#lets test tumblrs rules with this one

[puzzled-artist]

Your Devil and your Angel

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[fellthemarvelous]

Deny. Defend. Depose.

It is clear to those of us that live in America, the only people we truly have on our side are ourselves. The ruling class has made it clear we don't matter to them.

Luigi Mangione was arrested and happened to have every single piece of evidence on him that law enforcement was looking for, including the parts for the ghost gun, inside his backpack (that he also got rid of in Central Park containing the Monopoly money???). Either he was trying to get caught or that evidence was planted. And when he was being forcefully pushed into the jail, he hollered back to the press about "injustice" and "being an insult to the intelligence of American citizens and our lived experiences."

The people have now turned against corporate America and the CEOs and billionaires are fucking terrified. Nothing the news stations are saying to us are changing our minds. The American people have finally united over this issue and there is no going back for us. Whoever did kill Brian Thompson (and theories abound on the game The Adjuster is playing because no one plays Monopoly alone) exposed the very real divide that exists between every day citizens and the extremely wealthy. Things were easier for them to control when they were able to divide us, but now that we are aware of how uncertain our future is in America and seeing just how little we matter to the people who take our money, we have realized that we have more in common with each other than the people who control every aspect of our lives. We are waking up.

There isn't one person in this country who hasn't been a victim to the predatory scam that is private health insurance. Medical debt is the leading cause of bankruptcy in America, and many of us are one ambulance ride or hospital stay away from homelessness. We all know people who have died because the insurance company denied them the treatment they needed or waited until it was too late for an approval of a medical claim to matter anymore.

Recently, I decided to be tested for autism and ADHD. Not life-threatening or anything, but my life is still in shambles and I want to know if I'm going untreated for something else. Before being tested though, I was informed that the insurance company (Aetna) has said that they were going to cover the full cost of the testing I was having (which was six hours of testing by the way). She even made sure several times that they were, in fact, going to cover it in full and they said yes.

The same day that Brian Thompson, CEO of another horrible healthcare company, was murdered in broad daylight, I received a call from that doctor's office with the woman telling me that Aetna was now telling her they never agreed to cover my testing and that they are going to bill me for $1600 (where the hell am I supposed to get that?) and she is fighting them, but considering our lives don't matter to the people who tell us what healthcare we are and are not allowed to receive, I don't think they will feel compelled to change their minds because they are bloodsucking parasites who only care about lining their pockets while I don't even have $6 lying around, let alone $1600!!

Corporate America leeches off our taxes. They take and take and take and we see nothing in return. They raise prices on insurance coverage and then deny us the very coverage that we pay for. They poison our food, price gouge our poisoned food, and then force us to pay for the treatment we get when the food makes us sick. Corporate America profits off of our hard work, our taxes, our health, our lives, our deaths.

I don't know if this will reach a larger audience or not, but I wanted to talk about it on Tumblr because this platform seems to be a crossroads for every type of creative soul. I initially brought up this idea on TikTok earlier, but I want to see if it can get traction in other places as well since I have fewer than 3,000 followers on TikTok (and I have seen a small few express interest in my idea in the hours since I posted the video.)

We're busy being lectured by politicians and the news media because while they are clutching their pearls at what happened to Brian Thompson, the rest of us do not give one single flying fuck about what happened to him. As CEO of a for-profit health insurance company, he signed off on denied claims and death for those of us who struggle to make it from one day to the next. The sicker you are, the poorer you are, the more they force you to struggle and pay. The love to deny coverage because regardless of whether we live or die, they already have the money we are forced to pay them.

I don't condone murder at all, but I also don't care that he was murdered because he was guilty of murdering so many more people in this country through legal means because it's profitable. The CEOs are scared and there are wanted posters with their names and faces popping up in places. Every CEO of every healthcare company is guilty of murdering Americans and they continue to go unpunished for it because "it's just business".

So (if you've read this far) all of this previous rambling is to say that I keep thinking about how I want to make an impression. I want to continue upsetting the billionaires and the CEOs because corporate America is full of murderers who are legally allowed to decide whether we live or die based on which outcome will give them more money.

I have thought about the idea of creating a wall/constructing a wall somewhere as an art piece or something (making a statement) that will somehow honor the memory of people who died because insurance denied them care.

I know I definitely want it to say something along the lines of "In memory of those murdered by for-profit healthcare systems in corporate America". Something blatant. Loud. Something they are forced to look at every single day. Somehow. The wall could have images of those who are gone, or names of the person who died with the name of the insurance company responsible for their death underneath. Just something to make it clear that we see them for what they are. Something to avenge those who were sacrificed so billionaires and CEOS and shareholders could brag about record profits. Something that shows the whole world that American citizens are waking up to who the real monsters are.

The Adjuster (whoever he is or is not) has fanned the flames of revolution in America. He managed to unite us in a way I can't even recall before. It's not over. We know what happened to Brian Thompson was just the beginning, and corporate America only just now realized how much we actually hate them. A single shooter has sparked an awakening in America that is starting to snowball into something much bigger.

So if there is anyone out there who might be interested in collaborating on something like this, please let me know. I know we are all tired and demoralized and we have no money. I want to make a statement though, and I love doing that through art or writing. Collaborating with other people who have been through this same shit will also probably help us unite even more.

This is a watershed moment in American history.

In the words of Kanan Jarrus, Jedi Knight,

"There is a future for us. One where we're all free. But it's up to us to make it happen."

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 18

˗ˏˋ on your kneesˎˊ˗

"He didn't picture himself ever begging for pussy... but alas, here he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,7k

content: wet sloppy kissing, jungkook being too horny for his own good, vibrator usage, masturbation (f), jerking off while eating kitty (idk what possessed me but i had to), vanilla kink (are we surprised), begging, slight praise kink, comfort, endearing moments, these two being stupid as always, post-orgasm sharing bed (yeah sleeping together), thinking about maybes.

✧ author's note ✧

LISTEN. You’re so lucky I have multiple FMU chapters backlogged right now, because if I didn’t? I would have thrown an actual tantrum, declared a two-week hermit arc, and told you all to fuck off while I moved to the mountains. BUT. Thankfully, I’ve written up to around Chapter 23-ish and just need to edit, so you can all calm the hell down.

First of all, no—I still haven’t updated the update post, because I’ve been too busy prepping this chapter for release. I’ve had zero time to sit and ponder. That said, the only valid suggestion I’ve gotten so far is to keep the Tumblr note goal but ALSO require the Wattpad goal to be hit—so that’s what we’re trying this time around.

Also—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—we now have an official Kiki Nation Community on Tumblr (yay!). That’s where you little gremlins can finally scream together in one place, throw theories at each other, and insult Jungkook and Nix in a safe, protected space. (Mainly Jungkook. Because he’s a man. And this is a matriarchy. HUSH.)

So please check it out! Join, comment under the official Chapter 18 discussion post, and if you feel inspired to make a meme or TikTok or post your spiral—DO IT. If it makes me laugh, I will absolutely reblog it.

NOW. About this chapter.

BAHAHA. Okay. First of all—I am so proud of the kiss. I wanted it to be sloppy and wet and messy and borderline excessive, and I think I delivered. It’s so long. I really put my whole kikussy into it.

And of course… it was time. The vibrator had to make its appearance. It’s literally law. I don’t make the rules (but I do).

Also: Rogue begging. crawling. STILETTOS. Why did I like this chapter so much. It was delicious. I love sexually down bad men. Wait until he’s romantically down bad. It’s going to be so satisfying. Trust me.

And the ending?? Made me soft. Actual progress?? Kind of??? They’re still filthy, but they’re also edging toward something stupidly endearing and I hate how much I love that. The way this story is progressing is so slow-burn it makes my bones hurt, but I’m obsessed with it. We are maybe… possibly… inching toward friendship territory. MAYBE.

I’m really looking forward to the next chapters—soon, we’ll meet a new LI on Jungkook’s side (YES!). Things are gonna get messy (eventually). Reminder: they have zero romantic feelings right now. ZERO. What you’re seeing is just… subconscious tension, subtle shifts. We’re nowhere near falling.

So please. I beg you. If I start getting asks about them being in love, I will throw my laptop out the window and revoke my dictatorship. Don’t test me.

Enjoy the chaos. Let me know how hard you spiraled. Love you forever.

OH. I said it before but I will say it again. This chapter is entirely based on the song "get on your knees" by Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj so. Do with that what you will. Listen to it. Enjoy.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

His kiss tastes like four days of wanting.

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours—not gentle, not careful, just hungry. Like he's been starving for the taste of you since Tuesday. 

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a question that isn't really a question at all, because you both know how this ends. You part your lips anyway, granting him access because denying him feels like denying yourself.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. It's a strange, suspended gesture—like he can't decide whether to pull you closer or hold you exactly where you are. The indecision is so unlike him that it makes your stomach flip.

Then his tongue flattens against yours, and any thoughts of indecision evaporate. He's not kissing you so much as he's tasting you, licking your flavor directly from the source. The sensation is filthy and intimate as his other hand comes to your cheek, fingers splaying across your skin, holding you in place for his exploration.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, the word more vibration than sound. "Missed this."

Not you. This. 

The distinction matters, even as his tongue circles yours in a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak. He's coating himself with your saliva, savoring you like you're some expensive whiskey he's been saving for a special occasion.

You should probably be grossed out by how wet this kiss is, by how thoroughly he's claiming your mouth.

Instead, you find yourself pressing closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because this is what you've been missing too—not him, not really, but this. The way he makes your body respond without even trying. The way he kisses like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

And then his lips close over yours—soft but firm—like finishing the kiss just to start it all over again. Chained kisses. One bleeding into the next, seamless and endless.

You follow him because how could you not? The way he kisses—it’s not just skill; it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly what to do to keep you hooked, alternating between tongue and lips so perfectly that you never get tired of either. 

Not that you could ever tire of him. 

You’re pretty sure you could never erase the way he kisses—or fucks—from your mind even if you wanted to.

Maybe it’s him knowing what he’s doing. Or maybe it’s just the two of you—two mismatched pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow fit together anyway. 

Just like your mouths do now.

Just like when your tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip in a kitten lick that has him hitching against you, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat. His hips stutter against yours like his body is telling you to stop messing around and get your tongue back inside his mouth where it belongs.

So you do.

You push forward, tongue meeting his again in a slick slide that has him groaning into your mouth. Then you close your lips to transition into another kiss and he follows, tongues forgotten for three, four open-mouthed kisses before he’s lost patience.

He moves his tongue against yours, seeking more, always more. Because when it comes to you, Jungkook is just this eager.

But this time you catch it. Suck it into your mouth in a soft suction that makes him freeze for half a second before his hand tightens on your neck. 

And the sound he makes?

Undiluted filth.

It spurs you on.

You suck harder, dragging your lips down his tongue before releasing him with a soft pop that leaves both of you panting against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t let the pause last long—doesn’t let you last long—and dives back in with a hunger that feels less like kissing and more like consuming.

Tongues forgotten for other five or six kisses as his lips move against yours with bruising intensity—open-mouthed and messy—but he easily grows impatient and his tongue is soon back, sliding against yours like he wants it there.

You catch it once more—suck it again—and the way his hips jerk against yours tells you everything you need to know about how much he likes it.

Filthy sounds fill the space between you: wet kisses, soft moans, the occasional hitch in his breath when you do something particularly good with your tongue.

And when his teeth graze your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you?

You realize there’s no winning here—not for either of you—because this isn’t about who takes control or who gives in first.

It’s about this. About mouths fitting together perfectly even though nothing else about this situation should make sense. About tongues sliding together and lips bruising from too much pressure but neither of you caring because fuck—it feels good.

It feels better than good.

It feels addictive.

Your back hits the table near the entryway, and honestly? You never thought a piece of furniture could be an accomplice in your bad decisions, but here you are. Pressed against the entryway table. The one that holds your keys, Yoongi's forgotten mail, and now, apparently, your dignity.

Jungkook hasn't stopped kissing you—not for air, not for sanity, not for anything resembling common sense. It's like he's on a mission to consume you entirely, starting with your mouth and working his way through the rest of you.

These are not the kisses you exchange with people you tolerate. These are not even the kisses you exchange with people you like. These are the kisses of people who might actually hate each other but have found a much more interesting way to express it.

Your lower back presses against the edge. Hard wood digs into soft flesh, and you're about to complain when—

Fuck.

He lifts you. One hand. One fucking hand curves under your ass and hoists you onto the table like you weigh nothing, while his other plants itself firmly on the wood beside your hip. The display of casual strength makes something molten pool in your stomach.

Unfair. Completely unfair how stupidly hot he makes stupid things look. Lifting you shouldn't be attractive. It's basic physics, not foreplay. But your brain has apparently liquefied, pouring out your ears while he steals the oxygen straight from your lungs.

"Fuck, Nix," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. "Been thinking about this for days."

His mouth is relentless—wet, demanding, precise in a way that makes your toes curl in your shoes. He sucks your lower lip between his teeth and—god—applies just enough pressure to sting, like he's trying to extract something essential from you. Like he needs to squeeze you dry, drain you of whatever it is that keeps him coming back.

Didn't even know your bottom lip was an erogenous zone until Jungkook decided it was.

It's too much. The heat, the closeness, the way he seems to have forgotten where you are, who you are.

You push against his chest—not hard, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies.

"Jesus Christ," you gasp, chest heaving. "Let me breathe, you animal."

He grins at that—a scorching, self-satisfied smile that makes you want to either slap him or pull him back in.

Maybe both.

He bites his lower lip, swollen from your kisses, and immediately leans back in like your need for oxygen is a minor inconvenience to his plans.

Your palm against his chest stops him, firm this time.

"Wait," you say, voice rough.

Not because you want to stop—god no—but because your brain is finally catching up to your body. And there's something you want. Something specific.

His eyes find yours, dark and questioning. Patient, despite the hunger radiating off him in waves. He's holding himself back, you realize. Letting you dictate what happens next.

Your eyes drop, hair falling across your face as you gather your thoughts, your courage. When you look back up at him through your lashes, his breath catches audibly.

"Bring me the vibrator you chose for me."

His reaction? Pretty funny. Like watching a computer crash and reboot. His entire body goes still—processing, processing—then his eyes widen a fraction. He blinks once, twice, tension visible in the way his jaw ticks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Something about his reaction makes hot satisfaction curl through you. You like throwing him off balance. Like matching his chaos with your own.

"The vibrator," you repeat, slower this time, savoring each syllable. "The one you picked out. Go get it."

His eyes dart toward your bedroom door, then back to your face. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Might challenge you. But then:

"Yeah," he nods jerkily, already stepping back. "Yeah, I will."

"Will you?" you press, because you can't help it. Because you like the way his pupils dilate when you push.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, already moving toward your bedroom with a kind of urgent, stumbling grace that would be comical if it weren't so hot.

You watch him go, breathing still uneven, lips still tingling. 

And you think—not for the first time—that there's something dangerously addictive about the way Jungkook responds to you. The way he matches your energy, then amplifies it, reflecting it back at you until you're both caught in some kind of feedback loop of bad ideas and worse self-control.

Roommates with benefits, you remind yourself. That's all this is.

But as you hear him rummaging through your things, drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, you can't help but wonder if "benefits" is too mild a word for whatever the fuck is happening between you two.

He sprints.

Jungkook doesn't walk to your room—he fucking jogs, like the vibrator might disappear if he doesn't get there fast enough.

Like this moment has an expiration date he can't afford to miss.

No shame. Not a single ounce of it as he bursts through your door, scanning the bedroom impatiently. The same room he's been in a couple of times, but never with this specific mission, never with this frantic energy coursing through his veins.

Where the fuck would a girl keep her vibrator?

No. Not a girl. You. Where would you hide it?

Under the pillow?

He lifts the edge of your pillowcase, peeks beneath it. Nothing. Definitely not there—you like sleeping too much, and having a hard plastic toy jabbing into your cheek all night would be uncomfortable as hell. You're smarter than that.

The wardrobe?

He eyes the wooden doors across the room, considering.

No way. Too far from the bed. You're too practical for that kind of inconvenience. If you wanted to get off, you wouldn't want to climb out of bed and trek across the room.

His eyes land on the nightstand. Bingo.

The drawer slides open with a soft sound. First thing he sees: a messy stack of panties, some lacy, some cotton, all of them instantly triggering mental images he doesn't have time for right now.

He fights—really fights—against the urge to pick one up. To feel the fabric between his fingers, to imagine it hugging the curves he's already memorized with his hands, his mouth. Maybe even bring one to his nose...

Focus, dickhead.

Pushing the underwear aside (what? sue him for wanting to fuel his imagination), his fingers brush against something solid. Hard plastic. Smooth curves.

There it is.

He pulls it out, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he examines his find. It's exactly as he remembers from the store—sleek, purple, designed for both internal and external stimulation.

Still in its original packaging, which means you haven't used it yet.

Something jittery and hot coils in his stomach at the thought of being the first to see you use it.

He grips it tighter, already imagining what it'll look like pressed against you, already wondering if you'll let him control it or if you'll insist on doing it yourself.

Either way, he's about to witness something fucking spectacular, and his body knows it. His cock strains painfully against his jeans as he heads back to you.

He takes a deep breath before rounding the corner from the hallway.

Tries to center himself, to cool down just a little.

To not look as desperate as he feels.

But then—

Fuck.

The vibrator nearly slips from his suddenly sweaty palm.

You're naked on the table. Completely, gloriously naked except for those high heels that make your legs look like they go on for fucking miles. The dress is gone—discarded somewhere on the floor—and your panties dangle precariously from one ankle like an afterthought.

One leg bent at the knee, heel resting lazily on the wooden surface. The other straight up, creating a perfect right angle that showcases everything he's been craving since the moment he walked through the front door.

And your hand—Christ—your hand is between your thighs, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit.

His eyes stutter back to one thing though.

The heels.

What is it about the fucking heels?

He's never particularly cared about shoes before, but something about the way they elongate your legs, the way they make your calves flex, the dangerous point of those stilettos against the wooden table-it's doing something to him. Something unexpected and intense.

He nearly stumbles. Actually has to catch himself on the wall because his knees go weak at the sight of you touching yourself, waiting for him, spread open on the goddamn entryway table like the world's most perfect welcome home gift.

His grip on the vibrator tightens until his knuckles go white. He forces his face into something resembling control—a smirk, he hopes, though it feels more like a grimace of restraint.

"Needed it that badly?" he manages, trying to sound casual and cool, though he guesses he fails spectacularly at that.

Your eyes meet his, challenging. "Didn't you?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't falter. Not much, anyway. Just a slight hitch in his breathing that he hopes you didn't notice.

"Yeah," he admits, the word barely audible. Then, louder: "Yeah, I did."

He starts walking toward you, vibrator clutched in his hand, but you stop him with a single raised palm. The universal sign for wait.

"Crawl to me."

His feet halt. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

What?

"What?" he asks, not sure he heard correctly.

"You heard me." Your fingers never stop their gentle circles. "Crawl."

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't pause to analyze why the command sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

He just... does it.

Drops to his knees, then to all fours, the vibrator still clutched in one hand.

Maybe it's the novelty—you taking control like this when usually he's the one calling the shots.

Maybe it's the way your eyes darken as you watch him approach, like seeing him on his knees for you is doing something for you too.

Or maybe—most likely—it's just the promise of getting his head between those fucking glorious thighs again.

Whatever the reason, he crawls to you across the hardwood floor, too turned on to care about how it looks, too desperate to worry about his dignity. All he can think about is how wet you'll be, how good you'll taste, how he wants to make you come on his tongue before introducing the vibrator.

He's almost there—close enough to smell you, close enough that if he stretched forward just a bit, he could press his mouth to your inner thigh—when the sharp heel of your stiletto plants firmly against his forehead.

The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop his forward momentum. To keep him back.

He looks up at you, disbelief warring with arousal.

Surely you're joking?

There's no way you're genuinely stopping him when he's this close, when you're this wet, when everything about this moment has been building toward his mouth on you.

Right?

"The vibrator," you say, extending your hand, heel still pressed lightly to his skin. "Give it to me."

His throat works as he swallows, suddenly parched. "Don't you want me to—"

"The vibrator, Ro."

The nickname, combined with the firm tone, makes his cock make a mating dance against the zipper of his jeans. He places the toy in your outstretched hand, watches as you examine it with curious eyes.

You turn it over in your palm, studying it like it's a puzzle to solve. Your brow furrows slightly as you locate the power button, press it experimentally, and soon enough its low hum fills the space as the toy comes to life, vibrating gently in your hand.

"I've never used one before," you admit, and he already knew.

You told him that much before buying it.

Nonetheless, the idea that he gets to witness this first for you—it does something to him.

Makes him feel special in a way he has no right to feel.

"Let me help," he offers, voice strained. "I can show you how—"

"I think I can figure it out," you interrupt, but there's uncertainty in your eyes as you look at the different buttons, the various settings.

Fuck, you're adorable. Even spread-eagle on a table with a vibrator in your hand, there's something so endearing about your determination to figure this out on your own.

He watches, mesmerized, as you press another button. The vibration intensifies, making you jump slightly at the change. Your finger slips, pressing yet another button, and suddenly the toy is pulsing in a rhythm that has him imagining it pressed against you, imagining your reaction to that particular pattern.

He can't take it.

"Here," he says, reaching up, a bit desperate, a tad impatient. "May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, you nod, removing your heel from his forehead and allowing him to rise up on his knees. He takes the vibrator from you, quickly familiarizing himself with the controls.

"This button cycles through the patterns," he explains, demonstrating as the toy shifts from steady vibration to pulsing to waves. "And this one controls the intensity."

He presses it, the vibration becoming stronger under his thumb.

"Start low and work your way up."

He hands it back to you, then you glare at him and okay, he immediately settles back on his heels, waiting. Watching. Fucking aching to see what you do next.

You take the toy, reset it to the lowest steady vibration, and then—God help him—you bring it to your breast first. Circle your nipple with it, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible over the hum of the vibrator. 

He shifts on his knees, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious about it. His jeans have become a torture device, constricting him painfully as he watches you explore.

The vibrator trails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He can see them form on your skin, can see the way your muscles tense in anticipation as the toy moves lower, lower—

And then it's there, pressed against your clit, and the sound you make—a soft, surprised gasp followed by a deeper moan—nearly ends him.

"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, eyes still closed, hips already starting to move against the vibration. "Good. Really good."

He leans forward instinctively, mouth watering at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He wants to taste you, wants to feel the vibrations against his tongue as he licks around the toy.

Wants to be part of this moment in a way that's more than just watching.

But as he moves closer, your eyes snap open, fixing him with a look that stops him cold.

You extend your leg, the one that was dangling off the table, pressing the point of your stiletto against his chest this time.

"Just watch," you command, voice breathy but firm.

He blinks, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I said watch." You adjust the vibrator slightly, finding a better angle that makes your breath hitch, toe of your shoe pressing more firmly against his sternum. "Don't touch. Just... watch me."

Is he dreaming? Having some kind of bizarre hallucination? There's no way you're asking him to just sit here while you get yourself off right in front of him.

No fucking way.

"You're joking," he says, but the steady look in your eyes tells him you're not. "Nix, come on. You can't expect me to—"

"I can," you interrupt, increasing the vibration intensity with a press of your thumb. The change makes you gasp, hips lifting slightly off the table. "And I do."

He blinks, eyebrows tugging upwards in a cross motion. "Do you want me to bust untouched? Is that it? Because that's cruel, even for you."

A smile curves your lips, mischievous and knowing. "Maybe I just want to see if you can behave for once."

"I behave," he protests, even as his eyes remain fixed on the vibrator, on the way it glides through your wetness, on how your thighs have started to tremble already.

On those fucking shoes that, for some inexplicable reason, are making this whole situation at least ten times hotter.

"Prove it," you challenge, and fuck—he's never been able to resist a challenge from you.

Never really been able to back down when you push him like this.

So he stays where he is, on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, watching as you explore the toy, as you find what feels good, as you experiment with different patterns and pressures. Your foot still rests against his chest, not pushing him away now, just... there.

A point of contact that feels both like ambrosia and agony.

It's torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture to be this close and not touch you. To smell your arousal and not taste it. To hear your moans growing louder and know he's not the direct cause.

But it's also—strangely, unexpectedly—one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.

Because you're not performing for him. You're genuinely discovering what you like, what makes you feel good. And there's something incredibly intimate about being allowed to witness that, about being trusted enough to see you this vulnerable, this real.

"That's it," he encourages as your movements become more focused, as you settle into a rhythm with the vibrator that has your breathing turning shallow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good, Nix."

Your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded but alert, and for a moment, he can’t help but stare back.

Then you close your eyes again, lost in the sensation as the vibrator buzzes steadily against your clit. Your free hand comes up to your breast, pinching your nipple in time with the pulsations of the toy, and he groans at the sight. 

Your foot presses harder against his chest, whether intentionally or as an unconscious reaction to your growing pleasure, he doesn't know.

Doesn't care.

"Cruel," he mutters, because he needs to at least let you know. “You're fucking cruel, you know that?"

His eyes are fixed on your pussy like it's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Maybe it is. The way you're working that vibrator against yourself, the little circular motions, the way your hips lift occasionally when you hit just the right spot—it's driving him fucking insane.

His dick is so hard it hurts at this point, and he thinks it's going to start a mutiny. He shifts his weight, trying to get some relief, but it only makes things worse. His forehead thumps against the corner of the table in frustrated surrender.

"God fucking hell," he groans, the wood cool against his skin. "Nix, I need to lick you. Please. Just—let me taste you."

You look down at him, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with amusement. Your stiletto traces a path down his chest, and when it reaches his stomach, you press slightly, the point digging into the muscle there. 

A warning. 

A tease. 

He's not sure which, but it makes his cock throb painfully either way.

"What was that?" you ask, lifting the vibrator just enough that he can see how wet you are, how your pussy glistens in the low light. "I didn't quite hear you."

Fucking tease. Fucking gorgeous, evil tease.

"I said I need to lick you," he repeats, louder this time, pride completely abandoned. "Let me put my mouth on you. Let me make you feel good."

You pretend to consider it, tilting your head like you're weighing your options. Meanwhile, he's about to combust from the inside out.

"I don't know," you muse, trailing the vibrator up to circle around your clit, making yourself gasp. "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you think?"

Your stiletto moves again, tracing along the inside of his thigh. He tenses, breath catching as it moves higher, closer to the straining bulge in his jeans.

“Phee,” he bites back a groan. "You're doing amazing. Fucking incredible. But I can make it better. You know I can."

"Hmm." You press the vibrator directly against your clit again, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before fixing back on him. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

Is this really happening? Are you really making him beg? His cock twitches at the thought, answering that question with an emphatic yes.

He swallows, throat dry.

"Please," he says, voice rough. "Please let me help."

The word lies suspended between you. 

Please. Such a simple word, but one he doesn't use often—not like this, not with this much raw need behind it.

Your eyes widen slightly, like you weren't expecting him to actually do it. To actually beg. But then a slow smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

"Since you asked so nicely," you say. "Go ahead."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He surges forward, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider as he buries his face against you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you both moan—you from the sensation, him from finally, finally getting to taste you.

You taste amazing.

Like always.

Like something he could get addicted to if he's not careful.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "So fucking good."

He could honestly cum like this. Right now. Just from the taste of you on his tongue, from the way your thighs tense around his head, from the little gasps you make. 

He knows he's got blue balls at this point. Knows his cock is probably leaking precum into his boxers, making a mess he'll have to deal with later. But he doesn't really care.

Until you kind of make him care.

"Jerk off."

He freezes, tongue mid-lick.

Did he hear that right?

Looking up at you, genuinely confused, he asks, "What?"

Your answer is a knowing smile and a slight increase in pressure as the heel traces the outline of his cock through the denim. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him incredibly aware of how hard he is.

"I want you to get yourself off while you eat me out, Ro."

Jesus Christ.

When did you get so fucking bossy? And why is it turning him on so much?

"Yeah," he says, almost to himself, fumbling with his zipper. "Yeah, okay, absolutely I can do that."

His hands shake slightly as he undoes his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed and so sensitive that even the brush of air against it makes him hiss.

"Shit," he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, already knowing this isn't going to last long. "Just a heads up, but this might be embarrassingly short."

You laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as he dives back in. Your leg dangles over his shoulder now, heel pressing slightly against his back.

"That's okay," you manage to say between breaths. "I'm pretty close too."

Thank fuck for that. Because the moment his hand starts moving on his cock, he knows he's on borrowed time.

The vibrator hasn't stopped. That's the thing that's driving him absolutely fucking insane. You've got it pressed right against your clit, humming on its lowest setting while he licks at your lips, tasting every inch of you except the one spot you're keeping for yourself.

It's maddening.

It's genius.

It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

His tongue traces your entrance, dipping just slightly inside before retreating to lick broad strokes along your folds. He's taking his time despite his own desperation, despite the way his hand is working his cock at a steady, measured pace.

Because he wants this to last, wants to savor the privilege of having his face between your thighs while you take your pleasure so confidently.

"More," you breathe above him, and he's not sure if you're talking to him or yourself.

But then your fingers move, pressing a button on the vibrator, and the hum intensifies. The sound changes pitch, grows deeper, more insistent. Your hips jerk in response, a gasp falling from your lips that sends blood rushing to his already throbbing cock.

His fist tightens instinctively, pace quickening to match the vibrator's new rhythm. It's like his body is syncing with the toy, with your pleasure, his own arousal tied directly to yours.

"Fuck, Nix," he groans against you, the words muffled but still audible. "You're so fucking wet. So fuckin’ good, I swear—I swear I could do this for hours.”

“But you won’t last hours,” you tease, rolling your hips against his face. “Will you?”

He shakes his head, not even bothering to deny it. Not when his balls are already drawing up tight, not when each stroke of his hand brings him closer to the edge.

“Nngh—no,” he admits, the word punctuated by a particularly firm stroke that has his hips bucking into his fist. “Not gonna—ah—not gonna last long at all.”

Because the truth is, he’s dizzy with it—your taste, your scent, the sounds you're making above him. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, a sensory overload that makes his cock pulse in his grip, precome slicking the way as his fist moves faster, more urgently.

You shift the vibrator slightly, angling it for better contact, and your free hand finds his hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, not quite pulling but definitely directing, holding him exactly where you want him.

"Inside," you command, voice breathless but clear. "I want your tongue inside me."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even think. Just obeys, tongue pushing past your entrance, delving into the wet heat of you while the vibrator continues its relentless assault on your clit.

The angle is awkward, his neck craned to accommodate both the toy and his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Can't care about anything beyond the way you clench around his tongue, the way your thighs tremble against his cheeks, the way your grip tightens in his hair.

His cock throbs in his hand, so sensitive now that each stroke sends sparks shooting up his spine, and fuck he's close—so fucking close—but he's determined to make you come first. Wants to feel you pulsing around his tongue, wants to experience every tremor of your orgasm firsthand.

Above him, your breathing has grown ragged; little gasps and moans that tell him you're getting close too.

"Don't stop," you gasp, basically riding his face at this point. "God, don't stop."

As if he would.

As if he could tear himself away from this even if the building were on fire.

Your thighs start to shake in earnest now, little tremors that grow stronger by the second. The hand in his hair clenches, your stiletto digs into his back, the pressure increasing as your body tenses, and now he just knows; knows how close you are to the edge.

It makes his strokes faster, more desperate.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling back for air. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Don’t stop,” you command, lost in a whine. ��Don’t you dare stop.”

And he feels it the moment you start to come—the way your inner walls flutter around his tongue, the sudden flood of wetness, the sharp cry that tears from your throat. His name, maybe. Or just a sound of pure pleasure. He's too far gone to tell the difference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming on his tongue, coming while he tastes you, while the vibrator buzzes against your clit, while his cock throbs in his hand, so close to his own release that he can feel it building at the base of his spine.

He pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to feel every pulse, every contraction of your orgasm. The vibrator keeps buzzing, prolonging the sensation, pushing you higher and higher until your hand finally yanks at his hair, pulling him back when it becomes too much.

"Fuck," you gasp, voice wrecked, vibrator still humming in your grip though you've pulled it away from your oversensitive clit. "Fuck, Ro."

The sound of his nickname—that stupid nickname you’ve given him—paired with the sight of you flushed and trembling from an orgasm he helped create, is what does it. What finally pushes him over the edge.

His release hits him then, stealing his breath as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling onto the hardwood floor in hot spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans against your thigh, face pressed into the soft skin there as his hips jerk, chasing the last waves of pleasure.

“Ffff—shit,” he slurs as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Holy sssh—oh—fuck… Ahhh.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and uneven. The vibrator still hums softly, forgotten in your hand until you fumble for the off button, plunging them into sudden silence.

Jungkook rests his forehead against your thigh, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

His hand is sticky, his knees ache from the hardwood floor, his back tingles from the trail your heel left across it, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at the entryway table the same way again.

But fuck if it wasn't worth it.

He pulls back, gasping for breath, his hand still loosely gripping his spent cock. He probably looks a mess—hair wild from your hands, face shiny with your wetness, expression dazed and satisfied.

"Christ," he breathes, looking up at you with something close to awe.

"Yeah," you agree, equally breathless.

A moment passes where you just look at each other, both trying to process what just happened. Then, because he's Jungkook and he can't help himself, he grins.

"So," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. "I guess you like the vibrator I picked, huh?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. Just a kind of fond exasperation that makes his chest feel weird and tight.

"It's alright," you say, casual as anything, like you weren't just having what looked like the most intense orgasm of your life. "Could've been better."

He laughs, full and genuine. "Liar."

Your lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He sits back on his heels, suddenly aware of the mess he's made on the floor. "We should, uh, probably clean up before Yoongi gets home."

You nod, both legs dangling off the table. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”

"He's seen worse," Jungkook says without thinking, then flinches. "I mean—not with me. Just, you know, in general. Living with roommates and all."

You give him a look that's equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Right."

Awkward silence falls as the reality of what just happened settles in, because this? Yeah, it was sex. But this time you took control, you made him beg, you saw him at his most desperate and needy.

And he... liked it. More than he probably should have.

"So," he says, tucking himself back into his jeans with as much dignity as possible. "That was fun."

You snort. "Such a way with words, Ro."

"What can I say? I'm a poet."

He gathers the dress from the floor and gives it to you. You throw the dress at his head, but you're laughing, and he thinks—not for the first time—that he likes that sound. Likes being the cause of it.

He doesn’t analyze it further than needs to be.

He catches the dress, handing it back to you with exaggerated chivalry. "Your garment, m'lady."

"You're an idiot," you say, but there's no bite to it. Just that weird, fond tone that makes his stomach do strange things.

Fully on both legs now, he places both his arms between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to yours, tilting to the side.

"Yeah," he agrees, because sometimes the simplest truth is the easiest to admit. "But I'm an idiot who makes you cum really fucking hard, so..."

And there it is—that flash in your eyes, that hint of heat that never seems to fully dissipate between you two. 

"Don't get cocky," you warn.

Too late, he thinks. Way too late for that.

He stands there with the taste of you still on his lips and he can't help but feel satisfied.

Good.

“Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet room. “I guess not.”

“Good. Because that was a fucking stupid fight anyway.”

“It was,” you agree. “But the makeup sex was worth it.”

“Always is with us.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? No matter how much you argue, no matter how much you drive each other crazy, this thing between you—this chemistry, this connection—always brings you back together. 

No strings attached, just pure, perfect understanding of what the other needs.

It’s not love. It’s not even like, most days. But it’s something. 

Something that works for both of you.

And then, Jungkook feels your forehead press against his shoulder, which catches him off guard. Not because it’s heavy or anything—it’s not—but because it’s you.

You, who usually keeps your distance unless you're actively trying to rile him up. You, who just made him beg on his knees like some desperate idiot a few minutes ago.

And now you’re here, leaning into him like this is normal. Like this is fine.

It’s... nice. He hates that it’s nice.

His lips twitch upward despite himself, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of post-orgasmic bliss. His hand moves before he can think better of it, sliding up your back in a slow, deliberate stroke. His palm presses lightly between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying out as he rubs soothing circles into your skin.

Your back is warm under his touch—soft in places, firm in others—and he thinks about how strange it is that he knows what you feel like now. Not just your skin but the way you move under his hands, the way your muscles tense and relax depending on what he’s doing to you. 

It’s intimate in a way that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest if he lingers on it too long.

So he doesn’t linger.

“Cleanup?” he asks, voice low and rough from everything that just happened.

You grunt. Not a word, not even a real sound—just a grunt. Like the idea of moving is physically painful to you right now.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through both of you. 

“Alright,” he says, hand still on your back as if that’s going to keep you from sliding off the table and face-planting onto the floor. “Let me get some wipes.”

Another grunt. This one sounds more annoyed than tired, but he can’t tell for sure because your face is still buried against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me…” He pauses for dramatic effect because he knows how much you hate when he does that. “You’re a cuddlebug?”

That gets a reaction. Your head snaps up so fast he almost flinches, and then you’re shoving at his chest with both hands like you’re trying to push him off the planet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Your hands stay on his chest for a second longer than necessary before falling back to your sides.

He snorts, stepping back and giving you space because even though he likes teasing you (maybe too much), he knows when to quit.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward his room. “Don’t move.”

You don’t respond this time—not even a grunt—but when he glances back, you’re still perched on the edge of the table looking thoroughly unimpressed with life.

Very you, indeed.

Then he's stepping into his bedroom, and of course, it is dark when he steps inside, the only light coming from the hallway spilling in behind him.

He grabs the container of wet wipes from his nightstand (don’t ask why they’re there; that’s none of anyone’s business) and heads back out before his brain can start overthinking anything.

When he returns to the entryway, you haven’t moved an inch. You’re still sitting there with both legs dangling off the table.

And for a moment, he can’t help but think the sight is oddly cute.

“Alright,” he says again as if this is some kind of official business meeting instead of… whatever this is. “Let’s get this over with.”

He crouches down first, wiping at the floor where his cum has left an embarrassing mess that Yoongi would absolutely kill him for if he saw it later. The hardwood glistens faintly under the light as he scrubs at it with more force than necessary—partly because it needs to be cleaned properly and partly because maybe if he focuses hard enough on this task, he won’t think about how close your legs are or how good you smelled earlier or how fucking soft your skin felt under his hands.

When he's done with that part (and only when he's sure it's spotless), he straightens up and turns toward you.

Your eyes are on him—soft but unreadable—and it makes something twist in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion or anything else logical.

“What?” he asks because apparently silence makes him nervous now.

You shake your head slightly, lips curving into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so small and fleeting.

 “Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you—not for a second—but decides not to push it because pushing things with you in this state never ends well for him.

Instead, he steps closer until he's standing between your legs again and tilts his head toward yours like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking without actually asking outright.

"Hold still," he murmurs after a beat of hesitation that's barely noticeable but feels significant anyway.

The wipe is cool against your skin as he starts cleaning you up—gentle but thorough in a way that surprises even himself. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—watchful but not wary—and it makes him feel weirdly self-conscious even though there’s no reason for it.

When he's finished (and only when he's sure you're clean), he tosses the used wipe into the trash can by the door without looking away from you entirely.

"Sleep?" he asks after another moment of silence stretches between you like an elastic band ready to snap at any second now if someone doesn’t say something soon enough.

“Yeah.” You murmur. “Your bed.”

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s not sure he heard right. 

Not because it’s weird—okay, maybe it’s a little weird—but because you said it so casually. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask to sleep in his bed after everything that just happened.  

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not used to this part—the after part. Usually, there isn’t an after part. It’s just sex, then goodbye, then see you whenever.

But this? This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes his brain stutter for a second before he finally manages to respond.  

“Uh… yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sure.”  

You don’t say anything else, just lift your arms slightly like you’re expecting him to do something.

He stares at you for a moment, confused, until it clicks.  

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but already stepping closer. “You’re not serious.”  

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and yep—you’re serious.  

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles under his breath as he bends down to scoop you up.  

Your arms loop around his neck automatically, and your legs wrap around his waist like this is something you do all the time instead of… well, never. He tries not to think about how natural it feels or how warm you are against him or how your breath brushes against his collarbone when you settle into his hold.  

It’s fine. Totally fine. This is just… practical. 

Yeah. 

Practical.  

He carries you with ease because let’s be real—he could probably bench press you if he wanted to—and nudges his bedroom door open with his foot. 

“Alright,” he says as he approaches the bed and leans forward slightly to deposit you onto the mattress. “Here we go.”  

But instead of letting go like a normal person, you cling tighter for half a second before finally releasing him with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like reluctance. He doesn’t comment on it because honestly? He doesn’t trust himself not to make it weird if he does.  

You flop onto your back with all the grace of a drunk cat and immediately start wiggling around like you’re trying to make yourself comfortable in record time. Jungkook just stands there for a moment, watching you with an expression he doesn't even know how to describe.

“You good?” he asks once you’ve finally stopped moving and are lying still with your eyes closed like this is your bed and not his.

“Mmhm,” you hum without opening your eyes.

He shakes his head but doesn’t bother arguing because what’s the point? 

Then he’s going to lay down too, but you sprawl onto his bed like you’re claiming it for yourself, arms and legs stretched out in every direction like some kind of human starfish. 

Jungkook snorts, standing at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent. 

“Move,” he says, nudging at your foot with his knee. “I want to sleep too.”  

You crack one eye open, squinting at him.

“Then sleep,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your face is half-buried in.  

“I can’t sleep,” he says, gesturing dramatically at your starfish pose. “Not unless you move your limbs out of my personal space.”  

You grunt something unintelligible but make no effort to move.  

He sighs—long and exaggerated—before climbing onto the bed anyway, shoving at your leg until you reluctantly curl up enough to give him room.

He flops down beside you with all the grace of someone who’s been awake for far too long and immediately starts adjusting himself into what he considers optimal sleeping position.  

Except there’s one problem: his arm.  

It’s stuck under him, bent awkwardly against his side instead of stretched out under the pillow where it belongs. He tries shifting around to fix it but quickly realizes there’s no way to do that without encroaching on your territory.  

“Hey,” he says, nudging at your side with his foot now.  

“What?” you snap, voice sharp despite how tired you sound.  

“Let me extend my arm under the pillow.”  

“No.”  

“What do you mean no?”  

“I mean no,” you repeat stubbornly, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Figure it out without bothering me.”  

He stares at you for a second like he can’t believe what he’s hearing before deciding that negotiation is clearly not going to work here. 

So instead, he does what any reasonable person would do in this situation: he forcefully shoves his arm under your neck like it belongs there.

You jerk upright immediately, twisting around to face him with wide eyes and an expression that screams 'what the actual fuck'.  

“Bro,” you say, voice incredulous as you try—and fail—to push his arm away. “Get off me.”  

“Bro,” he says simply, already settling back down like this is perfectly normal behavior between roommates who occasionally hook up but definitely aren’t friends yet (or whatever this is). “You’re in my bed. Shut up and act like a plushie or something.”  

“A plushie?” You sound so offended that he almost laughs but manages to hold it back because laughing right now would probably get him kicked out of his own bed.  

“Yes,” he says firmly, pulling the blanket over both of you with one hand while keeping his other arm firmly in place under your neck. “A plushie.”  

You open your mouth to argue—because of course you do—but he shuts it down with a loud, drawn-out “SSSSHHHHH” that’s so over-the-top, so him, it stops you cold.

“Sleep,” he adds a second later, voice low, eyes already shut like the matter’s settled and he’s the authority on bedtime now.

The room stills. One of those dumb, drawn-out silences where neither of you wants to move first. Like shifting even an inch might make it real. Might make it weird.

But then you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. Flopping back down beside him like you’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice.

“Fine,” you mutter, sharp as ever, head hitting the pillow with a thud. “But if I wake up with a crick in my neck because of this stupid arm thing—”

“You won’t,” he says, already drifting, smug and certain and way too casual for someone who just turned a routine argument into a full-body tangle.

You mumble something under your breath—probably rude, definitely deserved—and go quiet.

And for a second, he just lies there. Listening to your breathing even out. Feeling the slight pull of your body next to his.

The ridiculousness of the situation should hit harder than it does.

But it doesn’t. 

It actually feels…weirdly good.

Not in the usual way. Not in the easiest way.

Just—solid. Like he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Which is a surprise, considering he really thought he had. 

After Tuesday. 

After the whole Jason thing—the fight that was never really about Jason. The way the guy had looked like every goddamn red flag Jungkook had ever ignored. Too neat, too careful, too condescending behind a smile that felt fake even from a hallway away.

He’d projected. Hard. Got scared on your behalf. Angry in that twitchy, irrational way he hates. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you falling into something he knew could break you. 

But that wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his choice. You’re not fragile. You’re you. You can make your own calls without his fears bleeding into them.

And he should know better by now. Should’ve remembered that you’ve survived things he doesn’t even ask about.

Instead, he snapped. Like he always does when things get too close. Like he’s got some built-in timer that detonates as soon as someone sees more than they’re supposed to.

So yeah. He’d assumed it was done. That he’d pushed too hard, too fast—again.

That whatever fragile thing had been building between you would crack right down the middle, just like every other almost-connection he’s tried to hold onto.

But then… you’d talked. Actually talked. 

And—somehow—you’d listened.

Not just tolerated him. Heard him. 

And tonight, he thinks—for the first time in a long, long time—he feels…comfortable. With a woman. With you.

And yeah, okay—he kind of likes that.

It’s not some life-changing moment. Not some movie scene epiphany.

Just this quiet flicker of maybe. Of could be.

Maybe he can have this. A woman beside him. No pressure. No angle. No romantic feelings. No attachments, no entanglements. Not drama, not hurt.

Just a dumb, chaotic almost-friendship built on late-night arguments and questionable sleep arrangements.

And fuck—he’s kind of proud of that.

So he lets his eyes fall shut. Lets the warmth settle. Lets the thought linger.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But maybe.

goal: 500 notes, but the wattpad goal has to be reached too

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[apiptosis]

I still have no clue how Tumblr works but here's part 3

The third member to meet Danny is none other than our resident Demon brat.

It was rare that Damian could truly relax. In the league he had to constantly be the perfect heir, the perfect assassin. When his mother got him out it was just as hard when he had to compete with four adopted brothers, Gordon, Brown and the infamous Cassandra Cain.

It was difficult to find someone who could understand him and what he had been through and still put up with his bulshit. Damian was man enough to admit that his own attitude did not help him so when he found someone who would, whom he could let down his walls with, he grasped on with both hands.

"You seem to be thinking quite hard there Damian." A soft voice drew him from his thoughts. Damian looked her deep in her eyes freely let her peer at his thoughts. He knew she would not pry unless needed but he freely gave this.

"Just reminded myself how fortunate I was to have you." Damian admitted while they sat at their impromptu picnic.

It was rather rare for them to have dates in Gotham but today was a rare time where it was possible. The smog that always filled Gotham was almost completely absent today here in the forest at the edge of the Wayne property and perhaps most importantly, his father was off world with Cain and Grayson.

While most of the public believes Batman has a 'no metas allowed' rule, it was most certainly not true. What is true however is that his father is an overprotective idiot at times and would hover/spy onto their date.

"Dam-"

Whatever Raven was about to say was interrupted by a small sonic boom from just outside of the property that had both of them on their feet, their little picnic forgotten.

All too soon they found the source. A behemoth of a man was playing with a giant dog?

"Drop the stick boy!" The green beast dropped a log for want of a better word. "Good boy, wanna go again?" The beast gave a bark like artillery fire, tail waving like rotor blades. The man pick up the log and launched as though it was a javelin with a "Fetch Cujo!"

With one last artillery bark the beast bound after with great speed.

The man let out a deep sigh as he fell back into the shade of the nearby tree. "Man I wish I had more off days like this. Mhmmm, people? Hello there. Didn't think there would be people this far out. I'm Danny."

The man, Danny, waved as he lazily greeted them from where he lay on his bag in the shade. Danny lay so openly and without care that they could easily observe him.

Danny was very obviously a meta, his lazy smile with far too many sharp teeth, elfin ears and skin that was almost paler than Raven's. Most glaring was his height at seven and a half feet and shoulders nearly half as broad. (see Drake I can learn your freedom units)

"Damian" "Rachel" they introduced themselves.

"You two out on a date? It's one of my rare days off so I was planning one myself but unfortunately my girlfriend's dad needed help so she's out of town with him and her brother." Danny offered up freely. There was no hostile intent as far as Damian could tell. 'His intentions are true and there is no amniosity. His mind is well protected though.' Raven shared with telepathy.

"I take it your job is rather taxing?" Damian prodded.

Danny snorted "Nah man, I'm a university student, Aerospace engineering. The degree is kicking my ass but that's due to the amount of stuff I have to do. It's like they are afraid that I will have free time because I swear some of my projects and tests aren't for engineering.

Last week I had to write a chem exam and yesterday I had to submit a project that I'm pretty sure was a business model in disguise. If my luck holds out I might get a psych test next week. Ugh I'm already half dead, now their trying to get me to fully dead."

That was... concerning. It sounds like danny was possible rogue material and the university was trying their best to keep him from actually going rogue.

"So your taking a break and playing with you dog?" Raven asked.

"Yeah, Cujo is a sweetheart but it's hard to play with him here since people keep attacking him when he's in his large form." Danny explained as the dog bounded back without his stick. Worryingly there was a bit of blood on him. The dog had obviously been in a fight.

"Again buddy? Why can't they just leave you alone. Let's see what it's this time." Cujo dropped a finger on the ground with a very familiar green ring.

"He's a rescue I suppose but he was originally a guard dog and he was trained to disarm people when they attack him so I keep having to stash away guns and the like. With how crazy some people are I really should be prepared for things like this."

The ring seemed to sluggishly work it's way off of the finger before shooting straight for Danny.

"Daniel Fenton of -"Danny swiped the ring out of the air and held it in a tight grip. "Nah ah, I already have one green magic ring and I don't want a talking one on top of that!"

Danny rummaged through his bag before pulling out his thermos that smelled like coffee and chugged it like he was drakes long lost twin and managing to seal it into the thermos.

"There, I'll figure out what to do with that later."Sigh."well I guess we can talk at a later time but after that I'm heading home. Cujo shrink!"

The massive beast of a dog deflated like a balloon till it was the size of a small dog, happily trudging sfter it's owner as they hiked in the direction of Gotham.

With a glance to Raven, he confirmed that she was just as bewildered by the interaction as he was. Eventually they returned to their date, no use in letting odd encounters ruin their day, but Damian kept the name in the back of his head for now.

Later that night Damian found himself in the watchtower, going for the terminal so he could research this Daniel Fenton. He would have done this at home but Drake hogged the bat computer, nou doubt pinning after his coffee crush.

Along the way he found a small congregation of heroes trying to drown out Guy Gardner but also had to listen to his report as his hand was quite bandaged and missing a finger...

"On my patrol I nearly got Final destinationed by a flying log and then I got attacked by a green beast that wouldn't go down no matter what I thew at it. To make matters worse it was able to bite off my ring!" Guy complained incessantly.

Suddenly it made perfect sense why Danny was so upset but accepting of people attacking Cujo. How many times has this happened to him? How many times had the guy patched up his dogs wounds because people attacked him. How many of those time was it a hero who attacked Cujo? Damian could feel for both Danny and his dog.

"Sounds like you attacked a dog playing fetch and got upset when you couldn't hurt a dog for playing. Neutralizing an attacker's weapon is the bare basics of any guard dog's training." Damian found himself snapping at the man. Superman nodding along with him.

"Robin is right, while I am very concerned about you losing your ring, I am also concerned that you would attack a dog for playing fetch. I do the same with Crypto." Superman chastised Guy sternly.

[glowettee]

I need help asap! So it’s exam season we all know and I keep on asking my teachers for a list of what I need for the test like a list to go home and study and they said no like what is their problem and I have no idea what to do😭please help Mindy not to sound desperate but your like my idol so you would know what to do right 😭

✧˖° my guide to studying when your teacher won’t give you a study guide

hi honey, i love you sooo much <3 thank you for your sweet wordsss, i'm alwaysss, alwaysss here for you, feel free to message me personally or give me more asks in my tumblr inbox! i'll even help with specific subjects.

okay, angel. first of all, i hear you. the frustration is real. teachers saying "just study everything :)" like we don’t have other classes, responsibilities, and, i don’t know, lives?? but listen. this is not a dead end. this is just an opportunity to prove that you can outsmart the system and study better than they ever expected. you’re not desperate, you’re strategic. and i have a plan for you.

step 1: reverse-engineer the test ✧˖°

if they won’t tell you, we’ll figure it out ourselves. here’s how:

➼ look at past tests & quizzes: what kind of questions do they ask? multiple choice? short answer? do they repeat topics? most teachers have a pattern. find it. ➼ scan your syllabus: even if it’s vague, the syllabus outlines what the class prioritizes. highlight major units or chapters. ➼ revisit homework & classwork: if they spent three days drilling a topic, assume it’s important. if a concept was barely mentioned, it’s probably not a focus. ➼ check online study guides: sometimes other students post study guides for similar classes online. search your course name + study guide. you might get lucky.

step 2: ask strategic questions ✧˖°

okay, so they won’t give you a study guide. but what if they accidentally reveal what’s on the test through very calculated questions?

instead of "what’s on the test?", try: ➼ "Would you say Unit 3 is as important as Unit 4?" (forces them to compare importance) ➼ "Should I focus more on definitions or application-based questions?" (gives insight into question type) ➼ "Would it be smart to review [insert topic] in detail?" (watch their reaction, they might hint at its relevance) ➼ "Is there anything I should specifically know how to apply?" (if they hesitate, it’s probably a big exam topic)

play it cool. teachers love acting like they’re withholding top-secret info, but they also love hearing themselves talk. guide the conversation and let them give things away.

step 3: crowdsource the study guide ✧˖°

if your teacher won’t make one, you will!! but you won’t do it alone.

➼ group chat strategy: text your smartest classmates and propose making a study doc together. ➼ class notes audit: everyone checks their notes for key topics they remember being emphasized. ➼ compare tests from other classes: if another teacher teaches the same course, their students might have hints.

you’re basically forming an underground academic intelligence network. the government should honestly hire you.

step 4: predict the questions ✧˖°

teachers aren’t as unpredictable as they think. most reuse question styles from past years. so let’s outthink them.

➼ scan the textbook’s review questions – many teachers pull questions straight from these. ➼ turn subheadings into questions – if a textbook section is called “Causes of the French Revolution,” turn it into: “What were the causes of the French Revolution?”➼ spot repeated terms – if a word/concept appears in your notes/textbook over and over, bet money it’s on the test.

step 5: prioritize the 80/20 rule ✧˖°

80% of the test will come from 20% of the material. instead of trying to memorize everything, (i'm guilty of this) target the most testable topics.

➼ concepts that connect to multiple lessons = high priority ➼ big themes or formulas your teacher emphasized = high priority ➼ random minor details with no context = low priority

this is how you actutallyyyy study smarter, not harder.

step 6: try active recall ✧˖°

highlighting? rereading? sweetie, no. your brain needs active studying. i know you've probably heard this in every 'study' video, blog, article etc, etc.. however, this really works. even when i create my own study methods it all connects to active recall <3

➼ flashcards, but reverse: instead of term → definition, write the definition and force yourself to recall the term. ➼ blurting technique: grab a blank sheet and dump everything you remember. then check what you missed. ➼ teach it to an imaginary class: if you can explain it, you actually understand it.

these methods force your brain to retrieve info, which is the key to remembering it under stress.

step 7: adapt your study style to the test format ✧˖°

different tests require different study techniques.

➼ multiple choice: focus on eliminating wrong answers. make “why is this wrong?” your key question. ➼ short answer: practice summarizing concepts in 1-2 sentences! brevity matters. ➼ essay tests: prep key arguments and supporting facts in advance. don’t memorize full essays. memorize structured points.

step 8: last-minute study hacks ✧˖°

running out of time? try these:

➼ listen to a recording of key concepts before bed, your brain absorbs info in your sleep. ➼ write down the toughest concepts before the test. dumping info on a paper beforehand eases recall under pressure. ➼ do a “cheat sheet” exercise. write what you would bring as a cheat sheet (but don’t actually bring it). the act of writing it out solidifies memory.

🖇 mindy’s personal tips ✧˖°

✨ don’t panic. adapt. undetermined students say, “i can’t.” A+ students say, “how can i?” you are an A+ student.✨ treat it like a game. teachers want to gatekeep? fine. you’ll outsmart them instead. ✨ trust your brain. if you’ve prepped strategically, you will recall what you need. confidence is half the battle.

📝 homework: apply these NOW ✧˖°

i loveeee giving you all homework! i made a little checklist for you to start right now <3

☐ start a study guide (even if it’s just bullet points) ☐ test out the “strategic question” technique with your teacher ☐ identify three high-priority topics to focus on tonight ☐ practice active recall (explain a concept to yourself out loud) ☐ reply below or message me: what’s your biggest exam struggle?

final note: you are not helpless. you are not at the mercy of your teacher’s vague instructions. you are capable, smart, and strategic. you’ve got this. and i’ve got you. i know you will do well on your exams, just belive in yourself and all that matters is if you pass, you don't need a 100/100 on your exam to be an A+ student. just trust yourself <3

💌 now go ace that test! <3 ilyy

xoxo mindy

[understandableparadox]

a social experiment.

I want to test the main charecter syndrome of everyone on this platform.

im going to include on this post a poll. one will say "I am the One." and the other will say "I am the Rest".

as it says, only one person can pick "I am the One."

if by the end the poll, only one person has picked "I am the One", then tumblr will have won, and i will preform the most suggested punishment submitted by you.

but, if by the end, there is more then one "I am the one", i will be allowed to point and laugh at your hubris and call you various pg 13 bully names. Are you ready? Let us begin. Share this as far as you can.

edit: given it failed so quickly, the new rule is that you win if it is below 10 percent by the end.

[tyriq-edits]

The Suitors’ Trials

An AU about way too many Bumblebee Ships

“Dear suitors, you wish to ask for the hand of my precious son? Then you must first prove yourself worthy by passing the following trials.”

Based loosely on a string of different fairytales like The Princess on the Glass Hill, The grateful Beasts, Clever little tailor, how Six made their way in the world and this tumblr post

In this AU Bumblebee is the son of King Megatron of Kaon and his Conjunx Optimus Prime. He is also the younger brother of crown prince Hot Rod/Rodimus.

Being the youngest he is obviously the apple of his family’s eye, and especially his sire Megatron tends to be a bit overprotective over him at times.

So now imagine if you will, Bumblebee just being swamped with suitors from all sides. Knights from the neighbouring Autobot federation like Blurr, Prowl, Smokescreen and Windblade and even some of his sire’s own knights like Blitzwing and Breakdown - Heck even his sire’s chief advisor Starscream - start standing in line to ask for the prince’s hand in marriage.

Megatron had nearly died of a sparkattack when the king of the dinobots Grimlock knocked down the door to the palace with a ridiculously large Bouquet of flowers in his hands to join the long row of suitors.

Or that time the former Autobot turned traitor Wasp sneaking into the palace at the dead night just to wake up Megatron and Optimus to demand they’d let him marry their son.

Not to mention that time Steeljaw attempted to break into Bumblebee’s room through the balcony (from which the prince swiftly threw him off of mere moments later) to ask the prince directly to rule by his side.

Megatron had nearly cried of joy when the rescue bot Blades had simply sent a letter to formally ask for Bumblebee’s hand in marriage instead of sneaking (or breaking) into the palace like the last few suitors.

But the situation remained the same. His precious son was swarmed with suitors and him and the guards could only hold them off for so long as the suitors were starting to grow impatient waiting for the king to make a choice.

But of course as any loving father would, Megatron wanted to make sure that his son would marry no one but the best bot among them.

And so Megatron one day gathered all the suitors together and told them they’d have to pass a certain set of trials and tests and whoever succeeded at them all would be allowed to marry his son.

The first task seemed simple enough on paper: Try to climb up a slippery glass hill and gather one of the keys at the top. But the number of keys was limited. So you not only had to manage to climb up the hill, but you had to make sure you were faster than the others too or else there would be no more keys left. This trial already eliminated a few of the suitors.

And this song and dance continues with each trial essentially having an increasingly smaller number of keys the suitors must obtain until the very last trial where only one key remains.

For the last trial Megatron puts the last remaining key around the collar of a cat (or some other small animal or a Bee even) and the suitors must try to catch the animal and grab the key from its collar in order to win the last trial. The catch? Well this small animal is actually Bumblebee himself using the power of fairytale magic to turn into a cat. And the only way to catch the “cat” is not by chasing him but by simply being nice to the cat to gain his trust. Or alternatively gain the trust of Bumblebee himself. I imagine that inbetween attempts to catch the animal and even inbetween the earlier trials the remaining suitors would all occassionally spend some time alone with Bumblebee.

So the remaining suitors, unknowingly are being tested by the prince himself on their personality and compatibility each time they are alone with Bumblebee and whenever they try to catch the cat. So depending on how the remaining suitors treat Bee in his normal form and whenever he is disguised as a cat, Bee decides which suitor is trustful/someone he'd want to be married to. And once he choses he'll allow that suitor to catch him willingly and get the final key

So Tldr, Bumblebee in a sense is allowed to make the final choice himself by seeing how the suitors would treat him/the cat.

I personally have no idea though what the trials inbetween the first and last trial would be or who the final suitor would be and in what order the suitors would be disqualified. If you have any ideas or suggestions hit me with them.

If you have thoughts, questions or ideas for this AU let me know. Or heck you can post your own version if this little post of mine has inspired you in any way - and if you do please tag me in it, I would love to see more Transformers Fairy Tale AUs.

[minervamagicka]

TS4 Default Replacement: Horse "Skin"

Day 1 Edition (BETA/TESTING) - Adults/Elders Only

at the behest of the public, here's the "Day 1" default replacement I did. DL & info under the cut.

So, okay. Honesty time! This isn't tested outside of CAP at all. I don't know how it'll look in-game. I guess that'll be something you all find out, it could like hot garbage for all I know.

Alongside that, is the biggest strongest flashiest disclaimer I could do; I made this in an hour on the day of the expac's release, it's rough as hell, it is NOT a final product and is IS a beta. If you end up having problems with it, I highly encourage just not using it until better and more-refined versions of it or others come out.

Also I default-replaced both the "normal" and "muscled" versions of the diffuse, so the muscle slider in CAP won't show any texture change any more with this mod. This'll change in newer, more official releases.

Anyways,

Terms of Use

Credit/link to me if you intend to edit, replicate or otherwise use this .package or especially my textures as a base for your own derivative work. I did a lot of reverse-engineering in my own time of the TS4 files to understand the file structure & to get this to work, so this is the very least you can do.

Do not sell or post behind a paywall, even a timed one. This tumblr is anti-paywall to the extreme. This includes any content that might be created under Rule One. Do not do this. I will think you are an asshole. I have had issues with this in the past and my tolerance for it is absolutely zero. Additionally this asset includes parts that are not owned wholly by me, so you'd be profiting off the work of others as well!

Do not reupload. If you let me know if there's an issue with SFS, I'll reupload it myself. Please link to this post or to the .package on SFS when sharing.

Credits: SSO (used some of their textures in blending); TS4; me, baby!

Download [SFS]

[morverenmaybewrites]

Masterlist of My Works

Morveren | AO3

This is a personal blog, but I do take the occasional ask/requests. SFW asks only, please.

Genshin Impact

Stories:

✸ Someday, Somewhere (Xiao x Reader) (AO3)

You meet Adeptus Xiao under strange new skies.

✸ Speak (Xiao x Reader) (AO3)

Learning to love him is like learning a different language.

✸ Silk Flowers (Xiao x Reader) (Tumblr | AO3)

It was the silk flowers.

In summer time, they are practically given away: to seamstresses, to scribes, or perhaps, woven into the hair of a well-known customer. The token of a bargain well-struck.

Xiao claims not to be bothered by them, that adepti are above petty mortal concerns like jealousy.

Perhaps he is right, and you are reading too much into it.

But perhaps, as you are slowly learning, adepti are closer to humans than they’d like to admit.

You decide to test this theory.

"Xiao, if you hate the flowers so much," you say, smiling. "Why not take them off?"

✸ A Crown of Bone (Zhongli x Reader) (Tumblr | AO3)

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning.

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank.

Imagine a lifetime of secrets: your first memories are of a spring that does not belong to the mortal realm. You dream of golden eyes gleaming at you from the darkness as your mother picked you up and carried you away.

Imagine keeping these things to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. Secrets that are half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly.

And you hope that one day, they will find you again

Headcanons:

✶Imagine Zhongli as Your Reincarnated Lover (Zhongli x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Imagine Being Kaeya's Childhood Friend (Kaeya Alberich x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Diluc x Fatui Reader (Diluc Ragnvindr x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Imagine sliding your fingers underneath Dilucs glove (Diluc Ragnvindr x Reader) (Tumblr)

Batman: Arkham and DC

Stories:

✸ The Pizza Delivery Girl's Survival Guide to Gotham City (Jason Todd x Reader) (AO3)

People who lived outside of Gotham City would most often think of it in terms of its heroes and villains. About Batman and Robin, Joker and Harley Quinn.

People who actually live in Gotham City would only think of one thing: surviving.

Who cares about the people in costumes when your house has been bombed for the fifth time, or your wife has been taken hostage just because she worked in a bank?

Or, in your case, when you have to make regular deliveries to places where even Batman feared to tread?

Because let's face it. In a world full of superheroes and costumed villains, the real heroes are the ones who make sure that people get their pizzas in forty-five minutes or less.

✸ His Father's Son (Jason Todd x Reader, Dark Fantasy!AU) (AO3)

Gotham City: the world’s last and greatest bastion of magic. A city made out of spells and twisting steel.

And the only place where the dead can be brought back to life.

After Jason Todd had been forcibly resurrected by his father, he left Gotham City in search of a new life. One where he did not have to be constantly reminded that he now sits on the border between the monstrous and the miraculous. One where he could forget that no longer quite belongs in the world of the living.

But when a strange new curse surfaces, one that causes plants to take root inside of living people and leaving flowering corpses in its wake, Jason finds that he must come back and help solve the case before it devours the city whole.

✸ Rules of Vanishing (Jason Todd x Reader) (AO3)

Here are the rules to survive as a civilian in Gotham City:

The first rule is to keep your head down. Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't make eye contact. Walk briskly and with purpose. Don't wear anything flashy that can be stolen and most certainly do not walk down that dark alley.

The second rule is don't be a hero. Avoid confrontations. Walk the other way when you see a standoff. Don't try to help that man getting beat up in the alley, because odds are you'll get killed right along with him. Gotham City has Batman for a reason.

The third and most important rule is this: Don't get involved with superheroes.

Or in your case, gun-toting vigilantes.

✸ Next to Last (Jason Todd x Reader) (AO3)

After Batman’s death, Jason is left to pick up the pieces.

✸ Revenant (Creature!Jason x Reader) (Tumblr)

✸ The Precious Details of You (Yandere!Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr) (AO3)

You ask him the same question, the way you always do.

“When are you going to let me go?”

And Jason replies, the way he always has: “Soon.”

✸ Imagine Early Mornings with Bruce Wayne (Bruce Wayne x Reader) (Tumblr)

Headcanons:

✶ Imagine Dark Fantasy!Gotham City (Tumblr)

✶How would Jason react to having his face traced (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Domestic Headcanons (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Eurydice! Jason Todd and Orpheus! Reader (Jason Todd x Reader (Tumblr)

✶ Jason Todd's life outside of work (Gen) (Tumblr)

✶ Jason Todd's day to day life (Gen, mild Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Imagine Wayne Manor as a Haunted House (Bruce Wayne x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Sleeping Arrangements (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ What kind of praise/compliments Jason would be fine with? (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ What freaks him out most in a relationship? (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Jealousy and Insecurity Headcanons (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ What lesson about love are they still trying to learn? (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ How has their understanding of love changed? (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

✸ Stolen (Hawks | Keigo Takami x Reader) (AO3)

He is five years old when he decides to be a hero. It is not as simple learning to fly nor is it as easy as saving people.

But he does not know that yet.

Snapshots of Hawks’ life from child to hero to something else in between.

Jujutsu Kaisen

✸ Made New (Kento Nanami x Reader) (Tumblr) (AO3)

Your husband, Kento Nanami, comes back home after Shibuya. Only he isn't quite the same.

[medusa12346]

PAID READINGS

My free readings offered a chance for everyone to see my accuracy and test if you wanted to purchase a reading from me so that you would be putting your money to good use.

Paid reading feedback list

PAID READINGS

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✨ Rules to Qualify: ✔ Like, reblog, and follow me! ✔ Readings are delivered within 2 days to 1 week. ✔ Urgent Readings: ₹100 ($1.17) for under 24 hours. ✔ Extra Urgent: ₹150 ($1.75) for within 2 hours. ✔ Payment First: Send me a screenshot of payment before I begin your reading. ✔ Accepted Payments: Direct bank transfers or Paytm wallet money.

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[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Vegas Rules | Chapter Eight. One

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) Word Count: 16.3k Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, intimate moments, jealousy, bathroom encounters, and the complicated feelings that emerge when privacy meets passion

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: I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter! It didn't feel quite right and I was making last-minute edits right up until now. This one's going to be split into two parts due to Tumblr's word count limits.

There's something profoundly revealing about watching someone navigate distance and desire. This chapter explores what happens when the bubble of Cincinnati bursts—when color-coded calendars collide with 3AM studio sessions, when shared intimacy must stretch across time zones, when private moments face the prospect of public scrutiny.

For Joe, it's about confronting the boundaries he's always maintained—both literally and figuratively—between his carefully compartmentalized worlds. His phone becomes both bridge and barrier, bringing Riley's voice into his ordered space while highlighting the miles between them. The jealousy that flares in Vegas reveals a possessiveness he didn't know he harbored, forcing him to question why keeping her separate matters so much.

For Riley, it's discovering the vulnerable edges beneath Joe's controlled exterior. It's recognizing the fear behind his hesitation—not that he doesn't want her enough, but that he might want her too much. It's understanding that his reluctance isn't about hiding her, but about protecting something still fragile and unnamed between them.

I wanted to capture that essential tension between connection and distance—how proximity intensifies while separation clarifies. Their different approaches to privacy aren't just practical disagreements; they're fundamental expressions of how they move through the world. His instinct to shield versus her desire to live authentically becomes the first real test of whether love alone is enough to bridge their differences.

As they circle each other in Vegas, we glimpse both the power and fragility of what they're building. The physical connection remains undeniable, but underneath lies a deeper question neither is ready to face: can two people who love in such fundamentally different ways find lasting harmony, or are some differences too essential to overcome? Sometimes the very qualities that draw us together most powerfully are the same ones that may eventually pull us apart.

Their promise to truly talk "after the fight" feels both hopeful and weighty with unspoken fears. It's the beginning of a journey that will test them both—asking whether passionate connection can withstand the practical challenges of merging two vastly different lives, or if even the deepest love sometimes requires more compromise than a heart can give.

Thank you all for your incredible comments on the last chapter! Each one fills my creative well in ways you can't imagine. Your insights and reactions keep me going through every writing session.

I can't wait to hear what you think of this one! 🎲🥃💋

I hear you all about the Sydney Sweeney face claim for Riley! I've put up a poll asking for your input on this, so please weigh in if you have thoughts about it.

Poll Link

 Asks are open, let's talk about this one.

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez

Joe stood in his kitchen, coffee in hand, staring at the empty space where Riley's mug had been just days ago. The turntable in the corner stood silent—no music filling the house that had briefly felt alive. He ran a finger along the counter's edge, the cool granite a stark reminder of the order that had returned to his life. The silence didn't used to bother him. Now, it pressed in, hollow and sharp, like something had been carved out of his routine.

He took a sip of his coffee—black, no sugar, back to his routine—and tried to shake the odd feeling that had settled over his house since Riley had left. The place looked exactly as it always had. Riley had taken most of her things when she left.

Most, but not all.

On the counter sat a silver alligator ring that she must have forgotten. He'd found it that morning after her flight left, tucked against the bathroom sink where she'd probably taken it off before showering. He picked it up now, turning it over in his fingers—the detailed scales catching the morning light, the small reptile curved into a perfect circle. It was uniquely Riley—a little wild, unconventional, with personality.

He opened their message thread, scrolling back to the photos she’d sent the night before. In one, she was in the studio, headphones around her neck, eyes tired but bright with creative energy, giving the camera a peace sign and sticking out her tongue. His old LSU bracelet was still on her wrist, the faded purple and gold standing out against her skin.

Riley: 3am and still going. Pete keeps threatening to quit but I know he loves it. Send caffeine. And maybe sleep. Miss your stupid face and clean countertops.

Joe hesitated, then typed simply-

Joe: Miss you too.

The words felt foreign on his screen—honest but still new enough to make his pulse quicken. His thumb hovered before swiping to his color-coded calendar, the switch from her chaotic warmth to his structured routine jarring.

Color-coded blocks filled his screen: training in green, media in blue, and sponsor obligations in yellow. The system had guided him through college and into the NFL, ensuring nothing fell through the cracks.

But now there was Riley—vibrant, unpredictable Riley—who didn't fit neatly into any color-coded box.

He tapped back into their text thread, scrolling past more photos. In one, she was hunched over a notebook, unaware of the camera, all focus and motion. Nothing like the curated images he’d grown used to from other women.

His thumb hovered over the phone icon, then retreated. It was still early in L.A.—she’d probably just crashed. Her world moved to the rhythm of inspiration, not structure.

Back to the calendar. The order of it usually gave him comfort. Today, it felt more like a cage. He wondered what her day had looked like—messy, spontaneous, creative. All the things that had drawn him to her in the first place.

His life had always been compartmentalized—football, personal, public. Riley didn’t fit into any box. She bled through them, chaotic and thrilling. The one thing he didn’t want to compartmentalize—and the one thing he kept trying to.

Across the country, Riley was living in another rhythm entirely. No longer the same house, the same routines, the same air. What had felt intimate in Cincinnati now felt fragile over miles of distance. He was good at managing space—games, press, fans. But not with her.

She was the one thing he didn’t want to compartmentalize—and the one thing he kept trying to.

* * *

Joe was at Black Sheep Performance, muscles still burning from the workout, when he spotted Mark waiting by the equipment racks, phone in hand and a familiar set to his jaw.

"We need to talk," Mark said as Joe toweled off, not bothering with pleasantries.

"About?" Joe asked, though he already had a good idea.

"Body Armor wants to increase your involvement in the campaign," Mark said, falling into step beside him as they headed toward the locker room. "They're pushing for more social media content, additional appearances."

Joe gave him a sidelong glance. "And?"

"And I'm just making sure your head is in the game," Mark replied carefully. "Last time we discussed Riley Carter, you told me to drop it. But now you're rearranging training with Dak to accommodate trips to New Orleans, private flights to Cincinnati..."

"Is there a question in there somewhere?" Joe asked his voice level despite the growing tension in his shoulders.

Mark sighed. "Look, Joe. Bill and I have the same concerns we did before. Riley has a certain... reputation in the industry. Free-spirited, unpredictable. We're not saying she's not great, but—"

"We've had this conversation," Joe cut him off, stopping at his locker. "My personal life is my business."

"It becomes our business when it affects scheduling, appearances, and partnerships," Mark countered. "You've built your brand on consistency and preparation. That's what these companies are investing in."

Joe started changing, deliberately taking his time. "Have I missed any commitments?"

"No," Mark admitted. "Not yet. But—"

"Then there's no problem," Joe concluded, pulling on a fresh shirt. "Set up the additional content shoots. I'll be there."

Mark looked like he wanted to say more but recognized the set of Joe's jaw. "Fine. Tuesday at 10."

As Mark walked away, Joe checked his phone to find a text from Riley. She'd sent a selfie from Pete's pool house studio, chopsticks poised over a container of sushi, making a dramatic face.

Riley: Studio lunch upgrade courtesy of Scout. Says we need "brain food" for mixing which apparently means fancy tuna rolls. Not complaining.

Despite the lingering tension from Mark's concerns, Joe found himself smiling. He typed back:

Joe: Definite upgrade. Those actually look edible.

He pocketed his phone, finished changing, and headed out to his car. The conversation with Mark wasn't anything new—just a variation on the same theme Bill and he had been pushing since Riley first entered the picture. Joe understood their perspective, professionally. But they weren't seeing what he saw.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, Riley was hunched over the mixing console in Pete's pool house studio, headphones on, fingers moving with practiced precision across the board. They'd converted the space years ago when they decided to take control of their recording process, adding professional-grade soundproofing, equipment racks, and a collection of instruments that rivaled many commercial studios.

"Try pulling back the reverb on the bridge vocals," she instructed, making minute adjustments to the EQ. "I want that section drier, more intimate."

Pete nodded, making the change while Andy and Daniel listened intently, all of them focused on the detailed work of fine-tuning their sound. When Riley spoke in the studio, everyone listened—her ear was uncannily precise, able to pick out frequencies and textures most people missed entirely.

After running through the section again, Riley nodded, satisfied. "That's it. Now it breathes better." She slipped off her headphones and stretched, rolling her neck to release the tension that came from hours of focused work.

"I still think my guitar solo needs more bite," Andy said, arms crossed over his chest.

"It's perfect where it is," Riley countered. "Any more, and it would overshadow the vocal line, which is the whole point of that section."

Andy opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, recognizing that particular tone in Riley's voice. When it came to production decisions, she had an uncanny instinct that had guided their sound from the beginning.

Riley checked her phone, a small smile playing on her lips when she saw a text from Joe.

"Earth to Riley," Pete said, nudging her shoulder. "We're not done yet. Still have to decide on the final arrangement for the outro."

"I'm here," Riley replied, tucking her phone away. "Let's add those backing vocals we talked about—layer them three deep, panned wide."

As they dove back into the work, Andy kept shooting her knowing looks. Finally, during a break, while Daniel stepped outside to take a call, he couldn't contain himself any longer.

"So, how's the long-distance thing going with Quarterback Ken?" he asked, sprawling dramatically across the couch.

Riley rolled her eyes at the nickname. "It's going fine."

"Even with your vampire studio hours and his crack-of-dawn training schedule?" Pete asked, genuinely curious.

"We make it work," Riley said simply. "He stays up late, I set alarms for ungodly hours. Sometimes we just leave voice memos."

Pete studied her for a moment. "You really like this guy, huh?"

Riley bit her lip, fighting a smile that threatened to give too much away. "Yeah. I do."

"Careful, Riles," Andy warned, though his tone was more teasing than genuinely concerned. "Next thing you know, you'll be trading in your leather jacket for a Bengals jersey."

Riley flipped him off casually. "Says the guy who wore a KISS costume for three straight months when he dated that tribute band guitarist."

"That was different," Andy protested. "Gene Simmons is rock royalty."

"And Joe Burrow is football royalty," Pete conceded with a shrug. "Man's got game, can't deny that."

“Still,” Andy said, “we’re kind of a lot, don’t you think? Loud, messy, overly attached to vintage gear and each other. Not exactly easy to drop into.”

"He handled me in Cincinnati just fine," Riley said, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. "Better than fine, actually."

“So he survived your ‘leave it where it lands’ home aesthetic?” Andy teased, clearly fishing for details.

"Actually, my chaos seemed to be exactly what his place needed," Riley replied with a smirk. "And no complaints whatsoever."

"So he actually color-codes his schedule?" Pete asked, twirling a drumstick between his fingers as they took a break from recording.

Riley laughed, opening her phone to the shared calendar they’d synced. “Green for training, blue for media, yellow for sponsors. It’s like the world’s most organized rainbow.”

"And I thought you were bad with your Google calendar reminders," Andy teased Pete before turning back to Riley. "So what's your color in his perfect system?"

The question caught Riley off guard. "I... don't know. We haven't gotten there yet."

"Probably pink with little hearts," Andy suggested with a smirk.

"Or maybe she doesn't get a color," Daniel observed quietly from behind his coffee mug. "Maybe she's the thing that doesn't fit in the system."

The observation hung in the air, uncomfortably perceptive.

"Hmm," Andy mused, clearly not convinced. "Well, when you drag him to a last-minute 3 AM inspiration session, let me know how that goes."

Meanwhile, across the country, Joe sat in the locker room, half-listening as his teammates discussed weekend plans.

* * *

"Yo, Burrow, you've been glued to that phone all week," Trey called out. "What's got you so distracted?"

Joe pocketed his phone where Riley's latest text waited for a reply. "Nothing. Just checking the time."

"Right," Ja'Marr said with a knowing look. "That's why you've been smiling at 'nothing' for the past five minutes."

"Leave it, dude," Joe replied, his tone friendly but final.

Later, when Ja'Marr caught him alone, his friend's expression turned serious. "You know, it's okay to admit you're into someone. Won't kill your focus."

Joe adjusted his gym bag on his shoulder. "It's complicated."

 "Always is," Ja'Marr replied. "But maybe it's worth mentioning to the guys if she's important enough to have you checking your phone every five minutes."

Joe considered this. There was safety in privacy, in keeping Riley separate from his football world. But as the distance between Cincinnati and LA stretched between them, that separation was beginning to feel less like protection and more like denial.

He stared at the shared calendar on his screen, then back at the last photo Riley had sent. Her chaos didn’t clutter his life—it cracked it open.

Before he could overthink it, his thumb was already pressing her name.

* * *

Riley was about to fire back when her phone buzzed with a call. Joe's name lit up the screen.

"I need to take this," she said, already heading for the pool house door. "And we're done with this conversation."

"Tell the quarterback I said his spiral is tight!" Andy called after her, making crude gestures until Pete smacked him upside the head.

Outside by the pool, Riley leaned against a deck chair, phone pressed to her ear. "Hey you," she answered, her voice softening instantly.

"Hey," Joe replied, the familiar warmth in his voice making distance feel less significant. "Bad time?"

"Perfect time, actually," Riley said, glancing back at the pool house. "You just rescued me from the peanut gallery in there."

"Giving you a hard time about us?" Joe guessed.

"Andy's just being Andy," Riley said with a sigh. "What about you? How's the training going?"

"Good," Joe replied. "Making progress on the mobility drills Dak added."

Riley sensed something in his tone. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Joe said after a brief pause. "Just the usual stuff. Mark asking questions about scheduling."

Riley frowned slightly. "Because of me?"

"No," Joe said quickly—too quickly. "Just regular season prep things."

Riley knew better but didn't press. "When are you done with training today?"

"Just finished," Joe replied. "Heading home now. You guys making progress on the album?"

"Absolutely," Riley said, letting him change the subject. "Just nailed down the bridge section after hours of tweaking. Now we're just finessing the outro."

"Sounds technical," Joe observed.

“It’s all in the details,” Riley agreed. “When we’re done today, want to FaceTime? I’ll catch you before bedtime—reasonable Joe Burrow evening hour.”

"I'd like that," Joe said, and Riley could hear the smile in his voice.

"It's a date," she said. “Now I should get back before Andy starts claiming his solo is ‘spiritually essential’ again.”

After they hung up, Riley stood by the pool a moment longer, turning her phone over in her hands. Despite Joe's deflection, she'd picked up on the undertone in his voice. His team had concerns about her—that much was obvious, even if he wasn't saying it directly. And despite her casual brush-off of Andy's teasing, his words had touched a nerve. She and Joe did come from different worlds, with different rhythms and different expectations.

Riley twisted the LSU bracelet on her wrist, the familiar weight of it grounding her. She wasn't going to let other people's doubts creep into what was still so new, so fragile.

With renewed determination, she pushed off the deck chair and headed back into the studio, ready to finish the track and get to her FaceTime date with Joe.

* * *

Later that night, Joe settled on his couch, laptop balanced on his knees as he reviewed game film from last season. The analyst in him couldn't help but dissect each play, mentally cataloging what he'd do differently next time. It was his nightly ritual—part of the discipline that had carried him to the highest level of the sport.

His phone chimed with a text from Riley.

Riley: Finally escaped the studio prison. Andy and Daniel nearly came to blows over a drum fill. Just need to shower off the day before our FaceTime. 30 min?

Joe responded immediately.

Joe: I'll be here.

He tidied the already clean living room out of habit. She couldn’t see it through the phone. Didn’t matter. Some routines were hard to break.

Her face filled the screen—damp hair, old band shirt, no makeup. Freckles he’d noticed the first night and kept coming back to, like a habit he hadn’t meant to form.

"Hey, babes," she said, her smile tired but genuine.

"Hey," Joe replied, something in his chest loosening at the sight of her. "You look exhausted."

"Thanks. Always know how to charm a girl." Riley repositioned herself, curling into what appeared to be the corner of her couch, a colorful throw pillow tucked behind her. "Three days straight in the studio will do that to you."

"The album's coming along, though?"

"Yeah. It's close. We're in that maddening phase where everything's ninety percent done, which means we fight over the tiniest details." She brushed the damp hair from her face. "How was your day? Besides the Mark interrogation."

Joe hesitated. "It wasn't an interrogation. Just the usual."

“Which means he’s worried about me distracting you.”

She watched him for a beat—how his eyes shifted, the way he didn’t quite meet hers. “Did I get it right?”

Joe shrugged one shoulder. "He's doing his job. Making sure I stay focused."

Riley studied him through the screen, her expression unreadable for a moment. "And are you? Focused?"

"Always," Joe said simply. Then his expression softened. "Except when you send photos of yourself eating sushi."

That earned a genuine laugh, the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "The great Joe Burrow, distracted by raw fish. Headline news."

"Not the fish," Joe corrected, his voice dropping slightly. "Definitely not the fish."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that didn't need to be filled immediately. Joe watched as Riley reached for something off-screen, then returned with a mug that she cradled between her hands.

"So," she said after taking a sip, "your place still standing without me wreaking havoc on your countertops?"

"It's too quiet," Joe admitted, surprising himself with his honesty. "Keeps feeling like something's missing."

Riley’s expression softened. “Yeah. I know what you mean. My place was the same—messy, loud, alive—but it felt off. Like the room shifted while I was gone.”

Joe nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. They'd only spent a few days together in Cincinnati, yet her absence had left a noticeable void. It wasn't logical—they barely knew each other in the grand scheme of things—but it was undeniable.

"I found your ring," he said, remembering the silver alligator. "By the sink."

Riley's hand flew to her wrist as if just noticing its absence. "My alligator? I've been turning the house upside down, looking for it."

"I'll send it back."

"Or you could just hold onto it," Riley suggested, tucking her legs beneath her. "Give me a reason to come back."

"You need a reason?" Joe raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"No," Riley admitted, her voice softening as she met his eyes. "But I like knowing a piece of me stays with you when I go." She brushed her thumb across the back of his hand. "Something to remind you I'm coming back."

"I don't need a reminder," Joe said quietly, turning his hand to catch her fingers with his. "But I'll keep it safe until you do."

Their conversation drifted easily between topics—Riley's progress on the album, Joe's upcoming schedule, and casual observations about their days apart. Time slipped away as they fell into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural, given the screens between them.

"So," Riley said eventually, stifling a yawn, "any travel coming up for you? I assume you're pretty tied to Cincinnati through training."

"Actually," Joe replied, "I might be heading to Vegas in a couple weeks. UFC fight. Nothing official, just something Ja'Marr's been wanting to do."

"Vegas, huh?" Riley said, her voice carefully neutral. They were on FaceTime, Joe propped up on his kitchen counter while she sat cross-legged on her studio couch.

"Yeah, Ja'Marr's been wanting to see this fight for months," Joe explained. "Henderson versus Chandler. Should be good."

Riley's expression brightened. "Wait, that fight? Pete and Andy have been talking about it non-stop. They're going too."

The coincidence hung between them for a moment. Joe should be pleased—it was a perfect opportunity to see each other, a natural intersection of their separate worlds.

Instead, he felt a cold knot forming in his stomach. Vegas was a fishbowl, especially during fight weekends. Cameras are everywhere, and social media is ready to pounce on any hint of a story. The carefully maintained distance between his public and private selves would be impossible to protect.

"That's... quite a coincidence," he managed, his tone not quite matching the words.

Riley studied him through the screen, her expression shifting as she read something in his face. "It is. Might be fun if we all ended up there the same weekend."

The tentative suggestion hung in the air. Joe knew what she was asking without her having to say it directly. Could they see each other? Spend time together? Acknowledge whatever was growing between them in a space that wasn't carefully controlled by phone calls and private visits?

"It would be pretty chaotic," Joe said finally. "Fight weekends in Vegas are intense. Not much privacy."

Riley's eyes never left his face. "And that would be a problem?"

It was a simple question, but they both knew it carried weight far beyond Vegas plans. This was about what they were to each other—and whether Joe was ready to let the controlled, private bubble they'd created expand into the messy reality of public life.

"Not a problem exactly," Joe hedged. "Just complicated."

"Right," Riley said, her voice cooling slightly. "Complicated."

Joe didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched, not hostile, just… stuck.

They kept talking—about timing, about travel, about how easy it was when they were in the same room. And how nothing felt simple anymore.

Somewhere along the way, the conversation stopped being careful.

"I don't understand why it has to be all or nothing with you," Joe said, frustration evident in his voice despite the poor connection. They'd been talking for nearly an hour, circling around the Vegas issue without resolving anything.

Riley sighed on the other end of the phone. "That's not what I'm saying, Joe. I'm not asking for some grand public declaration. I'm just questioning why we need to pretend we don't know each other if we're in the same place."

"I'm not suggesting we pretend anything," Joe countered. "I just think there's value in keeping some things private."

"There's a difference between private and secret," Riley said after a pause. "Private is not posting every detail on Instagram. Secret is acting like we're strangers in public."

The distinction hit Joe harder than he expected. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Keeping you a secret?"

"I don't know," Riley admitted, her voice softening. "Sometimes it feels that way. Like you're fine with me existing in this careful bubble you've created, but you're not sure you want me in your real life."

"That's not fair," Joe protested, even as an uncomfortable truth nagged at him. "My life is complicated, Riley. Everything I do gets scrutinized, analyzed, turned into some narrative I can't control."

"You think mine isn't?" Riley challenged. "I've lived through public dissection, Joe. Remember the Ethan situation? Every detail of our breakup splashed across music blogs, his side of the story accepted as gospel because he got there first with his PR team?"

Joe hadn't considered that angle—that Riley's desire for authenticity wasn't naivety but hard-won wisdom.

"The difference is how we handled it," Riley continued when Joe remained silent. "You build walls. I learned to live honestly despite the scrutiny."

"And you never worry about what people might say? What they might assume?" Joe asked.

"Of course I do," Riley said. "But I refuse to let that fear dictate how I live my life. The minute you start hiding parts of yourself because you're afraid of what people might say—that's when they win."

“I’ve spent years keeping my personal life separate,” he said. “Blurring those lines isn’t easy for me.”

"I know," Riley said, her voice gentler now. "I'm not asking you to change overnight. I'm just asking you to consider that maybe all that careful separation isn't protecting you—maybe it's just keeping you isolated from the parts of life that matter most."

The slight withdrawal was subtle but unmistakable. She was giving him space—exactly what he thought he wanted—yet somehow, it felt like losing something precious. The conversation shifted to safer topics, but something had changed. A quiet politeness had crept in where the rhythm used to be. By the time they said goodnight, the connection felt thinner, like something unspoken had settled between them.

After they hung up, Joe sat staring at his dark phone screen, replaying the conversation. He hadn't handled that well. Maybe he should have just invited her to join them. But the thought of Riley in Vegas, cameras everywhere, speculation about their relationship splashed across sports blogs and gossip sites—it twisted something in his stomach.

It wasn't that he was hiding her. Not exactly. He just needed... control. Time to figure out what this was between them before the whole world weighed in with opinions.

He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the day's stubble against his palm. Why did it have to be so complicated? Football made sense. Clear objectives, defined strategies, measurable outcomes. This—whatever was growing between him and Riley—operated by different rules entirely.

* * *

Three days passed with superficially normal communication between them—texts about their days, brief calls when schedules aligned—but Joe couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. Riley was still Riley—quick-witted, warm, engaged—but there was a new carefulness to her interactions, as if she were minding an invisible boundary he'd drawn.

Joe was heading into his regular session with Dak when his phone buzzed with a call from Ja'Marr.

"What's up?" Joe answered, nodding at Dak as he entered the gym.

"Vegas fight," Ja'Marr said without preamble. "You still in? Need to lock in the suite reservation by tomorrow."

Joe hesitated. "Yeah, I'm in. But listen, there's something I wanted to run by you."

"Shoot."

"Riley might be there the same weekend. Some guys from her band are going to the fight."

Ja’Marr nodded. “Cool. Been wanting to meet her anyway—hang out a little, see what she’s about.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, then paused. “That’s the thing. Not sure it’s smart—public-wise.”

"“Okay, yeah—you’ve always been careful,” Ja’Marr said, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “But maybe you don’t have to be this time. She ain’t some random girl.”

"It's complicated," he finally said.

"Look, not to overstep," Ja'Marr said carefully, "but if you really like this girl, maybe don't overthink it. Vegas is Vegas. Everyone's too busy doing their own thing to care who's there with who."

Joe considered this. Maybe he was overthinking it. "Let me figure it out," he said finally. "But yeah, keep me on the list for now."

"You got it. Let me know if you want me to add one more."

After hanging up, Joe stared at his phone for a long moment. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he typed out a text to Riley.

Joe: Been thinking about Vegas. If you want to come, we can make it work.

He hit send before he could overthink it, then tucked his phone away and turned his attention to Dak, who was waiting with the day's training plan.

Two hours later, muscles burning from a particularly brutal workout, Joe checked his phone to find Riley's response.

Riley: Already got a flight with Pete and Andy. But I appreciate the thought. Maybe we'll run into each other there.

Joe frowned at the screen. The message was friendly enough, but something about it felt off. Like she was deliberately creating distance. Before he could respond, a second text came through.

Riley: For what it's worth, I get it. Privacy matters. No pressure either way.

Joe stared at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This was exactly what he'd wanted—understanding, no pressure, keeping things private. So why did it feel like he'd somehow screwed up?

He was still trying to formulate a response when Bill appeared at the gym entrance, clipboard in hand and expression grim. Whatever this conversation about Vegas would become, it would have to wait.

“Vegas? The same weekend Riley Carter will be there?” Bill’s voice rose as he paced Joe’s kitchen. “With those bandmates of hers? The ones who trended last month for that club incident in Atlanta?” He stopped, holding up his tablet like it proved something. “Mark mentioned it this morning. Tell me he got it wrong.”

"It's a coincidence," Joe said, his voice level despite the tension building between his shoulders. "A lot of people go to these fights."

But even as he said it, Joe felt the familiar weight of expectation pressing down—the constant awareness that his choices were never just his own, that every move was observed, analyzed, categorized. The weight he'd carried so long he barely noticed it anymore. Until now. Until Riley made him question why he accepted it at all.

"Coincidence or not, it creates a situation," Bill interjected, more measured but equally concerned. "Joe, we've talked about this. The optics—"

"The optics of what? Two adults who happen to be at the same event?" Joe challenged, his patience wearing thin. "We're not in high school, Bill."

Bill stopped pacing to face Joe directly. "Have you seen the latest on her bandmate—the one with the hair? Three clubs in one night last weekend, photographed with models at each one."

"Andy," Joe supplied. "And what does that have to do with Riley?"

"It's the company she keeps," Bill explained, as if talking to a child. "These are people who live their lives completely in the public eye, who court the kind of attention you've always avoided."

"She's not responsible for her bandmate's choices," Joe countered.

"No, but she's part of that world," Bill said. "Look, Joe, no one's saying she's not great. But the Riley Carter who appears in those music videos, who hangs out with people who trend on Twitter for their exploits—that's a very different image from what we've built for you."

Bill nodded, pulling out his tablet and swiping to a saved article. "Remember this? Her ex, Ethan Mills, claimed she 'lived for the party' in that Rolling Stone interview after their breakup."

Joe felt a flash of anger. "An interview where he was clearly trying to damage her reputation after she left him."

"Maybe," Bill conceded. "But perception is reality in this business. We've spent years building you as the focused, disciplined leader. The reliable one. The guy sponsors trust to represent their brands."

"I'm not changing who I am just because I'm seeing someone," Joe said firmly.

"No one's asking you to," Bill said, his tone softening slightly. "We're just asking you to be careful. Vegas is a fishbowl on fight weekends. If you and Riley are seen together, that becomes the story—not your training, not your recovery, not your preparation for next season."

The frustrating part was that they weren't entirely wrong. Joe had witnessed firsthand how quickly narratives could form and calcify in the public consciousness. One weekend, a few photos, and suddenly "Joe Burrow, focused quarterback" could become "Joe Burrow, distracted by rockstar girlfriend."

"I'm still going to Vegas," Joe said, the quiet finality in his tone ending the discussion. What he didn't say—what he was still reconciling himself—was whether he was ready to let Riley fully into that part of his life, or if he would continue trying to keep these worlds separate even when they inevitably collided.

* * *

Riley set her phone down on the countertop with deliberate care, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest. She'd spent three days trying to convince herself that Joe's hesitation about Vegas meant nothing—that his desire for privacy was reasonable, expected even. They were still new. Still figuring things out.

So why did it still sting?

"Everything okay over there?" Laura asked from the couch, where she was editing footage for a documentary project. "You look like someone canceled Christmas."

"Everything's fine," Riley said automatically, then reconsidered. "Actually, no. Not really."

Laura closed her laptop, giving Riley her full attention. "Quarterback troubles?"

Riley sighed, joining Laura on the couch. "Is it stupid that I'm bothered by this? We've been seeing each other for what, a month? It's not like we've had the exclusivity talk or anything."

"What happened?" Laura asked, concern evident in her voice.

"Joe's going to be in Vegas the same weekend as Pete and Andy, for that UFC fight they've been obsessing over. When I mentioned the coincidence, he got all weird about us being seen together there." Riley picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "He just sent this very careful text about how 'we can make it work' if I want to come, but it feels...I don't know. Like an obligation."

“And you’re already locked in to fly with the guys?”

Riley nodded. "After our FaceTime call the other night. Andy's been begging me to come for weeks. I figured, why not? It'll be fun."

"So what's the real issue?" Laura asked, studying Riley's face. "That he didn't invite you first?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Riley pressed her palms against her eyes. "It's more that I feel like he's keeping me in this separate box away from his real life. Like he's not sure I fit."

Laura was quiet for a moment, considering. "Do you remember how private you were after Ethan? How you wouldn't even let us tag you in photos for months?"

"That was different," Riley protested. "Ethan had just—"

"Publicly humiliated you, yes," Laura finished. "And it made you careful. Made you build walls. I'm not saying Joe's situation is the same, but privacy means different things to different people."

Riley absorbed this, twisting her bracelet—Joe's bracelet—around her wrist. "I guess I'm just scared he's embarrassed by me. That I don't fit into his perfect, orderly world."

"Did he say that?"

"No," Riley admitted. "He said it wasn't about me. That it was about control, about keeping things private until we figure it out."

"That sounds...pretty reasonable, actually," Laura observed. "And very different from 'I don't want to be seen with you.'"

Riley sighed, letting her head fall back against the couch. "Why am I making this into a bigger thing than it is?"

“Because you really like him,” Laura said. “And because after Ethan, you promised yourself you’d only do real. Not curated. Not performative.” She gave Riley a look—gentle but clear. “So now, when someone asks for privacy, it feels a little too close to being hidden—even when it’s not.”

Riley nodded, turning Laura's words over in her mind. There was truth there. Privacy was what she'd sought after Ethan, a shelter to heal wounds that had been inflicted in public view. Maybe Joe needed the same thing—space to let whatever was growing between them take root before exposing it to public scrutiny.

"So what are you going to do about Vegas?" Laura asked.

Riley squared her shoulders. "I'm going to go with Pete and Andy. Have fun. And if I run into Joe, great. If not..." She shrugged, affecting more nonchalance than she felt. "Then I'll handle that too."

Laura studied her friend's face. "Just be careful. Don't punish him for Ethan's mistakes."

Riley nodded, the wisdom in those words hitting home. She was determined not to let past hurts cloud what was happening now. Joe wasn't Ethan. She knew that. This relationship—or whatever it was becoming—deserved a clean slate.

Still, as she returned to the kitchen to finish making dinner, Riley couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that Vegas would either bring them closer together or push them further apart. There would be no middle ground.

* * *

It was early April in Cincinnati, and the private training facility carried that in-between feeling—winter barely behind them, the promise of spring still damp in the air. Joe sat on the edge of a turf mat, shoulders tense, sweat cooling on his back as the other guys filtered out. The off-season rhythm was different—quieter, less structured—but somehow, it still didn’t leave much room to think.

“You make up your mind about Vegas yet?” Ja’Marr asked, casual.

Joe didn’t look up. “Not really a choice anymore.”

Ja’Marr turned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s going,” Joe said, finally meeting his friend’s eyes. “With her band. Decided after our last call. She was pissed. Rightfully.”

Ja’Marr raised a brow. “You invite her after we talked?”

“I tried. Kinda backpedaled and said if she happened to be there, maybe we could meet up.” Joe scoffed at himself. “She basically blew me off.”

Ja’Marr made a face. “Can you blame her?”

Joe ran a hand over his jaw, tension in every line of his body. “I’m fucking this up.”

“Yeah, a little,” Ja’Marr said bluntly. “Why though? You like her. She likes you. What’s the holdup?”

Joe exhaled hard. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is, but come on—”

“She’s got a past, man. High-profile ex. Party history. Her face has been in more gossip headlines than some of our teammates.” Joe looked away. “She’s loud. Public. I don’t want to live like that.”

Ja’Marr crossed his arms. “So what—you don’t want to be seen with her?”

Joe’s jaw tightened. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that once it’s out, it’s out. People have opinions. Narratives. Everyone decides what our relationship is before we do.”

Ja’Marr blinked. “Okay, but what does that have to do with you? You like her. You trust her. That’s what matters.”

“There’s no middle ground with her,” Joe said quietly. “She’s all in or she walks. And I don’t blame her for that, I just…” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to be what she needs in public when I’m still figuring it out in private.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Ja’Marr studied him.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said finally. “She’s not asking you to stand on a stage and announce you’re in love. She just doesn’t want to be treated like a secret.”

Joe looked away again. “Yeah. Well. I already made her feel like one.”

Ja’Marr sighed. “Then go fix it.”

Joe didn’t respond.

Ja’Marr grabbed a towel, slung it over his shoulder, and started walking away. “Or don’t. Just stop acting surprised when it falls apart.”

Joe nodded absently, watching as Ja’Marr walked off toward the recovery room.

He stayed seated for a beat longer, letting the quiet hum of the facility settle around him. Not long. Just enough.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her—but maybe he had. Maybe all his careful control, his need to keep things private and protected, had sent the wrong message. Not that she mattered, but that she didn’t matter enough. That was never true. But if he didn’t figure out how to show her that soon, he was going to lose something that didn’t come around twice.

* * *

The sprawling Las Vegas skyline came into view through the jet window—a gaudy, glittering oasis rising defiantly from the desert floor. Joe watched it approach, the ordered grid of streets somehow containing the world's most deliberate chaos. A city of calculated risk, where every spontaneous moment was carefully engineered. A city of contradictions. Like him, lately.

"We land in ten, Mr. Burrow," the flight attendant informed him as she collected his untouched champagne glass.

Joe nodded, closing his tablet and gazing out the window. The desert landscape stretched endlessly, punctuated by the gaudy oasis of the Strip. Any other time, he might have appreciated the stark contrast. Today, his thoughts were elsewhere—specifically, on whether Riley had already landed.

Beside him, Ja'Marr tucked away his headphones. "Man, I can't wait to hit the blackjack tables. You in?"

"Maybe later," Joe replied, noncommittal. "Want to get settled first."

"Settled," Ja'Marr repeated with a knowing look. "That code for 'check if Riley's here yet'?"

Joe shot him a warning glance but didn't deny it. There was no point—Ja'Marr had become increasingly adept at reading his moods since their conversation in the weight room.

The landing was smooth, and within minutes they were descending the stairs to the private tarmac where a sleek black SUV waited. The Vegas heat hit Joe immediately, a dry wall of warmth after the artificial cool of the plane.

"Aria first, gentlemen?" the driver asked as they slid into the leather seats.

"Yeah," Joe confirmed, already reaching for his phone. He'd had it off during the flight—another routine, another small piece of control in a life full of distractions. Now, he found himself uncharacteristically impatient as it powered on.

Three texts loaded: one from Bill about a sponsorship call, one from his mother checking he'd arrived safely, and one from Riley.

Riley: Landed in Vegas with the guys. Pete already plotting how to lose his money at the craps table. We're staying at the Cosmopolitan. Let me know when you're here.

The message was friendly but careful—none of the warmth or playfulness that had characterized their earlier conversations. Joe stared at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard, aware of Ja'Marr watching him with barely concealed interest.

"Just text her, man," Ja'Marr said, breaking the silence with the directness that had defined their friendship since LSU. "This brooding thing doesn't suit you."

Joe ignored him, though he knew Ja'Marr was right. Since college, he had been the one person who called him on his bullshit, who saw through the composed exterior everyone else accepted at face value.

Joe: Just landed. Heading to the Aria now. Any chance you want to come by?  Just to talk.

He pressed send and set the phone down, not because he doubted what he said, but because the silence afterward was loud. The message was deliberate—he needed to talk to her. Still, his heartbeat kicked up as the three dots appeared, disappeared, then flickered back to life.

Riley: Give me two hours. Need to check in and get settled.

Simple. Direct. No emotion. But she was coming. That had to mean something.

* * *

Two hours later, Joe stood at the window of his expansive suite, gazing out at the Strip stretching below. The room was immaculate—king bed, separate sitting area, marble bathroom with a shower big enough for a linebacker. Standard luxury that would normally fade into the background of his consciousness.

Today, he noticed everything. The placement of the chairs. The minibar stocked with premium liquor. The subtle scent of the room—some generic "luxury" fragrance designed to mask the lingering cigarette smoke permeating every surface in Vegas.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Joe took a breath, running a hand through his hair before crossing to answer it.

Riley stood in the hallway, one shoulder leaning casually against the doorframe. She wore an oversized Iron Maiden tee, soft and faded with age, the kind of shirt that had clearly lived a few lives before ending up in her closet. It hung loosely over black leggings, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and her scuffed white sneakers looked like they’d carried her through more than one impulsive night. A fuzzy leopard-print tote hung off one shoulder, absurdly cozy against the rest of her edge. Her hair was pulled into a loose, effortless bun, a few strands falling around her face in the kind of way that looked accidental but perfect. She smelled like vanilla and something warm—maybe sandalwood, maybe just her—and it hit Joe like muscle memory, yanking him straight back to Cincinnati.

"Hey," she said, her voice neutral but her blue eyes sharp, assessing.

"Hey," Joe replied, stepping back to let her in. "Thanks for coming."

“Nice place,” she said quietly, eyes moving across the room. “Kind of cold. But you make it feel less like that.”

There was an edge to her tone that hadn't been there in Cincinnati or New Orleans, a careful distance that felt foreign after the easy intimacy they'd shared.

"How was your flight?" Joe asked, moving toward the minibar. "Water? Or something stronger?"

"Water's fine," Riley replied, setting her bag on a side table. She didn't sit, instead moving to the window to look out at the view. “Flight was good. Andy spent most of it critiquing the liquor selection, but what else is new.”

Joe filled two glasses with water and brought one to her, careful to maintain some space between them as he handed it over. Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, and he felt the familiar spark of connection despite the tension hanging in the air.

"So," Riley said after taking a sip, her eyes meeting his over the rim of the glass, "Vegas."

"Vegas," Joe agreed, unsure how to navigate this new, careful version of them. He set his untouched water down on a nearby table. "This feels weird."

Riley's lips curved in a small, sad smile. "What does?"

"This," Joe gestured between them. "Us being so... formal with each other. It's not us."

"And what is 'us', exactly?" Riley asked, setting her glass down with deliberate care. "Because I've been trying to figure that out for a week, and I'm still coming up empty."

The directness of the question was pure Riley, cutting through his careful defenses with unsettling accuracy. Joe ran a hand through his hair, buying time.

"I didn't handle the Vegas thing well," he admitted finally. "When you mentioned being here the same weekend. I was focusing on all the ways it could go wrong instead of just... being glad to see you."

Riley's expression softened slightly. "And how do you feel now? About me being here?"

"Glad," Joe said without hesitation. "Relieved, actually. The distance this past week—the texts that felt like we were strangers, the phone calls where we both pretended everything was fine—I hated it."

"Me too," Riley admitted, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "But it wasn't just about Vegas, Joe. It was about what it revealed."

Joe knew she was right, but hearing it spoken aloud made his chest tighten. "Which was?"

"That you want me in your life, but only on your terms. In controlled environments where you don't have to worry about what anyone else might think or say." Riley's voice was even, not accusatory but matter-of-fact. "And I'm not sure I can be that for you—this separate, hidden piece of your life that doesn't touch anything else."

Joe took a step toward her, unable to maintain the physical distance between them any longer. "That's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?" Riley challenged, her blue eyes intense. "Because I've been trying to figure it out, and I still don't know."

The question hung between them, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex. Joe looked at her—really looked at her—and felt the familiar constriction in his chest. She'd somehow worked her way into parts of his life he'd always kept carefully separate, and that terrified him as much as it exhilarated him.

Joe took a step toward her, unable to maintain the physical distance between them any longer. The space between them felt charged, dangerous—like the moment before a blitz, when everything slows down and speeds up simultaneously. 

"I want you," he said, the words rough with honesty. "But I don't know how to do this, Riley. How to balance what's happening between us with everything else."

She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, like the words needed somewhere to land.

“That’s the thing, Joe, there is no perfect balance. Life is messy. Relationships are messy." She gestured between them. "This is messy. And you can't control it, no matter how hard you try."

Her words hit uncomfortably close to the truth. Control had always been Joe's foundation—in football, in his public image, in his private life. Riley represented a disruption to that control, a beautiful chaos he both craved and feared.

"I know," he admitted quietly. "And that scares me."

Riley took a step closer, close enough that he could see the flecks of darker blue in her irises. “It scares me too. After Ethan, I swore I wouldn’t let anyone close enough to hurt me again.” She glanced down for a second, her voice quieter now. “But then you happened.”

Joe reached for her hand, relieved when she didn't pull away. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "That's the last thing I want."

"I know," Riley said, her fingers finally curling around his. "But you might. And I might hurt you too. That's the risk."

Joe nodded slowly, understanding what she wasn't saying. There were no guarantees, no perfect game plans for this. Just two people trying to navigate something neither had expected.

"So what happens now?" he asked. "We're both here in Vegas. Do we just... figure it out as we go?"

Riley studied him, something unreadable in her expression. "Maybe. But I need to know that you're actually trying, Joe. That you're not just going to pretend you don't know me if we run into each other at the fight tomorrow."

"I would never do that," Joe said firmly.

"Wouldn't you?" Riley challenged, though her tone held more sadness than anger. "Because it feels like that's exactly what you've been doing—keeping me separate, compartmentalized, away from your real life."

Joe wanted to argue, to defend himself, but the truth in her words stopped him. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hand, drawing her slightly closer. "I'm trying," he said, offering what he could. "I know that's not enough, but it's the truth."

Riley nodded slowly, a mix of emotions crossing her face. "At least that's honest." She gently extracted her hand from his. "I should go. Pete and Andy are waiting for me. We have dinner plans."

Joe felt a flicker of panic at the thought of her leaving with so much still unresolved between them. "When will I see you again?"

"I don't know," Riley said, retrieving her bag from the side table. "Maybe at the fight tomorrow. Maybe after."

The uncertainty in her voice twisted something in Joe's chest. This wasn't how he'd imagined their conversation would go.

"This isn't what I wanted," he said quietly as she moved toward the door.

Riley turned back to him, her expression softening slightly. "What did you want?"

Joe closed the distance between them, unable to maintain the space any longer. "I wanted to fix this. Whatever's been off between us since that call."

"Some things can't be fixed with one conversation, Joe," Riley said gently. "Some things take time. And maybe more than we've been willing to give."

She reached for the door, but Joe caught her arm, turning her back to face him. The tension between them had shifted, electric in a different way now. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the air heavy with everything still unsaid.

Then Riley made a small sound—something between frustration and surrender—and closed the remaining distance between them. Her hands came up to frame his face, and before Joe could process what was happening, she was kissing him.

Unlike their previous kisses, this one wasn't tentative or sweet. It was hungry, almost desperate, as if Riley was trying to convey through touch what words had failed to express. Joe responded instantly, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her closer, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair.

The kiss deepened, months of tension and connection pouring into a single moment that felt both like a reunion and a goodbye. Riley pressed herself against him, her body familiar yet somehow new in the intensity of this embrace.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Riley's eyes were dark, her lips slightly swollen. She took a step back, her hand coming up to touch her mouth briefly.

"Just so you don't forget what you're risking," she said softly, her voice a little unsteady. "While you're trying to figure out what this is."

Before Joe could respond, she was out the door, leaving him alone with the lingering taste of her on his lips and the unsettling awareness that for the first time in his life, he had no playbook for what came next.

* * *

 The hostess led Joe, Ja'Marr, and two of their friends through the crowded restaurant at the Cosmopolitan. The place was buzzing with fight weekend energy, exactly the Vegas atmosphere they'd come for.

"This spot is perfect," Ja'Marr said, scanning the crowd. "Good call coming here."

Joe nodded, but his attention had already locked onto a booth across the restaurant. Riley sat there, surrounded by friends, laughing at something the wild-haired guy next to her had said. She wore a simple black dress that left her shoulders bare, her hair swept up elegantly. The sight of her – vibrant, relaxed, in her element – made his chest tighten.

What caught his attention more was how close she sat to the lanky guy with black hair. He had his arm draped casually behind her on the booth, leaning in to speak directly into her ear. The familiarity in their body language was unmistakable.

"Mr. Burrow, your table is right—" The hostess stopped when she realized Joe wasn't listening.

"Joe?" Ja'Marr followed his line of sight. "Oh, your girl's here."

Joe nodded, still watching as Riley playfully shoved the guy away from her, laughing at whatever he'd said.

"Let's go say hi," Joe decided, looking at Ja'Marr and their friends.

"I'm down," Ja'Marr agreed immediately, always ready to be social. "Might as well see what's got you so distracted."

Their other friends, Mike and Derrick, nodded in agreement, curious about the woman who'd caught Joe's attention.

As they made their way across the restaurant toward Riley's table, Joe felt a flutter of nervousness that had nothing to do with approaching strangers and everything to do with seeing Riley after their tense conversation earlier.

"Don't look now, but Joe is heading this way," Pete said under his breath, reaching for his drink.

Riley had already spotted Joe coming toward them with Ja'Marr and two other guys. Despite everything, her pulse quickened. She hadn't expected him to approach them – not after how they'd left things in his suite.

"This should be interesting," Haley murmured, subtly adjusting her position to better observe the approaching quarterback.

"Who's Joe?" Dom asked, arm still casually draped behind Riley on the booth.

"The guy I told you about," Riley answered quickly. "The quarterback."

"Right, the American football one," Dom nodded, though his expression suggested this meant little to him. "The serious bloke."

Before Riley could respond, Joe reached their table with his friends. Up close, the contrast between him and her crew was even sharper—Joe in a crisp t-shirt and black jacket, dark jeans that fit just right. Composed, understated. Dom beside her was all colorful chaos in a patterned suit and platform boots.

"Hey," Joe said, his eyes finding hers before briefly scanning the table.

"Hey yourself," Riley replied, surprised by how naturally her smile came. "Didn't know you'd be here tonight."

“Didn’t know you’d be here either,” he said. “Good timing, I guess.” He gestured to his companions. "This is Ja'Marr, Mike, and Derrick."

Ja'Marr stepped forward with an easy smile, extending his hand to Riley. "Nice to finally meet you. Joe's been completely useless at conversation since we landed in Vegas."

Riley laughed, immediately warming to his straightforward charm. "Glad to know I'm not the only one he's been distracted around."

"I just wanted to come say hi," Joe said, his eyes returning to Riley. "Didn't mean to interrupt your dinner."

"You're not interrupting," Riley assured him. "Joe, these are my friends," she said, gesturing around the table. "Pete and Andy from the band, my friend Haley, and this is Dominic and Colson."

Dom extended his hand, flashing his characteristic wide smile. "Dominic Harrison. Pleasure."

Joe shook his hand with a nod. "Joe Burrow."

"Burrow?" Colson leaned forward with sudden interest. "The Cincinnati quarterback? Man, that Super Bowl game was insane."

Joe nodded, clearly used to being recognized. "That's me."

"Impressive," Colson said, studying Joe with new respect.

Riley noticed Joe's eyes flick briefly to Dom's arm, still draped casually behind her on the booth. She shifted slightly, creating a small but deliberate space between herself and Dom.

"You here for the fight tomorrow?" Pete asked, addressing Joe and his friends.

"Yeah, can't wait," Ja'Marr answered enthusiastically. "Should be epic."

"We'll be there too," Riley said. "Ringside seats."

"No way," Ja'Marr responded with genuine enthusiasm. "We're ringside too. First row."

"Same." Andy added. "Perks of the job, I guess."

"Sounds like we'll be seeing each other tomorrow then," Joe said with a small smile.

The prospect hung between them, tentative but hopeful. Riley found herself nodding. "Looking forward to it."

With a final nod to the group, Joe and his friends returned to their table. Riley felt everyone's eyes on her as she took a long sip of her drink.

"So that's the quarterback," Haley said, a hint of approval in her voice. "He's got that whole strong, silent thing going on."

"His friends seem cool," Pete offered.

"That Ja'Marr guy is definitely cool," Haley agreed. "Very charming."

Dom leaned in, his voice low enough that only Riley could hear. "He didn't much like me having my arm around you."

Riley gave him a warning look. "Don't start."

"I'm just saying," Dom continued with a mischievous grin, "man definitely has feelings for you. The way he looked at me—if looks could kill..."

Riley rolled her eyes, though she'd noticed it too – that flash of something possessive in Joe's eyes when he'd first approached.

"Ancient history, you and me," Dom said, reading her expression. "But he doesn't know that, does he?"

"It's not relevant," Riley said firmly.

Dom raised his hands in surrender, but his grin remained. "Whatever you say, love."

The conversation moved on, but Riley found her attention repeatedly drawn to Joe's table across the restaurant. Once or twice, she caught him looking back at her, their eyes meeting briefly before both looked away.

After their third round of drinks, Riley stood up. "I'm going to the restroom," she announced, needing a moment away from the group's scrutiny and her own conflicted thoughts.

"Want company?" Haley offered.

"I'm good," Riley replied, grabbing her small purse. "Be right back."

As she wound her way through the crowded restaurant, Riley felt a strange mix of emotions. Joe's gesture tonight had surprised her – it was a small step, but an important one. Yet their fundamental issue remained unresolved. The question of whether they could bridge their different worlds, different needs, still hung between them.

She pushed open the door to the restroom, grateful to find it relatively empty. Leaning against the counter, Riley took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. But all she could think about was Joe – the guarded hope in his eyes when he'd mentioned seeing her at the fight, the unmistakable tension when he'd seen her with Dom.

* * *

From his table, Joe watched as Riley disappeared down the hallway to the restrooms, the sway of her hips drawing more than just his attention. The colorful-haired musician—Dom—watched her go with a familiarity that made Joe's jaw clench.

"You gonna sit there staring after her all night?" Ja'Marr's voice cut through his thoughts.

"What? No," Joe replied, turning back to their conversation, though his focus remained elsewhere.

“Man, you know you want to,” Ja’Marr said with a knowing grin. “Just go already.”

Joe hesitated only briefly before standing, surprising himself with the decision. The Joe Burrow the world knew—disciplined, methodical, controlled—didn't follow women to bathrooms in Vegas restaurants. But the Joe Burrow sitting here, watching another man touch Riley with casual intimacy, wasn't feeling particularly disciplined or controlled.

Joe hesitated only briefly before standing up. "I'll be back."

As he walked toward the hallway where Riley had disappeared, Joe wasn't entirely sure what he planned to say. Their earlier conversation in his suite had ended with more questions than answers. But seeing her tonight, surrounded by her friends, so vibrant and alive, had crystalized something for him.

He wasn't ready to let her go. Not without at least trying to figure out what this was between them.

With that thought in mind, Joe rounded the corner into the hallway, determined to find some resolution – or at least a path forward – before the night was over.

Riley stood at the marble sink, letting the cold water run over her wrists, a trick she'd learned years ago to cool down when her mind was racing. The bathroom was mercifully empty—one of those ridiculously opulent Vegas restrooms with plush seating areas and soft lighting.

The door opened behind her. She glanced up at the mirror, expecting another patron, but instead saw Joe's reflection. Their eyes locked in the glass, and something in his expression made her pulse quicken.

Without a word, Joe reached behind him and turned the lock.

"Women's bathroom," Riley said, turning to face him. Not a question, not a protest—just a statement of fact.

"I don't care," Joe replied, his voice low and intent as he crossed the space between them.

There was something different about him—a rawness she'd never seen before, the carefully maintained composure completely gone. Joe Burrow looked like a man who'd made a decision and was done overthinking it.

“Looked like you were real close with that guy." Joe said, stopping just inches from her.

"With Dom?" Riley raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"

Joe stopped just in front of her, close but not touching. His voice was low.

“You and him. What’s the deal?”

Riley tilted her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He glanced toward the lounge behind them, jaw tight. “He had his hands on you like it wasn’t the first time.”

She let out a quiet breath. “You jealous?”

“I’m asking.” His eyes didn’t move from hers. “How well does he know you?”

Riley blinked, her mouth tightening just slightly. “Why does it matter?”

Joe’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look away.

“Because I fucked up this week,” he said, the words quieter than she expected. “And you’ve put space between us ever since.” He shook his head, almost like he was tired of himself. “You barely text back. You dodge calls. And now you’re here, looking at someone else like it’s easier.”

She didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait.

“Because I feel like I’m already losing you,” Joe said, low and unguarded. “And I haven’t even had the chance to call you mine.”

The honesty in his voice struck her more powerfully than any practiced words could have. This wasn't careful, controlled Joe. This was something raw and real—jealousy and desire and frustration all mingled together.

Before Riley could respond, Joe closed the final distance between them. One hand curved around the back of her neck while the other gripped her waist, pulling her against him as his mouth found hers. There was nothing careful about this kiss—it was hungry, possessive, demanding.

Riley responded instantly, her fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. This wasn't the controlled, measured Joe she'd known in Cincinnati. This was something else entirely—raw and unfiltered, all restraint abandoned.

She felt herself being lifted onto the counter, cool marble shocking against her heated skin as Joe's hands gripped her thighs. The contrast between the cold surface and his burning touch made her gasp. Riley wrapped her legs around him, drawing him against her as the kiss deepened. She could taste the faint bitterness of whiskey on his tongue, feel the controlled strength in his hands as they moved beneath her dress—always measured, always deliberate, even now.

Joe’s mouth traveled down her neck, beard scraping lightly against her sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” he murmured, his voice lower than she’d ever heard it, vibrating against her collarbone.

Riley tipped her head back, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Then let’s lose it together.”

He laughed against her collarbone, a low rumble she felt more than heard. His hands found the edge of her underwear, fingers hooking around the delicate fabric. "Can I?" he asked, voice rough with desire.

"Yes," Riley breathed, lifting slightly to help him.

Joe knelt, drawing the fabric down her legs with agonizing slowness, his eyes never leaving hers. The sight of Joe Burrow on his knees before her, looking up with undisguised want, sent heat coursing through her body.

"Fuck, look at you." he said, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh that made her breath catch.

Joe’s lips skimmed the inside of her thigh, warm breath ghosting over her skin as he dragged his mouth higher—soft, open-mouthed kisses that made her tremble. He didn’t rush. Didn’t tease. Just took his time, like he was mapping her. Like he was making sure she’d feel this later, when they weren’t touching anymore.

Riley bit her lip, her hand slipping behind her to grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white against the marble. Her other hand threaded into his hair, tugging gently—half to anchor herself, half to ground him there.

“Joe,” she whispered, not as a plea, but a reminder. That she was here. That this was real. That she wanted him as wrecked as she was.

Her voice made him groan, low and guttural, against the inside of her thigh. She felt it reverberate straight through her core. His grip tightened. Not rough, not yet—but urgent. Like if he didn’t hold her steady, he might lose the thread of himself completely.

And then—he gave in.

Joe pressed his mouth to her with a hunger that didn’t ask for permission. No hesitation. No tease. Just the full weight of everything he’d been holding back—weeks of restraint undone in a single, claiming sweep of his tongue.

Riley gasped, her spine arching off the mirror-backed wall. The cool air met her skin where her dress had bunched around her hips, but all she could feel was him. The heat of his mouth. The grip of his hands. The sharp edge of his stubble scraping in places that made her thighs tremble.

He licked into her like he was angry about it—like he hated that anyone else had touched her, seen her, heard the sounds she was making now. He was careful, yes—but not gentle. There was nothing soft about the way his mouth moved. Nothing patient in the way his tongue circled and pressed and devoured.

“Jesus,” she breathed, one hand flying to his shoulder, the other threading into his hair. He made a sound at that—something low and possessive—and doubled down, tongue flicking hard against her clit until she whimpered.

The kind of sound that sounded like surrender. And maybe it was. But not to him—not entirely. She was giving herself to this, to them. And fuck, he felt it.

Joe’s fingers flexed against her thighs, thumbs digging in just enough to mark. She felt him adjust slightly, then suck—hard—and her hips jerked in his hands.

“Joe,” she gasped again, shakier now. “Fuck—please—”

That did something to him. She felt it in the way his tongue dragged lower, slower, thicker—like he wanted to wreck her. Like he needed to be the one who took her apart first, before anyone else could try.

He groaned again—louder this time, almost a curse—burying himself deeper, eating like he was trying to erase whatever version of her had existed before this.

And when she cried out—louder than she meant to, thighs shaking, back bowed—then he looked up at her.

Eyes wild.

Breath ragged.

Mouth wet.

He didn’t say it out loud, but she could feel it in the heat of his stare.

Mine.

“This is so fucked,” he muttered, voice gutted. His forehead dropped to her thigh, eyes squeezed shut, hands still gripping her like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

She looked down at him, eyes glassy. “Then show me how fucked it is.”

“You’re shaking,” he rasped, dark and satisfied.

“Because you won’t fuck me,” she panted, half-laugh, half-plea.

He lifted his head at that. His mouth was swollen, his eyes wrecked—pure heat and hunger and a little bit of madness. His jaw clenched as he took her in.

“Jesus, Bird,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can’t handle you like this.” It slipped out, unguarded. “Not tonight.”

She slid her fingers into his hair, tugging gently but firm—until his gaze snapped back to hers.

“I’m not trying to break you, Joe,” she said softly. “I just want to be close.”

Joe didn’t move at first. Just stared at her—like he was trying to memorize this version of her, flushed and reckless, daring him to lose control.

Then he rose.

Not fast. Not slow. Just with purpose. Like he’d finally given in.

The second he was standing, Riley reached for him—no hesitation, no nerves. Her fingers found the button of his jeans, popping it open with a sharp flick. The zipper followed, slow and deliberate. Then her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around him with shaky, unflinching precision.

The sound Joe made when she touched him was raw—broken open at the seams, like it had been waiting to escape all night.

He kissed her hard, deep, his hands bracketing her thighs like he needed her pulse to anchor him.

And then—

A knock. Sharp. Too real.

“Riley?” Haley’s voice called from outside the door. “You still in there?”

Riley froze, her hand still inside Joe’s jeans, his fingers digging into her thighs. They stared at each other, breath shallow and ragged, the air between them thick with heat and hesitation.

“Yeah,” she called back, remarkably steady, like her heart wasn’t slamming against her ribs. “Just fixing my makeup. Be out in a minute.”

“Dom’s looking for you,” Haley replied. “Getting kind of pushy about it, actually.”

Joe’s expression darkened at the mention of Dom’s name. His grip tightened, possessive and unthinking, like some part of him couldn’t help it. Something flickered in his eyes—jealousy, raw and unfiltered.

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Riley said, not looking away from Joe.

“You want me to wait?”

“No, I’m good. Go ahead.”

Haley’s footsteps faded. Neither of them moved. Joe stayed pressed against her, pulse hammering under her hands, both of them strung out and teetering.

“Dom’s looking for you,” he repeated, voice low, controlled—but barely.

Riley didn’t flinch. “I’m not with Dom.”

“But you were.” He wasn’t accusing—just stating it. Like it had been living under his skin for too long.

“A long time ago,” she said quietly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Joe’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t look that way tonight.”

“Well, I’m not the one in here with him, am I?” she said, her voice sharpening just slightly. Her hand flexed where it still held him, and Joe’s breath hitched, involuntary and wrecked. “I’m here with you.”

That seemed to crack something open in him. He kissed her hard—no pretense, no restraint, just full possession. His hands slid under her thighs again, lifting her slightly, pressing in like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

Riley rocked her hips into him, body still trembling from earlier, still open and aching for more. Joe’s hand moved between them, fingers slipping over her, slow and sure, drawing another soft gasp from her lips.

The door was still locked.

But the night had already come undone.

Joe dragged her closer, his grip firm at her waist, every line of his body tense with barely restrained frustration.

“He was touching you like he doesn’t know it’s over,” Joe said low, mouth brushing her skin. “Like I wasn't standing right there.”

“He doesn’t get to touch me,” Riley whispered, nails digging into his back. “Not anymore.”

Joe’s jaw flexed. “But he has.”

Riley nodded once, breathing uneven. “Yeah. He has.”

Joe stilled—just for a beat. “I fucking hate that.”

She tilted her head, met his gaze. “Then make me forget him.”

That did it.

He shoved her dress up with both hands, guiding himself with a roughness that bordered on desperate, but never careless. He pushed into her in one long, devastating stroke, the stretch so sharp and full it knocked the breath from her lungs.

"Christ, Bird," he rasped, forehead pressed to hers, his voice breaking open. "He ever get you like this?"  

Riley gasped, hips rolling into him, her body already trembling. "No. Never like this." 

Joe growled low in his throat, hips snapping forward again, harder this time. "Say it again." 

"Never like this," she moaned, gripping his shoulders, holding onto him like the truth. "No one but you."

His mouth crushed hers, tongue sweeping in with a heat that stole what little breath she had left. He fucked her like it mattered. Like every thrust was a statement. A claim. Like jealousy had burned a hole through his restraint and all that was left was this—raw, unfiltered need.

Riley’s head fell back, hands tangled in his hair as her body clenched around him, already spiraling again. “Joe—fuck—don’t stop.”

“I’m not fucking stopping,” he growled. “Not when you’re saying my name like that.”

Her legs tightened around his hips, dragging him deeper. Their bodies were slick with heat, the rhythm a little brutal now, like he was trying to bury every trace of Dom beneath her skin and replace it with him.

“Say it again,” he gritted.

“Joe,” she sobbed, “It’s only you.”

His hands were everywhere—her waist, her thigh, her jaw. His breath hot at her ear as he ground into her with every ounce of want he’d held back until now.

And somewhere between the bite of jealousy and the softness of her saying his name like that, he unraveled.

Riley clung to him, nails scoring down his back, her cries muffled against his mouth as her orgasm surged through her—sudden, fierce, overwhelming.

She shattered around him, her body trembling with it, breath catching in a sharp, helpless gasp. Joe groaned against her throat, his rhythm faltering as she clenched tight around him.

“Fuck, Riley—” His voice cracked, ragged. “God, I—”

He followed with a broken sound, burying himself deep one last time as he came hard, his whole body tensing, jaw locked, breath ripped out of him.

For a long moment, they didn’t move.

Their foreheads pressed together. Chest to chest. Breathing hard. The bathroom quiet except for the sound of the air conditioning humming faintly through the vents and their harsh, stuttering breaths.

Joe was still inside her, his grip firm but not desperate now—like he didn’t know whether to let go or hold on tighter.

Riley’s body shook against his, still pulsing with aftershocks. Her head dropped to his shoulder, breath warm and uneven against his neck. Joe didn’t move. Couldn’t. His jeans were shoved halfway down his thighs, her dress still bunched up around her waist, their bodies tangled and pressed tight against the bathroom door.

His hands stayed where they were—one gripping her hip, the other braced against the door like he needed it to stay upright.

His forehead pressed to hers, lips brushing her cheek as he caught his breath.

And then, quietly—like it scraped something raw on the way out:

“This doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

Riley’s eyes fluttered open. She didn’t pull back, didn’t move. Just stayed wrapped around him, cheek to his jaw, heartbeat loud in her ears.

“No,” she said, soft. Honest. “But I'm not sorry it happened.”

Joe exhaled, rough. His hands curled a little tighter around her.

“We saw you with him.”

A breath.

“It fucked with me.”

“I wasn’t trying to mess with you.”

She held his gaze. “But I get why it did.”

“I hate that he’s touched you,” he said, voice low, like he hated saying it out loud even more. “And that you let him.” Riley pulled back enough to look at him, flushed and wrecked and wide open.

“It didn’t.”

She held his gaze.

“It didn’t mean what this does.”

That seemed to steady him, just barely. His jaw twitched. His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then he rested his forehead against hers again.

For a beat, neither of them spoke. Her dress still hiked up. His jeans still undone. Breath still shallow, skin still flushed, everything still echoing

Joe didn’t move.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

But for a moment—just one—they stood there, forehead to forehead, hearts still pounding, tangled up in the mess they’d made together.

“I don’t know what to do with this, Riley,” he murmured finally, voice barely above a whisper. “How to be the man I’ve built myself to be… and still be what you need.”

Riley’s fingers curled around the fabric of his t-shirt, soft and rumpled between them.

“Maybe it’s not one or the other,” she said quietly. “Maybe you don’t have to choose. Maybe you just need to be you. The real you.”

Joe let out a rough exhale. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

She leaned in, brushed her lips to his cheek—gentle and grounding.

“You’re still you,” she said quietly. “Even like this.”

His eyes closed for a beat, like that idea scared him and settled him all at once.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, really look at her, flushed and messy and still radiant under the flickering bathroom light.

“Tomorrow,” he said, more certain this time. “After the fight. Let’s talk. Really talk.”

Riley nodded once. “Okay.”

They stood there a moment longer, then quietly started to pull themselves back together—straightening clothes, wiping smeared lipstick, running shaking fingers through tangled hair. The heat of what had just happened still clung to the walls, but something else sat underneath now. Not regret. Not exactly clarity either. But maybe a beginning.

Joe reached for the lock.

And just as he twisted it and pulled the door open—

Haley stood there, hand raised, mid-knock, eyes wide like she’d just caught them mid-crime.

Riley blinked.

"Oh," Haley said, her expression shifting from concern to delight. "Well, this explains a lot."

Riley felt her face heat up, but couldn't quite manage to feel embarrassed. "Haley—"

“Don’t even try,” Haley said, grinning. Her eyes flicked to Joe. “We technically met, but now I feel like I've got a better read on you.”

“Hope it’s not a bad one,” Joe said, a small smile pulling at his mouth. There was the faintest hint of color in his cheeks, but he held her gaze.

“Didn’t say it was bad. Just clearer.”

"I should get back," he said to Riley, his hand briefly squeezing hers. "Ja'Marr's probably wondering where I disappeared to."

"Though probably not wondering very hard," Haley muttered, eyes twinkling.

As Joe slipped past them into the hallway, Haley watched him go with undisguised amusement. The moment he was out of earshot, she turned to Riley, eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.

"A bathroom? Really?" she whispered, her voice a mixture of scandal and admiration. "How very rock star of you."

Riley couldn’t help but laugh. “Shut up.”

Haley raised a brow, delight dancing in her eyes. “Please. Like this is the first time you’ve pulled some chaotic shit in a public bathroom. If anything, I’m disappointed it took this long.”

As they made their way back toward the table, the buzz of the restaurant filtering back in, Haley leaned in close. “So, for the record? I think I’m Team Quarterback now.”

Riley didn’t answer right away. Her heart was still thudding in her chest, her lips swollen, her body thrumming with the echoes of everything Joe had made her feel. Want. Fear. Hope. A dangerous, heady cocktail she hadn’t quite figured out how to hold yet.

She exhaled a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-confession. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Haley glanced sideways at her, reading more than Riley had meant to give away, but didn’t push.

“Okay,” she said lightly. “But I’m still ordering us a celebration drink. For, you know—bravery. Or reckless sex. Whichever.”

Riley snorted. “Same thing, really.”

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * *

Riley slid back into her seat like nothing had happened, smoothing her dress with the grace of someone who had absolutely just had sex in a bathroom and was committed to pretending otherwise.

Haley followed a second later, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she might bleed.

When they got back to the table, Haley plopped down in her seat with exaggerated satisfaction, took one long look at her, and said cheerfully, “Wow. You look incredible. Honestly, great call taking twenty minutes in the bathroom to fix your face. So natural. So radiant. So… freshly rearranged.”

Riley arched a brow, sliding into the empty chair next to her. “You done?”

“Oh, not even close,” Haley whispered, sipping her drink like it was her job.

Pete nodded, eyes narrowing like he was analyzing her under a ring light. “Yeah, real radiant. Freshly flushed. Like you just discovered the perfect highlighter.”

Across the table, Dom blinked. “Wait. That was a makeup fix?”

“You guys are hilarious,” Riley said flatly, reaching for her drink like she hadn’t just committed a felony against public decency.

Dom looked at her. Then at Joe—just settling back into his seat, hair clearly mussed, trying so hard to look normal.

“No,” Dom said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Nooooo.”

Haley sipped her wine like it was piping hot tea. “Say it with me, Dom. Bathroom. Bang.”

Dom let out a dramatic groan, flopping against the back of his chair like he’d just been stabbed. “You left me. To get fucked in a bathroom. With a fuckin’ jock. I feel personally victimised.”

“I didn’t leave you,” Riley said dryly. “I excused myself.”

“To go get railed by the quarterback in the ladies’ room!” Dom cried, scandalized. “Have some respect. At least sneak off to the service hallway like a proper slut.”

Pete raised his glass solemnly. “Honestly, we support you. But also, I’d like to file a formal complaint on behalf of the rest of us who now have to sit here and pretend Joe Burrow didn’t just raw dog our singer in a public restroom.”

Haley grinned into her wine. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

* * *

Joe slid back into his seat like nothing had happened.

Ja’Marr raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Joe reached for his water, nodding once. “Yep.”

A beat of silence.

Mike looked him up and down. “You come back looking like that and expect us not to ask questions?”

Derrick blinked at him. “Your curls are fucked up.”

Ja’Marr didn’t even try to hide the grin. “Bro. Did you just hit a bathroom quickie? Like… you?”

Joe didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Ja’Marr let out a low whistle. “Duuuude.”

Derrick leaned back in his chair, grinning. “In the bathroom, my guy?”

Mike just shook his head, half impressed, half horrified. “That’s not even your style. You good?

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look unbothered. “What do you think?”

That sent Derrick into full wheeze-laugh mode. “I think you’re fucked, is what I think.”

Joe gave them all a look, the kind that was supposed to say drop it—but with his hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, and mouth still red around the edges, it didn’t land the way he wanted it to.

“Man,” Mike said, shaking his head slowly, “I thought we were the bad influences on you.”

“She’s got him moving reckless,” Derrick said, grinning. “Whole vibe changed. That’s rockstar influence, bro.

Ja’Marr pointed his fork at Joe, eyes gleaming. “You’ve known her for what, two months? And you’re already out here throwin’ away your whole brand in a damn bathroom stall?”

Derrick nearly choked on his drink. 

Joe shook his head, making no effort to fix his hair or straighten his shirt. "We done talking about this?"

"Oh, we're just getting started," Ja'Marr said, his grin widening. "Joe Burrow throwing caution to the wind? This is historical."

"Man's out here living," Derrick added, raising his glass in mock salute. "One minute he's worried about someone taking his picture, next he's—"

"Next round's on me if we change the subject," Joe cut in, his expression deadpan but eyes betraying a hint of amusement.

Mike leaned back, studying Joe. "Never thought I'd see the day. Miss Riley's got you breaking your own rules."

Joe's phone lit up with a text. He glanced down, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"There she is," Ja'Marr said, nodding toward the message. "What's she saying? 'Thanks for the quickie'?"

Joe pocketed his phone without responding, but the slight flush creeping up his neck told them everything.

"Y'all finished?" Joe asked, picking up his fork and knife to return to his barely-touched steak.

"Not by a long shot," Mike said, "but I'll save the rest for when you've had a few more drinks."

As the conversation reluctantly shifted to tomorrow's fight predictions, Joe found himself glancing across the restaurant, catching Riley's eye just as she returned to her table. She shot him a tiny, secret smile that made his heart slam against his ribs.

Derrick noticed the exchange and shook his head. "Man, you are so far gone."

This time, Joe didn't bother denying it.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind them with a thud, and Riley immediately kicked off her heels, one landing under the credenza and the other bouncing off the edge of the sofa. Haley followed suit, letting out a dramatic sigh as she tugged off her lashes and stuck them to the edge of a lamp.

“Water,” Riley groaned, stumbling toward the minibar. “Where the fuck is the water.”

“There was some in here earlier, I swear,” Haley muttered, yanking open drawers like she was disarming a bomb. “I will drink out of a flower vase if I have to.”

Riley finally pulled out two half-warm bottles and held them up in triumph. “Not cold, but we’ll survive.”

They collapsed onto the bed, chugging like they’d just crossed a desert, legs tangled, dresses wrinkled, adrenaline still humming low beneath the exhaustion.

For a beat, they just sat there, catching their breath in the quiet.

Then Haley glanced sideways, a slow grin spreading. “So… bathroom bang?”

They lay there like that for a minute, chests rising and falling, the city glittering behind the curtains. The quiet wrapped around them like an old song, familiar and warm.

Then Riley exhaled. “You know me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Haley turned her head. “Yeah. I do.”

“I mean—like, I’m not new to… bathrooms and making questionable decisions in semi-public places.”

Riley. You once left Ethan with a hickey and a black eye in the same weekend and called it foreplay.”

Riley cracked a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. And then he left me on read for three days and told Rolling Stone we were ‘exploring different energies.’”

Haley’s expression softened. “This isn’t that.”

“I know,” Riley said quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

“I really like this guy,” Riley said quietly, staring up at the ceiling like the truth might sting less if she didn’t look at anyone. “More than I’ve ever let myself like anyone. Not even Ethan—not like this.”

Haley didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Just let Riley keep going.

“When it’s just us, it’s… different. He’s present. Soft. Like he’s in it with me. Like he wants it just as much as I do.” She exhaled slowly. “But then we step out into the world, or I try to talk about how we actually do this, how we share space between his life and mine—and it’s like he disappears behind some wall. He pulls back. And I don’t know why.”

She paused. The words felt like they were unspooling from somewhere deep.

“I spent so long after Ethan reclaiming everything he chipped away at. My voice. My name. My fucking agency. I told myself I’d never let anyone make me feel small or invisible again.”

Her throat tightened.

“But this is starting to feel like I’m getting jerked around in a different way. With Ethan, everything was public. All the chaos, the performance—it was always for show. With Joe, it’s the opposite. He wants me in private. Quietly. Like he’s afraid to want me out loud.”

She turned her head, finally meeting Haley’s eyes.

“And I don’t know what that means. Or what I’m supposed to do with it.”

Haley didn’t speak right away. She just looked at Riley for a long moment, the kind of look that came from knowing someone too well to bullshit them.

Then she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. “Okay, first of all? You’re not crazy.”

Riley let out a shaky breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

Haley continued, steady and sure. “What you’re describing? That dissonance—that whiplash between how he is with you alone versus how he is out there? That matters. It’s real. And it doesn’t make you needy or dramatic for noticing it.”

She paused, her voice softening. “I watched Ethan mess with your head in front of a million people. I watched you claw your way out of that, step by fucking step. So yeah, maybe Joe’s not doing the same thing—but it still feels like you’re being asked to live in the shadows. And that’s not nothing.”

Riley’s eyes stung, but she didn’t blink.

“I think he cares about you,” Haley said gently. “Like—really cares about you. But that doesn’t mean he knows how to carry all of it. The public part. The risk. The letting go of the version of himself he’s spent years curating.

She reached out, tugging lightly at the sleeve of Riley’s sweatshirt. “But the thing is, you already know who you are. You’ve done the work. You’re not the girl who bends to fit anymore.”

She tilted her head. “So the question isn’t whether he wants to be seen with you. The question is whether you are willing to disappear again.”

Riley swallowed hard, her throat thick. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Just stared up at the ceiling, eyes glassy, chest rising slow and uneven beneath the hoodie she’d stolen from Joe days ago.

“No,” she said finally. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just certain. “I’m not.”

Haley didn’t press her—just waited.

“I worked too fucking hard to get here,” Riley said, voice gaining shape now, steadier with every word. “To be proud of who I am. To take up space without apologizing. To sing what I want. Wear what I want. Love how I want.”

She paused, pressing her knuckles to her lips like the truth might fall out too fast.

“I want him. God, I do. But I’m not going back to hiding just because it makes someone else more comfortable. I can’t be the secret. I won't be.”

She turned her head toward Haley, eyes still burning. “I want all of it. I want to feel like I can stand next to him and not wonder if I’m too much or too loud or too visible.”

Haley reached over, linking their pinkies without looking. “Then he’s either gonna meet you there… or he’s gonna miss out.”

Riley exhaled slowly, her chest loosening just enough to breathe.

“But,” Haley added, voice softer now, “give him a little time, okay? Not forever. Not enough to make yourself small. Just enough to see if he figures out what’s right in front of him.”

Riley nodded, barely. “Yeah.”

“‘Cause I like this one,” Haley said, tugging their pinkies. “But I like you more.”

Riley smiled at that—wobbly but real. “Thanks, YeaYea.”

“Anytime, slut.”

Riley huffed a laugh and let her eyes drift shut, Haley’s hand still looped through hers. The hotel room was quiet now, the chaos of the night behind them. But the clarity lingered, sharp and necessary.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. Joe stepped into his suite, the hush of the hallway replaced by the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled thump of bass still lingering in his chest. His jacket was already off, shirt untucked, the top two buttons undone. His fingers ran through his hair—restless, aimless—before he dropped the keycard on the table and stood there for a beat too long.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The bathroom mirror caught his reflection—hair mussed, collar wrinkled, lips still faintly swollen from kissing her like he’d never get another chance.

He exhaled through his nose and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. He could still taste her. Still feel her under his hands. Still hear her saying “Then make me forget him.”

And that look in her eyes when she said it—like she saw all the cracks he’d tried to hide and wanted him anyway.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Took a long sip from the bottle of water someone had left beside the bed. It didn’t help much.

Everything he’d worked to build—every careful, quiet, calculated piece of his life—felt suddenly unstable. Like it couldn’t hold her. Like it couldn’t hold this.

She made him reckless. But she also made him honest. And that was scarier.

Joe picked up his phone. Opened their thread. Paused.

Then began typing.

Joe stared at his phone. The quiet in the suite was heavy—too heavy. He ran a hand through his hair, opened their thread, and started typing.

Draft 1:

You know I didn’t mean to be like that tonight. I just—

[Backspace. All of it.]

Draft 2:

Sorry if I made things worse.

[Delete.]

Draft 3:

I shouldn’t have lost it like that. Dom isn’t the problem. I am.

[Still wrong. Too clinical.]

Draft 4:

I want you. That’s all I know. I want you and I don’t know how to do this right but I’m trying.

[He stared. Shook his head. Deleted it.]

He tossed the phone down. Paced. Picked it back up.

Deep breath. This time, he didn’t overthink.

Joe (sent): I know I was outta line tonight. I was jealous and I took it out on you. That’s not who I want to be, and you didn’t deserve that. I know the bathroom didn’t fix anything. And I don’t have the right to ask you to be patient with me. But I’m asking anyway. I’ve never felt like this before. Never wanted something like this before. I want to talk tomorrow. Really talk. After the fight. He stared at the screen.

Sent.

Then tossed the phone on the nightstand like it burned.

Riley’s phone buzzed on the comforter between them.

She reached for it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen. Her brows lifted as she read, and she didn’t say anything at first—just blinked, like she wasn’t expecting to hear from him. Not tonight.

Haley clocked the shift immediately. “What?”

Riley handed her the phone without a word.

Haley read it once. Then again. Her mouth opened, then closed. “Okay… damn. That’s…” She blinked. “That’s actually kind of hot. In a ‘men and their damage’ kind of way.”

Riley didn’t smile. Not yet. Her eyes were still on the screen. “He’s never texted me like this.”

“Do you want to respond?”

Riley took the phone back, staring at the message. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. For a second, her face was unreadable.

Then she texted.

Riley: You were outta line. But don’t twist it—I wanted you. That wasn’t a mistake. You got me all messed up too, Joe.

She set the phone down on her chest and exhaled slow, like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

Haley didn’t press. She just sank deeper into the pillows beside her, nudging a bottle of water into Riley’s hand.

“Get some sleep,” she said softly. “You’ll need it.”

Riley didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes and let herself hope.

Riley set her phone down on the duvet and stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths that didn’t feel entirely steady.

Haley watched her for a beat, then nudged her gently with her elbow. “Hey.”

Riley turned her head. “What?”

Haley offered a small smile—softer than before, stripped of all the teasing. “I know it’s messy. But a guy doesn’t send something like that if he doesn’t care.”

Riley didn’t say anything.

Haley reached over and plucked the bottle of water from the nightstand, handing it over. “You don’t gotta know how it ends tonight. But that text? That was a man trying. And that matters.”

Riley took the water but didn’t drink it. Just nodded once, slow. Like she was filing it away somewhere private.

“Sleep,” Haley added, curling back into the pillows. “Tomorrow’s gonna be long.”

Riley whispered, almost to herself, “Yeah. But maybe good, too.”

Neither of them said anything after that.

The room went quiet, lit only by the glow of the city outside, and for the first time in days—Riley let herself believe it might not all fall apart.

[lilithlounge]

Mercury Retrograde in Aries – March 15, 2025: Welcome to the Cosmic Chaos.

Part two is coming up, Tumblr wouldn’t let me use more than 10 GIFS. DM me or hit my Ko-Fi for custom readings.

Brace yourselves, besties. On March 15, Mercury stationed retrograde in bold, impulsive Aries and it’s about to drag all of us, especially Fire signs (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius), into a cosmic cage match with our communication, tempers, and tech. And let’s not ignore the plot twist:

Mars (Aries’ ruler) just went direct a few weeks ago, which means aggression and ambition are peaking.

Venus is ALSO retrograding in Aries, aka relationship chaos in warrior boots.

In other words, Everything’s on fire, including your group chats. Let’s dive into how each sign will get roasted, tested, and (if you’re lucky) reborn.

Aries – Your Mouth is on Fire. Literally.

You’re already blunt, but now? No filter. No chill. Just chaos. Miscommunications, temper flare-ups, and impulsive decisions that make you scream “WHY?!” two days later. Slow. Down.

If you think you should “just say it” maybe… wait 10 minutes. Or an hour. Or forever.

Taurus – Unexpected Bills, Exes, and Existential Crises

You like control, but Mercury in Aries is throwing financial curveballs and weird energy into your self-worth zone. Exes may pop up block, delete, protect your peace. Ground yourself before reacting. And double-check your bank app. Twice.

Gemini – You vs. Everyone.

Ruled by Mercury, so you’re already sensitive AF to retrogrades. Now friends are testy, texts are misread, and your jokes are starting fights. Group chats = landmines. Choose silence. (I know. It hurts. But your peace will thank you.)

Cancer – Work Chaos & Sleep Deprivation

Emails lost, meetings missed, bosses irritated, and you’re one meltdown away from quitting. Your dreams may be wild too. Journal them. They hold clues. Protect your mental health and rest like it’s a full-time job.

Leo – Social Media Mishaps & Ego Bruises

You want attention. Mercury Rx gives you misunderstood posts, ghosting, or getting called out. You’re trying to be iconic but Mercury wants you humbled. Think before posting. Or wear sunglasses and be mysterious for once.

Virgo – The Control Freak’s Breakdown

Another Mercury baby, so brace yourself. Plans fall apart, people flake, and nothing is organized. You’re either crying or rage-cleaning your entire life. Let chaos exist, you won’t die if things are messy for a few weeks. Probably.

Libra – Relationship Rewind, Drama Edition

Venus retrograde AND Mercury Rx? In Aries? Your love life is a soap opera. Misunderstandings, arguments, that one ex texting “hey.” Protect your energy. Pause before reacting. Also: NO to the ex. (You know who I mean.)

Scorpio – Secrets Slip, Tension Rises

People are spilling tea they shouldn’t, and so are you if you’re not careful. Your patience is nonexistent, and you’re ready to cut everyone off. Observe. Don’t retaliate, yet. Let others expose themselves.

Sagittarius – Chaos? I’m Home.

Plans are canceled. Travels are delayed. Your energy is all over the place. You’re annoyed, unbothered, and loud about it. Welcome to your natural state, but amplified. Channel it into art, music, movement. Or burn something safely.

[oldschoolfrp]

Appropriately on March 15, Tumblr's day to celebrate stabbing, I'm testing my basing scheme for some old 25mm Ral Partha spearmen and assembling some more vintage figures to stand alongside them. So far I have resisted retouching any of the original 1980s paintjobs.

Ral Partha's cast spear tips still are some of the best ever made. Without being grossly oversized, the hollow sockets are cleanly cast and hold the wire poles snug. The little twisted banner on each one helps make the assembly secure, all with one small drop of superglue. Bill Neff referenced them in his illustration in their 1989 catalog.

12 Norman spearmen are tight on a single 120x60mm base, but equates to the frontage of 20x20mm Warhammer bases with some extra room in front to protect the spears. Many modern rules are written around counting stands instead of figures, which would let me use only 8 or 10 and stretch the available figures onto more bases, but for this project I want the look of a tightly packed large army and the flexibility to use these with other rules specifying units of 12.

[theshadowrealmitself]

I’m on some weird side of TikTok that hates Gwen for some reason and I’m terrified of looking on tumblr and seeing if that’s just the majority opinion, but anyways my thoughts on it:

So most of the videos I’ve seen on hating Gwen are about her “not being there for Miles” and because “she didn’t tell him”, and I don’t think those people watched the movie because

1.) Gwen joined an organization. An organization with rules. An organization with rules with tracking technology. There’s no way that they would’ve been okay with her just visiting Miles. Yeah she visited other Spideys, but those Spideys were a part of the organization.

If they had caught her visiting Miles for no reason, which they would have most likely noticed immediately, if not because of the tracking technology, then because of Jessica checking in on her often as her mentor that vouched for her, she could have been kicked out of the organization. Which for Gwen meant going back to her universe where she’d either be homeless and on run from the law, or just in jail.

There was no way she could have just visited beforehand, and they most likely had her on strict rules on not contacting him too (because this is an organization that tries to prevent the multiverse from breaking down, there’s no way they didn’t have strict rules), but the second Gwen was able to go to his universe, the very first thing she does, is stop by his house.

In fact, her mission is a second priority to her, she just leaves a tracker where the Spot is going to be, and then focuses on spending time with Miles.

2.) She tells him, then what? Either he accepts it, and just,, waits for his dad to die, knowing it’s not an event that he’s allowed to change (to their knowledge), or he fights against it, which would be the natural instinct of a 15 year old hearing that a loved one they’re close to is about to be killed, which would then put his entire universe at risk.

You heard them, they can fix Pavitr’s timeline “if they’re lucky,” most likely if Miles saved his dad and his universe started collapsing, they might not be able to save it, then he doesn’t just lose his dad, he loses everyone (if they let him join the society, would he be able to if his universe goes or does he go with it?)

Yeah some of the Spideys have some suspicions on whether or not interfering with the canon actually does cause a universe to collapse, but the only for sure facts they have is that Miguel fucked with a universe’s canon and that universe fell apart, it’s too risky to test it out on a hunch, and y’all wanted her to still risk it? knowing that there’s a 50/50 chance Miles still tries to save his dad and accidentally takes down his whole universe???

Now we as the audience have different information, and we’re pretty sure Miguel is wrong about the canon events, but you gotta think about what the characters know in universe, and what Gwen knows is that a Spidey wouldn’t want to just sit back and let a loved one die, and that screwing with canon might cost someone waaaay more than just one loved one

So Gwen not telling Miles anything and not visiting him wasn’t actually her flaws in the movie, yeah we felt betrayed that she did that, because it’s from Miles’ pov and Miles felt betrayed, but just because we wished she had done something different, doesn’t mean that her actions were wrong

Tragically, knowing what she knew, her mistake in the movie wasn’t “not being there more for Miles,” it was actually being there for him and visiting him, instead of avoiding him and focusing on her mission to capture the Spot, because if she had done that, then she could’ve stopped him before he started screwing with the multiverse

[physalian]

In Defense of Fanfiction (Or the perfect starting point for your original novel)

Fanfic gets a bad rap pretty much everywhere except Tumblr. It’s misunderstood and misrepresented by its average works, seen as juvenile and cringey, or a banal point of contention between a famous person or piece of media and its fans.

Outside of fanfic that writes about real people, especially smut fics of real people, I support the art wholeheartedly. Fictional characters are one thing, but personally, caricaturing a celebrity’s life for public consumption and writing or drawing them in compromising content without their consent is a little weird. You do you. Don’t like, don’t read, as they say.

Fanfic is the perfect starting point for a few reasons:

It places you in a creative box and forces you to work within those constraints

It does all the worldbuilding and character concepts for you

It lets you write way outside your comfort zone

When published and receiving feedback, it boosts your self-confidence

It's incredibly flexible

It’s practice. All practice is good practice

—

Behold your creative box

When I was little I had no idea the majority of fanfic was shipping fics. I always pictured and looked for canon-divergent alternate universes. Like, what if X happened in this episode instead of Y? What if this character never died?

Fanfic demands you work within someone else’s canon, whether it’s an OC in the canonical world, or the canonical characters in an AU. These are like little bowling bumpers saving you from the gutter, but also keeping you on a straight-ish path toward the pins.

The indecisiveness of too many choices can be too intimidating when you’re first starting out. You want to be a writer but you have no idea where to begin, what genre to pick, what characters you want to chronicle, what themes you want to explore.

Even if it sits on your computer never to see the light of day, you still got those creative juices flowing.

Pre-packaged worldbuilding

Sometimes all we want is to get to the good stuff. Maybe I want to write a story about elemental magicians but Last Airbender already exists and I just want to play in a pre-existing sandbox. So I write some OCs into that world and have a free-for-all.

I don’t have to come up with my own lore, world history, magic system rules and mechanics, politics, geography—any of it. I get to just focus on the characters.

Even if you’re writing an AU, like say a coffee shop AU, you don’t have to think about brand new characters, you can just think “What would M do?” and go from there. The trade-off is your readers will expect canonical characters to behave in-character, but I think it’s worth it.

Stretch beyond your comfort zone!

Do you hate writing action scenes? Go practice with a shonen anime fic. Need work on dialogue? Write some high-fantasy fic, or a courtroom drama. Practice a fistfight by watching fistfights and writing what you see, and do it over and over again until what you read makes you feel like you're watching what’s on screen.

But beyond that—practice genres that you aren’t super familiar with. If you’re new to fantasy, write fantasy fic. Or a mystery novel/show, thriller, comedy, satire, adventure, what have you. The nature of fanfic still gives you those “guardrails” and you can get some brutally honest feedback on how you’re doing.

And, of course, the realm of M-rated romance and smut fics. I haven’t because I think I would die of embarrassment if I tried and I never intend to include sex scenes in my works anyway, but if you do want to, use the internet as your test audience. Post it on a throwaway account if you’re nervous.

Build that self-confidence!

The fandoms I used to write for are super dead, so it’s insane how I still get email notifications that so-and-so liked my fic to this day. Comments are as elusive as ever, but random strangers on the internet telling me they liked my work is a magical reassurance that my writing isn’t actually awful.

Random strangers on the internet are, as we all know, beholden to no moral obligation to be kind to your little avatar face, or be kind to be polite. So a rando taking the time to like my work or even leave a positive comment can feel more honest than one of my friends telling me what they think I want to hear.

I tend to avoid the more present aspects of fandom like online communities, forums, social media, what have you, so I get a delayed and diluted aspect of any given fandom through completed works. Which means, in general, I get to avoid the worst and most toxic aspects of fandom and get to sift through positive feedback and critique.

Even if your fanfic isn’t written with stellar prose, it’s fanfic. We don’t expect Pulitzer-prize winning content. And if your work isn’t up to snuff, people are more likely to just ignore it than put you on blast (at least in my experience, I never got a bad comment or a “flame” in the old FFN days).

Fanfic doesn’t care about the rules of published literature

On the one hand, try not to practice bad habits, but with this point I mean that your layout, punctuation, formatting, paragraph styles, chapter length–all of it is beholden to no rules. I get as annoyed as the next reader with giant blocks of paragraphs, or the double-spacing between pages of single-sentence paragraphs, but if the story’s good enough I might ignore it.

There’s more than just straight narrative fics, though. People write “chat” fics, or long streams of text and group chat conversations. The scene breaks can come super rapidly–I’ve seen fics with a single sentence in between line breaks to show the passage of time. And without the polish of a traditionally published novel, I’ve never seen a purer distillation of author voice in any medium more than fanfic.

All practice is good practice

Even if it’s crack fiction, or a one-off one-shot, or something meant to be lighthearted and straightforward and free from complex worldbuilding and intricate plots. It really helps break writer’s block when you can shift gears and headspaces entirely and you can get relatively instant feedback to keep you motivated.

Beyond that, the “guardrails” help you stay consistent as far as character growth and personality if you struggle with designing rich characters.

The most recent fanfic I wrote was just a couple years ago, for a dead fandom I didn’t think would get any traffic whatsoever. It wasn’t my original works, but the feedback on that fic gave me the kick in the butt I needed to get back into writing more seriously.

—

In short, I support fanfic. I may not be proud of my earliest fics' prose now, but I am proud that they walked so I can now run.

[octavinelle-oyster]

I saw that we're allowed to request dorms, so I was wondering if you could to Heartslabyul x Reader who adores the hedgehogs and is always volunteering to take care of them?

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts, Trey Clover, Cater Diamond, Deuce Space, Ace Trappola

Type: Headcanon

Info: gn reader, mutual pining, could be read as either romantic or platonic

Let me sit here, on the threshold of two worlds. Lost in the eloquent of silence ~Jalalud’din Rumi

Riddle Rosehearts

At first he was a tad hesitant with your excitement.

Oh, you really do love them? Then you wouldn't mind being on Hedgehog duty for a week, would you?

No, you wouldn't.

And after this little “test” of sorts to see where your interests truly lie he lets you take care of them whenever you’d like.

Just don't leave Heartslabyul with them.

Trey Clover

He doesn't mind that you like the little guys.

Just as long as you don't do anything to anger Riddle regarding them then he’s happy to lend you a spare key into the garden to mess around with them.

Yes, you have not only volunteered multiple times to help feed and clean up after the little critters but eventually they just became so comfortable with you that Trey will allow you to give them baths.

(Literally, only him and Riddle and a few others are allowed to do this.)

Totally doesn't have a picture of you with the hedgehogs on his lock screen.

Cater Diamond

Totally has multiple pictures of you with the hedgehogs all over his magicam profile.

You’re just so aesthetically pleasing with the small guys he HAS to snap a picture or two.

He's not the most adamant or uptight about the rules regarding Heartslabyul’s tiny companions but if you ask nicely he’ll mess around with them with you.

Will totally point out if one hedgehog seems to like you more than the most and then jokingly says something like “why don't you just take it home with you!” before immediately backtracking with a jk.

He would let you take one home if Riddle wouldn't have his head for it.

Deuce Space

I feel like he was enamored by the hedgehogs when he first got to Heartslabyul.

(Much unlike Ace, who was obsessed with the silly flamingos.)

Definitely, volunteers to help you whenever you mention taking care of them under the guise that an honor student should help.

He would enjoy helping you bathe them the most.

Like, look at them pitter-patterning around in the tub with water up to their ankles, you can't tell me they aren't adorable.

Ace Trappola

He didn't understand it at first.

Why would you want to be around the hedgehogs when you could be hanging out with your totally awesome and coolio best friend instead?

The only thing that gets him to change this mindset is to sit him down on the grass and plop one of the little things on his lap.

He’s quiet then.

But as soon as the moment is over he’s right back to recommending other things that you guys could be doing instead of hanging around Heartslabyul, playing with hedgehogs all day.

Omg as I went to save this after writing everything I thought tumblr ate my draft