spoiled you rotten. has shown you how it is to live a comfortable life. and if he learns of your feelings, you would lose this. more than anything, you would lose him.

so you detached yourself from the noose, curling into yourself and using his work trip as a way to move on.

jesus — move on, huh? like there was a ‘you and johnny’ to even move on from. like there was anything there to read. like there was anything there to pull away from; twitching fingers drawing back into the spaces of your ribs, tucking yourself away from his warmth.

“i’ve been so busy, john,” you muttered, just as tired.

“yeah?” he said, still light. still jovial. “let me cook something nice for ye, huh? reward yer hard work and all.”

“i can’t.” you swallowed down the prickle lodged in your throat, eyes ducking away to avoid seeing his. “i’ve got a meeting with the club.”

(you missed the way johnny’s smile dipped.)

“oh,” he said.

you shrugged, internally wincing at your weak attempt at being normal, before gathering your thermos and your messily-wrapped sandwich. johnny was still standing by the counters when you turned around from the sink, his bulk so close to yours in ages. it had been so long since you could just reach over and feel his warmth; feel the soft pudge of what once were hardened muscles.

he’s looking at you with such sad eyes that it’s jarring to truly see because he’s looking at you like—

like he’s losing you.

“i’m gonna…” you trailed off, not really knowing how to end this truly awkward interaction.

“yeah, f’course,” he croaked out. “take care of yerself huh, lass?”

“thanks.” the smile on your face felt more like a grimace. “see you.”

he said nothing more after that, his eyes still searching; still furrowed like something’s changed and something’s happening, and it made your stomach drop because please. please don’t let him notice.

but johnny just watched as you went, his coffee all forgotten.

(something bloomed in the soft press of your heart, flickering like a young ember. you’ve never realized how longing could feel like your mouth is stuffed with cotton.)

johnny hasn't picked up since his return from aberdeen.

they’re getting a new firm so the shuffling has been brutal, leaving johnny to clamber out at five in the morning before coming back home when it’s pushing 11pm. the scruff on his face is becoming more unkempt, salt and pepper becoming more intense, but even then, he’s never looked more ruggedly beautiful as he is now.

it’s like he’s aged years and you shouldn’t be reacting so strongly to the change, but looking at johnny now makes you ache in a different way — core throbbing, throat parched and eyes stinging as you watch him. you’re so drawn to his gravitational pull, unable to detangle yourself now that it feels like he’s more back in your life than he ever was.

and you know it’ll end up hurting you. that you’ll go back to isolating yourself at the drop of a new girl in the house, the smell of her chanel or bvlgari perfume filling up the crevices that you’ve dutifully dusted every saturday morning while johnny’s out for a run. he’s made having casual lovers a cycle, one that you cannot blame him for because johnny doesn’t like you back.

but johnny’s been so attentive to you these days. he’s been a hovering presence even when he looks like he’s one blown wind away from passing out in his exhaustion, his warm hand always on the small of your back as he walks you to the door before chirping a hearty, “kick ass, bon!”

he’s back to fixing up food for you, like that blip in your schedule got him all creative because now, it’s not even just dinner. you’ve got breakfast waiting for you in the microwave, and packed lunch already in your bag, carefully tucked beside the manila folders and plastic envelopes for your capstone. it’s like he’s making up for something which is dumb and wrong because now, you’re all swooping stomach and prickling lungs.

“yummy?” johnny asked, catching you wriggling in excitement at the flavour bursting into your tongue.

your cheeks tingled, feverish, before giving him a shy nod.

he huffed, something so achingly fond, and rested his chin atop his crossed arms. you didn’t know what to focus on — the scruff on his face or the hard lines of webbing veins spilling from beneath his folded sleeves. then, he crooned, “good. that’s good.”

you ran upstairs to your room, throwing an excuse about finishing up your paper, before locking the door, and feeding your cunt two fingers to satiate the burn. the stretch was delicious, raw and sweet, and you humped your wrist, trying to douse the flames burning you up.

you thought of johnny, of the way he looked and how much nicer he’s been; of johnny and the way he was so kind to you, so caring like you’re up in his priority list again, overtaking his busy schedule and the firm restructuring, and his needs.

your orgasm felt like a ripping of reality, your mind splintering at the edges as you’re stretched thin. it felt like you’ve been pulled taut, then released with a resounding snap. it felt euphoric, like the explosion of something intoxicating. something wickedly addicting.

you knew that this could never be unmade. your affections had grown their tendrils, curling past the quiet admiration and spiralling into something unforgiving. into something greater than yourself.

“fuck,” you had rasped out, eyes prickling with tears as shame rushed into your chest. “fuck.”

you didn’t need this. you didn’t need any of this.

but it becomes a cycle — wash, rinse, repeat.

johnny continues to go unshaven; continues to pour his attention to you. and you soak it up, needy and soft, unable to turn away with your tail tucked between your legs. you fall back to the ease of how it had been, hip bumping his, morning coffee shared in the silence, dinner a filling affair once more. all that’s changed are the lingering looks, the resonating touches.

how johnny’s wide hand falls to the small of your back more often; how his fingers just slots against yours every time he passes you your cup; how his eyes rove over your face, always searching for something you dare not hope for.

the last time he flicked his eyes down to watch the way your tongue lapped at your lips, swiping away at the extra cream, johnny’s pupils had constricted before a quiet groan rumbled from his throat. your thighs had quickly clenched close as heat exploded in the pit of your belly, spreading like wildfire through your veins. the pressure on your nub made you hiccup, like a whine dragging itself from your trachea, and johnny had snapped his eyes back to yours so quickly, it made you heady.

“bon–”

“i have to go,” you murmured, clamouring to shaky legs.

you fucked yourself to a deafening point once more, ears ringing as you squirted, the gush of your slick pushing past your fingers. you had to gnash your pillow cover to muffle the moan rumbling from the base of your throat, trying desperately to be good. to not be heard. to be better.

but johnny’s burning gaze on your lips was seared into your memory, blazing on top of everything, and you imagined—

god, you imagined.

the way he’ll take you — beard rough on your chin, thicker fingers spreading you wider, reaching deeper, before finally filling you up with all of him, bullying the whole length of his cock until he bottoms out.

you pressed on your stomach, dizzy, thinking about how johnny would hit that far. you know he would. the women he’s slept with have told you, anyway, in passing, describing how he was in bed with dreamy sighs like they weren’t still reeking of sex and johnny’s aftershave.

(you still wonder why so many of them were mean, their noses tipped up every time they saw you. they were the ones that johnny chose, the ones who were fortunate enough to have been his lover, so you wonder why they still sought you out like you were competition.)

“johnnyyyy!” you moaned, loud and long, your fingers prodding at your walls, and you knew that you’d regret the wrangled cry later, but you didn’t care then, too busy swimming in the aftermath of your orgasm.

but johnny heard it anyway.

he told you that he had heard you.

it happened so quickly — one moment you were bent over the espresso machine, fiddling with the levers with bleary-eyed attempts, then the next thing you knew was that johnny was crowding you, trapping you between the warm bulk of his body and the counter, his eyes furrowed so deeply which made the lines on his forehead run much deeper.

“whu’?” you asked, blinking tiredly at him.

johnny just did this shaky breath that rattled his whole body, like he was propped up by a couple of sticks instead of his whole mass. the mood shifted with that weak inhale though, and you turned to fully face him, ignoring the beeping machine because johnny was still looking at you with those eyes.

the ones that made you feel seen, read, and laid bare before him. like he could weave his eyes past the fabrics of your shirt to peek into the very jagged shards of your heart and see the cross that you’ve been carrying. like he knew things about you that he shouldn’t.

“johnny?” you prodded again, finding his silence alarming.

“yer too young for me, m’eudail,” johnny finally rumbled out, voice thick and deep.

and it’s—

what.

your mind was pressing into your skull, trying desperately to link your synapses together; for the fog to clear and for your coherence to rise above the pull of drowsiness, but johnny was faster. like now that he’s said the first words, the rest just follow, unstoppable in their force and in their meaning.

“i told myself i couldn’t,” he murmured, still breathing shakily; gaze still too fragile. “that yer lookin’ for nothin’ like me, and that yer just tryin’ to get out there with yer career.”

he lifted a hand, fingers twitching, before balling it back down to a fist.

“told myself i’ve gotta let go. found a way to cope and shit.”

johnny took another ragged breath in, and it startled you into gulping one of your own — you didn’t even realize that you’ve held your breath as he spoke to you, your chest clenching tightly as your mind began to link the passageways together, filling you in on what he wasn’t really saying.

“but carin’ f’you was so easy. christ, it was even delightful, hen.” he chuckled, something that was somewhat raw and pained.

you licked at your lips, blinking wide eyes open. johnny tracked the movement, his nose flaring like you’ve done something more than a subconscious thing, his shoulders going taut.

“i like doing all sorta things for you. liked seeing y’eat what i cooked; liked seeing y’use what i got f’you. liked watching y’come home to me. to me.”

a soft sound echoed between the two of you, and it took you an embarrassingly long time to realize that it was a breathless whimper that petered out from the base of your throat. you didn’t even realize that you’ve curled into yourself, almost like you’re trying your best to shrink before johnny, and johnny crooned.

callused palm cupped the round of your cheek, his thumb swiping just underneath your eye. “told myself yer too young; that surely yer looking for someone closer to yer age, but bon, i heard y’last night.”

you startled in his hold, a quiet gasp piercing through the heat. johnny’s lips danced with mirth.

“s’right. heard a loud thump against the wall and ran upstairs, all worried, but guess my surprise, yes? y’were moanin’ my name so loudly, it’s like y’left yer door open.”

“johnny, i–”

“tell me,” he said, moving closer, his chest pressing against yours. “tell me t’stop, bon, an’ i will. but y’ve got to tell me. y’ve got to push me away.”

you looked at him, your eyes trembling at what he was laying out thickly, and your throat going parched at the blanketing desire rippling from him. there were so many things you wanted to ask, but his breath was tickling the bridge of your nose, dancing so close to the bow of your lips, and your heart ached.

desire coursed through you in waves, dribbling from the cup, and you lurched forward, chasing after his lips.

johnny melted into you. his hesitant touch turned greedier, more possessive, mapping your body and pulling you closer into him. his mouth devoured your own, gulping down the pleased little sighs and keens spilling from your lips. he kissed like a man starved, but you weren’t any softer; all nippy and desperate, fingers digging into his hair and fisting at the thin strands.

it was feverish, almost to a boiling point, and you needed more.

god, you needed more.

“johnny,” you mewled when he pulled away just enough to slide his damp lips along the cut of your jaw. “johnny, need you.”

“christ,” johnny sounded so wrecked, his voice rumbling deeply from where his lips were suckling on the soft curve of your neck. “i’ve been dreaming of this, mo luaidh. i knew i shouldn’t but yer so sweet to me and i– i wanted.” he said that word like it was dirty; like he’d been fighting tooth-and-nail to suppress it.

it made you tremble to hear how johnny desired you just as much. he had always felt unobtainable; always danced too far from your grasp and was always bigger than what you knew you could handle — his lovers had always looked divinely; pretty, yes, but fierce in their own right like they knew how to live without johnny; and you know they could, because they didn’t need johnny the way you do. they didn’t look at johnny like you do, like he hung the stars with those thick and aged hands of his.

but as you stood there, feeling every word punctured onto your skin, you couldn’t help but begin to cry, the tears springing from your eyes to slip down your cheeks. johnny rubbed your back, soothing and gentle.

“i wanted t’take you – make y’all mine,” he whispered.

you hiccuped, shaky from the weight of your hunger, and nuzzled close. your hands fell from fisting his hair so you could claw at the sharp corners of his shoulder blades, feeling the muscles there rippling, all taut when he bent forward and kissed you.

“please,” you began, feeling your mind thinning because you wanted more. more. more. more. “i can be– johnny, s’always been you. nobody else but you.”

you tugged him away, cupping his jaw and forcing him to look at you. and god, johnny looked so devastatingly beautiful, his eyes all furrowed and his cheeks all flushed, and his lips spit-sheened.

“fuck me,” you whispered, tired of dancing around.

he groaned, something that sounded so pained, before he was tugging you with him, up the stairs and skirting past your room and into his.

you’ve never been in johnny’s room before, just as he had never been in yours since you moved in, and until now you still don’t know what you had been expecting upon walking in, but the smell of johnny wafting through was almost gut-punching. he smelled so close, like he was everywhere — surrounding you from the ground-up, dousing every pore with him until even your mouth felt full.

and johnny, he smelt like home.

there were no more words uttered as he stripped you off your pyjamas, sure fingers making their way down the buttons, unlatching them from the hemmed slits. you watched with heavy eyes, blinking slowly like everything had been wrung out of you, leaving you pliant and soft. johnny hummed, appreciative, and mapped kisses from your heaving chest, teeth nipping at the fat, before moving on, sprinkling every expanse of your skin with such reverence.

your hands were balled to your chest when he reached the jut of your belly, his chin hovering just above your crotch. johnny flicked up his darkened eyes at you, asking silently.

you gave him a nod, not trusting your own voice too.

johnny’s eyes had turned into slits, pleased, and hefted himself up just enough to be able to fit his hands on your hips and tugged your pants down. you shivered, the warmth in his room not enough to suppress the winter chill, and it made you buck into him. johnny comforted you with a quiet shh, rubbing his palm on the pudge of your thigh in soothing circles.

you don’t know why that touch was what did it for you, but soft sobs finally spilled from your mouth, scrunching up the desire into something undeniably frail. johnny didn’t startle though, like he knew that you had been wounding up to this tipping point, and instead continued to touch you tenderly, almost like if he could, he would cradle you close.

“i love you,” you said, sniffling, because that was the crux of your vulnerability, right?

you love him. god, you love him.

you’ve loved him since the day he sat you down for dinner and told you that you’ve got nothing to worry about, not anymore and not with him around. you’ve loved him since the day he flipped the den so you can have your own space for work; don’t mind the fact that he didn’t know if you were going to even stay, just that he insisted that you deserved that room either way. you’ve loved him since that swiss chocolate, since that cup of coffee, since he’s begun filling your painfully lonely days with his care.

you’ve loved him since and now—

“oh, mo graidh,” johnny breathed out. “i love you too.” he kissed your thigh, scruff ticklish. “gu siorraidh is gu brath.”

you wanted to ask what that meant but johnny was already moving, sitting back up to strip out of his own shirt. you trailed your eyes down his body, capturing your trembling lips between your teeth at how breathtaking he was — soft with fat but still heavy with muscles, fuzzy with hair with the smattering pooling just underneath his belly button before trailing down to where they were hidden underneath his pants.

you twitched before finally braving enough to reach out and brush your knuckle over the indents of his softened abs. johnny hummed, something that curled with appreciation, before covering your hand with his and holding it there.

“all of me s’yers, hen,” he said with such finality that you felt it settle deep within the marrows of your bones.

you nodded, emotionally spent and johnny lilted something else in scottish, so soft that it was almost a croon. you let him manhandle you — pushing your hips up so he could slot a pillow under for your back; you were so malleable to his touch as he took over, bending once again for a kiss while his fingers danced past the laces of your panties and into the damp heat of your pussy.

you moaned, eyelashes fluttering when he pressed one in, so careful and slow, but you were so wet that it slid in with no resistance, gobbling it up knuckle-deep. johnny had groaned like he could feel your rising euphoria, before nosing along your temple as he wiggled the finger around, stroking at your walls. you wondered if he was going to tease but then he was pulling it out, only to plunge two in the next thrust, curling and stretching, and oh—

oh, ssss’good.

you don’t even remember how long he’d been spearing you with his thicker fingers, rough and long and reaching far, far deeper than you could with your own, but you laid there, sobbing, feeling your slick slip out, pooling, making a mess of your thighs and his sheets. johnny had moved from suckling on your neck to taking a nipple in his mouth, teeth softly gnashing at the bud. you felt like you were on fire, burning from your core, aching for a release.

“cum f’me, m’eudail,” johnny groaned, breathless himself, his cock poking underneath his boxers, the fabric all wet from where his tip was, leaking pearled pre-. “let me see you.”

“johnny, i’m gonna– i’m–!” you squealed, legs jumping, squeezing johnny’s sides as you jolted, hips twitching at the bloating ecstasy. johnny just pushed down on your thigh, not letting up with the pace of his fingers. he was fucking you so hard that his hand’s slapping against your skin, his palm grinding down on your clit just right, and the pleasure sizzled into something biting. into something that was almost painful.

it was catastrophic, pulling you into two directions. johnny’s everywhere — his scent in your lungs, his fingers deep in your pussy, his mouth hot and wet on your tits, and like this, like this, you felt yourself breaking.

ripping—

then, your orgasm was punched out of you.

your senses had gone awry — throat throbbing as you cried out, your eyes going blind as they rolled into your skull at the final curl of johnny’s fingers. white noise filled your ears, and it was like you were submerged underneath water, wading through the crashing tides of your climax.

you came back to johnny peppering your face with soft kisses, whispering something you couldn’t decipher past the croon of your name and something like you did good and so beautiful. he’d already pulled his fingers out, and used both arms to cradle you close. you felt so empty — god, that wasn’t even his cock, yet — but your body thrummed pleasantly, almost like the itch was finally scratched.

“johnny?” you puffed out, voice all scratchy and weak.

“i’m here, bon. i’m here.”

you hummed, curling into his chest, head pillowed by his arm. you wanted to ask what about his own euphoria, but johnny seemed so content just laying there with you, not really desperate or needy, so you let it go, losing the battle against your drowsiness before finally slipping into a quiet sleep.

johnny’s there for your graduation, carrying a big bouquet of only eden roses. you didn’t even know that those particular ones were expensive until someone from the graduation party oohed and aahed to their friend.

your cheeks burned when their friend chirped, “well someone’s clearly loved.”

you know that what they said would have had johnny agreeing loudly if he was allowed in the lineup because he is never one to be shy about what he feels; or not anymore, anyway. he loves so fully and openly that you still wonder why it took the two of you so long to get together, but the days since then had just been kind and filling that you have long forgotten how it was to not be with him.

they’re going to call your name soon, and your stomach swoops, excitement and anxiety mixing in a dizzying tandem.

you’re graduating with a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a diploma in early childhood education, and this is not where you thought you would be when you first started university, but it’s the happiest you have ever been. and sure much of your poli-sci courses were scrapped when you changed majors, and that’s also a lot of money wasted, but you have three job opportunities lined up already and it’s like the seismic shift in your life had finally corrected itself.

(your mom said she’s sorry that she and your pa couldn’t come, but you’ve stopped longing for their acceptance and told her it was fine.

there’s a date saved in your calendar, though, for a brunch with her and that was enough.)

you ducked into johnny’s arms when the graduation ceremony ended, careful of the bouquet he’s holding.

“congratulations, bonnie,” he says, a hearty laugh rumbling from his chest. “christ, i’m so, so proud of you.”

you never pegged yourself for a crybaby, but tears begin to pool in the corners of your eyes at the weight of his words.

“thank you,” you reply, soft and raw, and honest.

johnny pulls you in, his lips warm as they’re pressed on your forehead.

and this, just like this, you know things will only get better from here on out.

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