#maybe she was joking but you know who knows

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ｖｅｒｙ ｂａｄ ｔｈｉｎｇｓ♡

♡ Pairing: mafia!wooyoung x chubby!fem!stripper!reader, other members mentioned

♡ Genre: smut

♡ Summary: When your best friend ropes you into working a bachelor party with her on your day off you're positive you know exactly what to expect. A bunch of gross drunk guys trying to put their hands on you. Instead you stumble into the exact opposite situation, finding yourself drawn to one man in particular who has you doing something you never thought you would.

♡ Word Count: 4.1k-ish

♡ Warnings: woo offers you money for sex and you take it, tattooed woo, drinking, partying, this man really likes licking you, low-key body worship, teasing, pentrative sex, unprotected sex, fingering, tit sucking, manhandling, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, a lil dom woo if you squint, a lil pain play, pet names (good girl, pretty, beautiful, cutie, baby), and that's about it babes.

♡ A/N: What can I say? I love Wooyoung. I love mafia boys. I love thicc strippers. Mix all that with a lengthy Megan thee Stallion playlist and this is where I ended up. As always, I hope my chubby hot girls out there enjoy this. Love yeeew ♡

This was supposed to be your night off. You should be bed rotting in your pajamas while you shovel snacks into your mouth and binge your favorite K-drama. Instead you’re half naked in the penthouse suite of some posh high rise straddling the lap of a pretty dark haired boy who just knocked back a shot of tequila and is seconds away from licking the salt from your cleavage.

You let out a giggle at how his tongue tickles as it drags along your skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your sparkly pink acrylics swirling in the silky strands as you tilt his head back to let him bite down on the lime wedged between your plush lips. He grins from ear to ear, arms looping around your waist to bring you closer. Your lips are dangerously close to touching. If his cock straining against his pants didn’t give away how badly he’d love for that to happen, that lust filled glimmer in his eyes would.

When he sucks the juice from the lime you pluck it from his mouth, delicately licking the last drop from his bottom lip. He lets out a groan too low for anyone else to hear over the music that fills the penthouse but you hear it. You feel it.

“So, what’s your name again, sugar?” you ask, tugging at his hair a little harder. His eyes nearly roll back at how satisfying the pain is. 

“Wooyoung, sugar. What’s yours?” he whispers, sliding his hands down to cup your ass. You’re wearing a thong, leaving almost nothing between the warmth of his palms and the smooth skin of your ass. He gives it a gentle squeeze and you let out an airy moan that falls on his tongue as sweet as candy. 

“Mmmm” you hum, grinding down on his clothed cock just enough to make it twitch, “Be a good boy tonight and maybe I’ll tell you.” 

Your best friend Anya flicks at one of the silver star charms decorating your hair as she walks by hand in hand with an equally pretty boy you’re sure you heard someone call “Yeosang” earlier.  

“She’s not being a tease is she?” she jokes.

You roll your eyes, playfully swatting her hand away, “I’m not a tease.” 

Wooyoung only shrugs, “She is a tease but that’s okay. I like it.” He squeezes your ass harder and a little squeak escapes you. 

“Hey! I said you had to be good” you scold, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. 

He releases his hold on you, fingertips petting the small of your back, “I’m sorry. I’ll be good.”

“You swear?” you pout, enjoying how easily he’s gotten wrapped around your finger. 

Wooyoung raises a pinky and hooks it around yours, “Pinky swear.”

For a fleeting moment you catch yourself falling for his charms. It’s difficult not to when he’s this hot. In fact, every man in this room is drop dead gorgeous. When Anya first asked you to work this bachelor party with her you were dreading it. Bachelor parties are usually filled with drunk, messy men who can barely string a sentence together let alone be charming.

It’s always good money but you weren’t in the mood to be gawked at by a bunch of asshole frat boys or handsy businessmen so you had every intention of telling her no. You much preferred your bed to a second of that but after all the times she’s had your back you couldn’t bring yourself not to do her this favor so you threw on your cutest lingerie, strapped on your stilettos, and got your cute ass over here. 

Much to your surprise and relief this is nothing like other bachelor parties you’ve worked. Of course they wanna see you naked. They wanna touch you, watch you dance for them. That’s the same with every man. But this group is so generous, so sweet, so willing to tend to the two of you that you’ve almost forgotten that you were working.

“Could you be a sweetheart and grab me a drink?” you ask, batting your eyelashes, “My throat’s a little dry and someone drank my last shot of tequila.” That someone being him. 

Wooyoung laughs, lifting you off of him and placing you carefully at his side, “Of course. Anything for you. What do you want?”

As Wooyoung rises from the couch you swing your feet up and he catches you by the ankles, slowly massaging your legs. You shrug, nibbling at your lip while his hands slip closer to your pillowy thighs, “Surprise me.”

“Surprise you…” he nods, his fingers sinking into your thighs, “Okay. I can do that.” He leans forward, kissing the inside of your knees before he wanders off to get you a drink.

Lying back on the couch you catch an inverted view of Anya chatting up Yeosang and finding any excuse to feel his muscles through his shirt. After a bit another man slips in beside her. You’re able to eavesdrop close enough to hear her say his name. Jongho. You’re sure he’s the youngest of the group. He’s quiet, difficult to read, but such a cutie. 

Speaking of cuties, you wonder how the man of the night is doing. Hongjoong—that’s the one name you absolutely had to remember—he’s the one getting married in a few days and you must admit his fiance’s one lucky girl. He was kind when the two of you arrived, offering you drinks and making sure you settled in fine, but he’s acted so innocent all night.

You’re sure he still hasn’t moved from that spot in the corner where he’s been sitting nursing the same drink all night. Every few minutes he checks his phone. You’re sure it’s to text his fiance. Some girls might be offended by that but you can’t bring yourself to care. You find it quite sweet actually and you get paid either way.

“Aaah…” you gasp at the sensation of something cool kissing your skin. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you look up to find Wooyoung standing over you balancing an ice cold glass of something on your belly. 

He giggles at the shock on your face, sliding it up your body to watch how your back arches in response. “For you, pretty girl.”

Carefully you take the glass, admiring the electric blue syrup swirling around inside of it. You raise it to your lips, sipping at the sweet liquid. Wooyoung kneels down beside you, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind your ear as you drink. He studies your side profile in silent fascination, admiring all of the finer details of your face. It’s a cliche thought, he knows this, but he can’t help wondering how such a delicately beautiful creature ended up in a line of work like this. Then again, with a face like this and a body like that, why wouldn’t you make men pay to be in your presence?

“How’s it taste?” he asks, only barely breaking himself from his trance.

His voice is low and dripping with need. His breath skims your neck like a trail of kisses and you catch yourself wishing that it were. Your pulse races, the tingling between your thighs growing too intense to ignore. You turning a guy on at work? It happens everyday. A guy turning you on? That’s never happened before, not during a single night on the job, but there’s a first time for everything isn’t there?

“You tell me,” you say, offering him a sip. As you do so your hand trembles enough for some of the alcohol to spill over the brim and onto your fingers. 

Wooyoung locks eyes with you, deep pools of brown pulling you into his gaze. Setting the glass down on the floor, he takes you by the wrist, gently stroking it as he presses your fingers to his lips. His tongue darts out, twirling around each and every finger to lick them clean. You never could’ve predicted that something like this would get you wet but here you are. That tingling between your thighs? It’s unbearable now. You squeeze them together, bringing your attention to how wet he’s managed to get you. You hate it and love it all at once. 

“You taste delicious” he grins, kissing your inner wrist. 

It makes you shiver and you pull your hand back, fighting to get a hold on yourself, “I thought we were talking about the drink, not me.”

Wooyoung shrugs, running his fingers down your side, “I don’t know, were we?” 

You should stop him but lust has you locked in place, letting his hand venture below your waist without a word of protest on your part. He squeezes the plush of your thigh, tucking a thumb between them so that it hovers a mere inch away from the wet fabric clinging to your warmth. In this moment everyone else in the room fades away. Even the music seems as if it’s traveled miles to reach your ears. You can only focus on each other. The way your breath hitches the closer he gets to stroking your clit through the lace. The way his eyes seem to twinkle as he watches you grow more and more needy for him as the seconds pass. His thumb’s so close you can almost feel it. Something in you tells you to shift your body down on the couch a little bit, close the distance and give yourself that relief you want so badly. 

“You didn’t pay for that” you snap, shooing his hand away, “That’s not on the menu, babe.” 

Without missing a beat Wooyoung retrieves his phone from his back pocket, swiping on the screen a few times before handing it over to you. It’s a CashApp screen and the keyboard’s already up for you to type your name into the search bar.

“Can I request something off the menu then?”

You shoot upright on the couch, shocked by what you see on the screen. “You’re joking” you laugh, motioning to hand his phone back.

Wooyoung stops you before you can, his expression more serious than you’ve seen it all night.��“I want you.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Try me…”

You wait for him to give it up but he doesn’t waver, not in the slightest. You huff, finding your account and tapping in an amount triple your fee for dancing. “There. You happy?” 

Wooyoung happily takes his phone back, hitting a single button before presenting you with the screen. “As long as you are.”

“Holy shit” you gasp, eyes glued to the screen. He actually did it. He sent you the money. Truth be told if he kept up all the teasing you probably would’ve slept with him before the night was over anyway but the fact that he was willing to pay for it? That’s a twist you didn’t see coming. 

“You…you’re crazy” you giggle, cupping that wonderfully defined face of his, “Fucking insane.”

Wooyoung doesn’t seem offended by that in the least. In fact, he takes it as a compliment. “But you like it…” he grins as he stands back up, sweeping your drink up with one hand and extending the other to you, “Don’t you?” 

You stare at him defiantly, refusing to respond. Not that you need to. The answer’s written all over your face in that faint smile you couldn’t chase away if you tried. A smile that lingers there as he takes you by the hand, guiding you down the nearby hallway and into the master bedroom of the penthouse.

The rest of the penthouse is gorgeous, the sort of place you only see in design magazines, and the master bedroom’s no different. It’s dimly lit with soft white light emitting from a sleek Swedish lamp in the corner. The pristine white walls are adorned with intricate paintings, all originals. All of the furniture’s designer, most notably the king size bed positioned across the room opposite ceiling to floor windows that overlook the city. You’re up much too high for anyone to see you but it feels like you can see the whole world from here. 

Wooyoung quickly takes notice of how charmed you are by the view. “You can check it out if you want,” he says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, “I’m not in a rush.” He can’t hold back his amusement at how giddy you are rushing over to the window to take in the sights. You’re quite possibly the cutest thing ever. 

“Whose place is this anyway?” you ask, unable to peel yourself away from the twinkling lights of the city below. Usually you steer clear of personal questions—it’s better that way—but something about Wooyoung makes you comfortable enough to ask. 

Chugging the rest of your drink, he lays back on the bed, glaring up at the spiraling design on the ceiling. “You remember the tall one? Kinda goofy?”

You run down a mental list of the boys at the party and narrow it down to two. “Which one?”

Wooyoung nearly chokes laughing, “Which one? Oh my god.”

“What?” you pout, truly not meaning any harm, “There’s two of them.”

“Mingi, the one with the deep voice. This is his place. He moved in, I don’t know, a month ago. Nice isn’t it?”

“Do you all live like this?” There you go again, asking questions you know you shouldn’t.

Wooyoung turns to look at you, his reflection immediately capturing your attention. “For the most part, yeah.”

You spin around to face him, on the verge of melting under the heat of his gaze, “Are you a drug dealer or something, Woo?”

He lets that question linger in the air, gesturing for you to come to him. “Come here, beautiful. You’re too far away.”

You skip over to the bed, your body jiggling so deliciously that he’s tempted to send you back over to the window just to see you come back again. Hopping onto the bed, you throw one leg across his waist, straddling his lap. “Better?”

He cups your cheek, bringing you in so that you���re face to face, his lips skimming yours once more. “Better.” 

“You didn’t answer my question” you whisper, rocking your hips against a bulge that’s even harder for you than before. 

Wooyoung loops an arm around your waist, keeping you flush against him, “If I answer your question will you tell me your name?”

“Mmhmm” you whine at the friction between you.

The fabric of your panties is flimsy enough that you can feel the texture of his pants—the pressure of his cock straining against them. It makes your mind go fuzzy. Wooyoung knows this because you’re doing the same to him.

“I’m a very bad man who does very bad things but not that. Not anymore” he confesses, flipping you onto your back in one effortless motion.

Any attempt you could’ve made to respond is silenced when his lips finally crash into yours. You teased him for hours, taking every opportunity to almost kiss him knowing from the start how badly he wanted you. Now that he can finally have you—satisfy the hunger that’s been building inside all night—he’s ravenous, holding nothing back.

“Your turn” he whispers between your lips, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion, not once breaking the kiss. 

The room’s still spinning when you part your lips to answer his question. As a rule you always give a fake name—one of the pretty ones that you and Anya came up with to stop creeps from finding you out in the real world—but for some reason you can’t lie to Wooyoung. With him kissing you like he wants to devour your very soul, the only possible thing you can spill out is the truth.

Wooyoung kisses his way down your neck, inhaling the sugary scent of your perfume as he drags his tongue between your breasts. “Such a pretty name. I like it.”

“I…I like your name too” you stutter, fingers combing through his hair, “Wooyoung’s a pretty name.”

Catching the fabric of your top between his teeth, he tugs harshly, causing the knots holding it together to slip. Your lush breasts fall free from your top, the tiny hairs on your arm standing up at the feeling of your stiff buds brushing the fabric of his shirt. 

“Mmm, say it again” he groans, the tip of his tongue swirling around your nipple, “It sounds so fucking good when you say it.” 

Taking your bud between his teeth, he sucks harshly at it, treating you to a combination of pain and pleasure that’s nothing short of addictive. Wedging a knee between your legs, he pushes your thighs apart, reaching down to knot your panties in his fist. Your body jerks as he snatches them away, leaving your dripping pussy exposed. Slipping two fingers between your folds, he spreads you open, letting his middle finger slide back and forth across your clit. 

“Wooyoung…mmph…” you moan, arching into his touch, “Woo…aah”. 

Wooyoung dips his fingers down to your clenching hole, stretching you open enough to give you a taste of what your body’s begging for.

“You want more, baby?” he teases, drooling around your swollen nipple. 

“Yes, please” you beg, your breath hitching as his fingers, already slick with your arousal, push into you. 

His movements are slow at first. Two fingers sliding in and out of you, gently stroking your pulsing walls. Your walls are so velvety and warm that he could spend all night petting them. No pussy’s ever felt this good wound around his fingers. His cock aches at the thought of how heavenly it must be to be inside of you. But that’s not truly where his head is right now. He’s solely focused on sneaking a third finger into your pussy, quickening his pace to make sure you never stop making all these pretty noises.

Wooyoung’s fingers are like magic and he’s insanely attentive, effortlessly picking up on your sweet spots and hitting them every single time. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, pushing you so close to your high that your lips are quivering. Wooyoung may be a very bad man who does very bad things but he’s so so good to you.

You tug at his hair, wanting another kiss but unable to form the words to ask for one. Guessing what you want—he wants it too—he leans up and pulls you into another kiss. Your lips collide right on the edge of your orgasm, his tongue dancing with yours as the euphoria hits and you clench around his fingers. 

“Good girl” he praises, “Are you always this gorgeous when you cum or is this just for me?”

His admiration only heightens the intensity of your orgasm. That coupled with the fact that he hasn’t let up on you has you ready to fall apart right here and now. After a couple seconds you figured he’d slow down, give you some time to recover, but no, he just keeps going.

“One more for me” he whispers, bringing his thumb up to rub your clit. 

“Woo, I can’t. Too much” you whine, grabbing onto his shirt hard enough to tear it.

He doesn’t care if you do. He meant it when he said you’re gorgeous when you cum. Your faces are perfection and your body’s glowing. When you look like this you could tear up everything he owns and he’d let you get away with it. 

“You can do it, baby. Just look at you. You’re already so close again, aren’t you?” he coos, kissing you on the cheek.

A split second. That’s all you get to come down, if you can call it that, before the pressure’s building again and you’re coming so hard it has your ears ringing. This time he shows you mercy, gradually slowing his motions, showering you in the sweetest kisses while you come down. Climbing off of you, he stands at the foot of the bed, licking his drenched fingers.

“I was right. You are delicious.” 

You roll your eyes, trying hard not to give away how sickeningly hot you find him. “Are you always like this?”

There it is again. That mischievous grin that he’s been flashing you all night. The one you can blame for getting you into this situation to begin with. He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a tattooed chest you just can’t wait to dig your nails into.

“Like what?” he asks, undoing his belt. 

“Like a menace” is what you want to say but you can’t. Wooyoung’s pants are at his ankles now and he has the nerve to stand there like he doesn’t know how glorious his cock is. You don’t need a fully lit room to see how flawless, how beautifully veined, how totally made for you it is. 

“Like what, cutie?” he repeats, grabbing your ankles and dragging you to the edge of the bed. Tucking his hands behind your knees, he pushes your legs back, spreading them open to push the head of his cock up against your twitching pussy. 

You moan at the satisfying warmth of his arousal coating your slit, hips pressing down to stretch yourself with the tip.

“I don’t even know anymore. I’m just so…so…”

“So pretty…” he grunts, driving his length into you so deep that you feel it in your chest. Every word he says is accompanied by a thrust that rocks you to your core, little dots of color decorating your vision. “So beautiful. So fucking sexy when you take my cock.”

Your pussy’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before. It’s enough to make his head spin and his knees weak. His cock’s never indulged in something this decadent. It’s so good—maybe too good. When you first walked through the door tonight Wooyoung knew it would be. Something about you said you were sitting on a pussy like gold and he wasn’t wrong. Not even a little bit.

You can’t even pretend that you don’t feel the same way. You’re bouncing back against his cock, clamping down on him like you’ll die if he pulls out. Every stroke of his cock floods your senses with pleasure, worsening the moisture leaking from your needy hole onto the expensive sheets. It’s so overstimulating. The length. The thickness. How he throbs in response to every flutter of your walls, filling you up exactly how you need to be filled.

Shifting angles, he mercilessly drills into your sweet spot, making you lose control of your already weakened limbs. You can’t raise your hips. You can’t bounce back on him. You can’t do anything at all besides lay there and take every inch of cock that he feeds you. It’s only a matter of time before your breath’s hitching again, that airy feeling overtaking your body. 

“Look at me” he commands when your head falls back, glossy eyes rolling to the back of your head. Letting one of your legs drop, he slaps a hand down on the softness of your belly and grips it hard enough to sting. 

“Mmph, Woo…” you moan, teary eyes finding his gaze as your nails rake across the sheets. There’s a darkness in his expression that intimidates you as much as it turns you on.

A smile tugs at his lips at the sound of your broken voice moaning his name. “You look at me when you cum or I’ll stop. You don’t want me to stop, do you, baby?” 

You shake your head, pouting cutely. You make him weaker than you can imagine but that’s not enough for him. He knows you can do better than that. 

Slowing down to an agonizingly slow pace, he drags his fingers down your belly to play with your clit. “I don’t believe you. I think you want me to stop.”

“No, don’t stop” you whine, rocking up and down his length, “I won’t look away. I promise. Fuck me, Youngie, please.”

Wooyoung folds for you in an instant, fucking into you hard enough that the headboard’s rocking. You reach out for his hand and he gives it to you, fingers interlacing with yours as your high takes you under.

This is the third time he’s seen you cum—the third time he’s watched you moan and arch and cry out for him—and each time’s more perfect than the last. Good thing this isn’t the last. In fact, it’s far from it. You’re his for the night and by the time he’s done with you he’ll have every face you make, every desperate little moan, committed to memory. 

[exhausted-archivist]

This is the banter about his going rates that I referenced in another post, and I see the comments and tags. I cannot tell you how much this isn’t him being a nepo baby or the “how much could it cost” meme.

Shoving the rest under the cut because I get the joke here but I need to yell about this man.

tldr: This isn’t dialogue about Lucanis being out of touch, and not knowing what money is worth. He knows, he’s a union man. This dialogue is about Lucanis learning about Harding’s values and priorities. He was worried he was low balling Harding. The tone in this dialogue throws him because what Harding says could easily be taken as “six thousand is only this much and I deserve more compensation.” Hence why he offered to negotiate with her and also why he clarified that the comparison was good.

Now for me yelling about this man:

Lucanis is a union man. Lucanis thinks everyone should be paid fairly, equally, and the market rate. He tells Neve to unionize with the other detectives to make sure she is being compensated fairly (to make sure they all are tbh) and that no one is underpricing themselves. If they are, they’re a scab.

He tells Bellara the Veil Jumpers are providing a service and risking their lives - they should be fairly and properly compensated. They should not only unionize but charge for their services.

Now there is something to say about capitalism and such, but Lucanis is vouching for this stuff because at the end of the day money is important in Thedas. With money you can buy the supplies you need. With money you can make more impactful change, bribe people with lesser morals, provide for people who need it. Cover funerary costs, compensate the families of those who died who maybe the person working for/with you was the only money earner. With money, you can choose to help on jobs that don’t pay at all because you have the comfort of knowing you have other work to cover things.

Lucanis isn’t asking Harding if that’s good because he doesn’t understand the value of what he’s offering. He’s asking Harding if it’s good to understand what her value of it is. Money is after all just a social contract of a universally agreed to system to value the more abstract concepts of value (and even then it fails at times). For all he knows she could have been presenting those examples to show he is lowballing her.

This man is offering to negotiate with her, but her words and tone throw him so he’s not sure if she is happy with the offer or offended.

Lucanis isn’t a nepo baby who thinks 10 dollars for a banana isn’t a lot. Illiaro is the nepo baby. Lucanis was born into wealth but he knows the value of it and works hard to not only earn it but also maintain it. This man has standards, he wants the best because he can afford it so he will not accept anything less than his expensive, luxury Orlesian peaches.

Lucanis doesn’t value goats or a barn the same way Harding does. For her there is personal attachment and sentimentality (see where money fails to properly put a value on something). He knows their monetary worth of those things but he would not be pleased or excited to be paid in a herd of goats (unless perhaps if they were Ayesleigh gulabi goat). But Harding does value those things. Those things have more meaning to her than their value in gold, that’s home. That’s stability. That’s purpose and security. Giving books to the whole village? That’s enriching lives, that teaching people to read. That is uplifting people.

If you asked Lucanis to list off what 6k gold could get him? You’d see his values are different, it would be coffee, luxury food ingredients, wyvern memorabilia, daggers.

Anyways, this isn’t my blorbo but he’s the blorbo of friends I have and man is up there with Cullen, Davrin, and others. Just rotating in my brain space because people I care about like him.

Also this makes me wonder how much the Inquisition was paying Harding and if Lucanis is going to provide her with one of his lawyers like he did for Neve and Bellara.

I've seen Lucanis' family villa so I knew he was rich, but this banter made me realize that he's a rich boy who has no idea what money is worth lmao.

[p0orbaby]

Could you go an request for Leah Williamson x Reader.

Leah has a crush on reader, no one knows except for Alessia who caught her watching edits of reader. The team are in the gym, doing pulls up, weights all that stuff. And Leah can’t keep her eyes off you. Getting turned on by the movements and flex muscles. Alessia seeing this teases her through-out the whole time.

-

The gym reeks of dedication, effort, and that specific brand of post-workout musk that no amount of designer deodorant can hide. It’s all heavy bass music, the metallic clang of weights, and the occasional grunt from someone pretending this is their 15th rep, not their fourth. You’re mid-pull-up, arms flexing in a way that looks almost unfair to the human eye. Leah, meanwhile, is failing miserably at playing it cool.

She’s not even trying, really. She’s perched on a bench with a dumbbell that’s more decorative than functional, staring at you like you’re the last goal in stoppage time. Her gaze keeps flicking from your biceps to your shoulders, her jaw tightening whenever you move.

“Subtle,” Alessia whispers from the treadmill beside her, not even pretending to hide her smirk. She’s seen this before—caught Leah at 11 p.m., huddled over her phone, watching a fan-made TikTok edit of you scoring last season. Leah had looked up, panicked, and slammed her phone down like a teenager caught watching something decidedly not safe for work. Alessia hasn’t let it go since.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leah hisses, trying and failing to keep her eyes on her dumbbell. She gives it a half-hearted curl, immediately setting it down because apparently, five kilos is suddenly too heavy.

“Right,” Alessia drawls, upping the treadmill incline just to feel something. “You’re just admiring the… technique?”

“Exactly”

Your laugh cuts through the gym noise, and Leah flinches, like she’s been caught red-handed. You’re joking with Katie McCabe, something about the pull-up bar being too high for her. Leah swears she’s never been jealous of metal equipment before, but here she is, wishing she were that bar.

“Look at her,” Alessia says, low enough for only Leah to hear. “Flexing, laughing, being all… sweaty”

Leah glares. “Stop”

“Stop what? Observing?” Alessia bats her lashes. “Honestly, it’s inspiring. You should go tell her she’s doing great. Maybe offer to spot her?”

Leah shakes her head, panic flashing across her face. “I’m not that obvious”

Alessia’s grin widens. “Mate, you’re a blinking neon sign. I half expect you to start holding up a banner that says, Please notice me, Reader”

Leah clenches her jaw, staring fixedly at the ground like it’s personally offended her. You’ve moved on to the bench press now, lying back, the muscles in your arms and chest taut as you push the barbell up. Leah makes the mistake of glancing up.

“Christ,” she mutters under her breath, her ears turning red.

“Christ can’t help you,” Alessia quips, leaning forward on the treadmill handles. “You’re done for”

You finish your set, sitting up and wiping the sweat off your brow with your shirt, inadvertently flashing just the tiniest sliver of toned stomach. Leah, already fighting a losing battle, looks like she might combust.

“Alright, that’s it,” Alessia announces, stepping off the treadmill and grabbing a water bottle. “I can’t watch you suffer like this anymore. Either talk to her, or I’m telling the entire team you’ve got a crush the size of Wembley on her.”

Leah’s eyes widen, and she grabs Alessia’s arm in a death grip. “You wouldn’t”

Alessia just raises an eyebrow. “Try me”

Before Leah can argue, you saunter over, a casual smile on your lips and a towel slung around your neck.

“Hey,” you say, glancing between the two of them. “What’s all this about?”

Leah’s brain short-circuits. Alessia, unbothered and enjoying herself far too much, grins. “Leah was just saying how impressed she is with your form. Weren’t you, Leah?”

Leah stammers something incoherent, her face flaming, and you tilt your head, amused.

“Well,” you say, smirking just enough to make Leah’s pulse spike, “I’m more than happy to book you in for a one-on-one to show you the ropes, if you’d like?”

You walk away before Leah can respond, leaving Alessia in stitches and Leah questioning every decision that led her to this moment.

[no-144444]

prince charming- l.norris

summary: lando brings his niece to the ballet, who knew he'd find love?

pairing: lando norris x fem! ballerina! reader

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

Another show finished, another day done. All you had to do was meet some children and show them around the stage. It was a thing the company had decided to do after every single show, and you were one of the only ballerinas who enjoyed it. Everyone else ran out of there as fast as they could, but you stayed around, in full costume, showing them everything. 

“Y/n! Y/n! Look!” Mila, the little girl that had been assigned to you pulled on your hand and you followed her over. “It’s your Prince Charming!” She pointed at your co-star, Richard, who was playing Prince Charming while you played Cinderella. He was lovely and one of your best friends, but Mila’s face fell when she saw him kiss another girl, aka his actual girlfriend Mia. “He’s kissing someone else!” she gasped, looking at you hurt. 

You smiled. “We’re only together in the show, remember? My name isn’t Cinderella, is it?” You chuckled and she nodded, laughing. “So, that’s Richard, and he’s Mia’s real-life Prince Charming, not mine.”

She nodded understandingly. “Do you have a Prince Charming?”

You internally cringed, why did kids always want to know about your love-life? “No,” you smiled. 

Her face lit up. “OH! Perfect! Uncle Lala!” she called for her uncle to come over as your face fell. “Uncle Lala will you be Y/n’s Prince Charming so she can be my Auntie and we can have fun forever?!” 

Mila’s excited face and the ridiculousness of her statement, reminding him she truly didn’t know how the world worked, made him giggle. And with Lando, when he starts, he doesn’t stop. It took a whole minute for him to stop laughing, while you sat there awkwardly. You knew who he was, you knew why he was laughing, but it was still rude. Just say no, dude. 

“Mila, it doesn’t work like that,” he explained. “She’s way too pretty for me,” he whispered, sitting down beside her, and in front of you. 

Your eyes widened and you looked down, confused at the entire situation. 

“I know she is,” Mila answered (subtle dig at her uncle, but alright). “But you could ask her to dance or something. Princesses like dancing.”

Lando shook his head. “I’m an awful dancer.”

“Why do you just try talking to her!” Mila scoffed, then ran off to go look at some of the set of the show. 

You looked up and met his eyes and you both started laughing. “I’m so sorry about her, she gets like this sometimes,” he admitted, a slight blush on his cheeks. 

“It’s alright, it happens sometimes,” you waved him off, an easy smile on your face. 

“You get hit on through people’s nieces a lot?” he questioned. 

You chuckled. “It’s more common than you think, people love the ballerina shtick.”

He laughed. “How old are you?”

“I’m 23,” you answered. “And I’m Y/n.”

“I’m Lando,” he held his hand out to be shaken. “Nice to meet you.”

“NIce to meet you too,” you smiled, shaking his hand. “Congratulations on the year you’ve had.”

“You watch F1?”

You nodded. “My mom has been into it since she was a kid, she gave that to me, so… yeah.”

“Who’s your favourite driver?” he smirked and you chuckled. 

“Nico Hulkenberg,” you smirked. 

He chuckled. “Understandable,” he smiled, nodding. “Mila is probably off somewhere trying to destroy your set, I should probably go grab her.”

You both got up and smiled at each other. “It was nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Prince Charming,” you joked, he giggled. 

And that was that. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

For the next few days, Lando could not get you out of his head. You were funny, kind, beautiful, good with Mila, everything he wanted in a person, yet he’d let you slip away. You weren’t even on social media, but he followed the company’s instagram and some of your friends to see pictures of you. He decided, once the season ended, he’d go back and find you. Maybe he really could become your Prince Charming. 

He joined the rest of the crowd in their standing ovation as you bowed, smiling brightly. He waited around and followed a few more people backstage to finally see you again. 

“Lando?” you questioned as you looked at him from behind. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you again,” he shrugged. “Happy holidays.”

You smiled. “So it is true,” your eyes shone with a hint of mischief. “You did follow the company account.”

He screwed his face up in a half-smile-half-grimace, he’d been caught. “You don’t have a public account, thought it would be weird to follow you on your private one.”

You chuckled. “I would’ve let you follow me,” you told him. “You are my Prince Charming, right?”

He beamed. “Right,” he nodded. “Dinner?”

“Let me get out of costume,” you agreed. You started to walk off and he didn’t follow, unsure what to do. You turned back and grabbed his hand. “Come on!”

He was very happy he had brought Mila to the ballet.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[milktiicup]

If it isn’t a hassle, could you write a continuation of the pregnancy fic you wrote with mr crawling? Like maybe when the baby is born? 🙏

He’s such a cutie I swear

a touch of home!

“Yeah, she's strong,” you said, a note of pride in your voice. “Probably get that from you.” He tilts his head at that, his grin widening. “Little us strong. Like me? Strong like me?” “Of course,” you reply, reaching out to gently stroke the baby’s cheek. “They’re a little mix of both of us, you know. Your strength, my looks, obviously.”

warnings. spoilers for mc's past, reader is still ungendered / no descriptions of birth

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🌊 ⋅ ˚✮ chapter 1

Life has certainly taken a turn you never expected. Within a single year, you went from living a relatively isolated existence- albeit with some questionable extracurriculars- to residing in another world, leaving said world, sharing your life with a monster, and now, raising a new born. The juxtaposition between who you were and who you had become often left you with a feeling of derealisation.

Taking time off from work (and by "work," you meant the kind of job that didn’t exactly leave a paper trail) felt strange. The phrase retired serial killer felt like a joke every time you thought about it. Instead of carefully planning your next "project," you now spent your days meticulously tracking feedings, diaper changes, and nap times with a part time in teaching Mr. Crawling your language. 

The baby coos, forcefully pulling you from your trance. You blink down at the half folded laundry, a pile of folded and unfolded colourful baby onesies. Whoever you were a year ago would’ve smashed a crowbar into someone’s face for even suggesting the idea that you were doing something like this. 

The baby coos louder, and you can hear the shuffle of Mr. Crawling down the hallway.

“Little us loud,” he says, peering into the bassinette. “Little us okay? Healthy?”

“She’s just sleeping,” you reply, a soft smile on your face. 

Mr. Crawling’s hand hovers over your baby’s stomach, an internal conflict on whether he should pat her, or poke her. In the end, he leaves her be, and crawls over to your side. He leans his head on your shoulder, and points to the laundry with a, “Fold?”

You hum. “Yes, fold,” holding up a tiny onesie and folding it for emphasis, "like this."

He nods enthusiastically and reaches for one of the baby’s onesies, his long fingers awkwardly attempting to mimic your movements. The result was… less than successful, the onesie ending up in a lumpy square-ish shape. Mr. Crawling looks proud enough of his work, so you weren’t about to nitpick about imperfections. 

You smile lightly, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Good.”

“Good, good!” Mr. Crawling giggles, and reaches for another.

The baby coos again. They were awake now, kicking their tiny feet and waving their arms, their soft gurgles filling the room. The onesie Mr. Crawling has in his grips flops to the floor as he crawls over to the bassinette, an eyeless stare peering down. He reaches into the cradle, the baby’s small hand reaching out to grip onto his long grey finger.

“Little us happy,” Mr. Crawling smiles brightly, but falters, “Little us strong.”

You laugh, breathlessly. The baby’s grip on his finger was impressive, her small face scrunching up in concentration. You join Mr. Crawling beside the bassinette, leaning onto him. His hair tickles your face.

“Yeah, she's strong,” you said, a note of pride in your voice. “Probably get that from you.”

He tilts his head at that, his grin widening. “Little us strong. Like me? Strong like me?”

“Of course,” you reply, reaching out to gently stroke the baby’s cheek. “They’re a little mix of both of us, you know. Your strength, my looks, obviously.”

“Mix,” he murmurs, as if testing the word. “Little us.”

The way he said it, so simple yet full of meaning, sent a warmth through your chest. This life you had now was strange and unexpected, but it was also full of moments like this- moments that made you think maybe, just maybe, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The baby’s face scrunches, and the wails start. Moment ruined. You sigh, deflating like a balloon.

Mr. Crawling reaches into the bassinette, cradling the baby with such softness and care. “Shh, tiny us. No sad. Me here.”

The wail of the baby fades into sniffles, and you turn back to your laundry, folding another onesie with a sigh. Your hands move mechanically, but your mind stays in the room with Mr. Crawling and the baby. The quiet moment, brief as it was, has reminded you just how much things had shifted. From solitary nights with blood on your hands to this quiet domesticity with a baby and a monster.

Mr. Crawling’s movements are slow and deliberate as he rocks the baby gently in his arms, the occasional hum slipping from his lips. Despite his lack of eyes, there’s a sense of focus, a connection between him and the tiny person in his arms. It’s uncanny. He’s good at this. Maybe he doesn’t know everything, but he’s figuring it out with a deep patience that you can’t help but admire. He’s better at this than you ever could be.

The baby lets out a giggle, similar to her father’s as unnerving as it was, and Mr. Crawling looks down at her with that strange, contented smile he always has when he’s near her. "Little us happy now," he murmurs.

You swallow a laugh. "Yeah, they’re happy. You’re good at this." You set down the folded onesie and move toward them, leaning down to kiss the top of your baby’s head. “So good. I think you’re a natural.”

He glances up at you, his expression soft but filled with pride. "Natural. Me... natural?"

You nod, smiling. "Yeah, I’d say so." Your eyes flicker to the baby, her tiny hands still balled up in fists as she rests in his arms. "Maybe you should take her out for a walk. Give her some fresh air." You glance at the window, where the sun is just starting to set, casting an orange glow over the room. "I’m sure she’d love it."

He tilts his head, looking down at the baby for a moment before turning his gaze back to you. "Walk?" His voice is tinged with uncertainty, though the excitement is clear. "Out? Me take... little us... out?"

You chuckle, reaching for his hand. "Yeah, you can take her out. You’ve got it all figured out now. Just don’t go far, okay?"

Mr. Crawling seems to mull this over for a second, then nods vigorously. “Me take her out. Little us see the world!” More like Little us see the apartment complex! He carefully stands to his full height, head edging near the ceiling. He cradles the baby against his chest as if she weighs nothing at all, her tiny face peeking out from the edge of his kimono.

You watch them with a smile as he makes his way toward the door, stepping slowly, deliberately, with all the care in the world for the little bundle in his arms. There's a softness in his movements now, something that never existed when he first appeared in your life.

"Be careful, okay?" you call out, suddenly feeling a pang of protectiveness. The world outside is unfamiliar and strange to him. Even though he’s getting better at understanding it, there’s still so much he’s yet to experience.

“Careful," he calls back, his voice full of assurance. “Little us... strong. Safe.”

You smile, watching as he disappears into the hallway, his laughter echoing faintly. You decide now would be a good time to wash the dishes. The space in the room is quieter now, but still filled with warmth.

As you finish folding the last onesie, you realise just how far you’ve come in such a short amount of time. A year ago, you would’ve never believed any of this was possible. Yet, here you are, in this strange new life with Mr. Crawling, raising your child together.

You step over to the window, looking out at the fading light of the day. The weight of it all settles on your shoulders for a moment. There’s a lot of unknown ahead of you, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a burden.

It feels like a future. And maybe, just maybe, it’s one you were always meant to have.

[boomstab-papa]

Oh absolutely, giving misogynists captive girlfriends/wives isn't going to fix anything. Being a little more misogynist to try to appease misogynists won't work.

But "giving any credence" is such an interesting phrase to use here, because it's so ambiguous and also accusatory. What does "giving credence" mean? Who has been doing it? What have they been advocating for? Who, for example, has been saying leftists should be more misogynist, and how?

I'm not alone in this confusion, either, there are several comments on the tweet who are equally perplexed.

The fact is that the left DOES NEED a better approach to people who are feeling lost, angry, and scared.

Alt-right "self-help" authors and programs are hugely popular. These predators target lost, scared, and angry people. They're cults, really. And no matter how much the left discusses things like "can we stop parroting bioessentialist bullshit because hey, men aren't destined to be misogynistic assholes"... these alt-right cultists don't ever even have to TALK TO a leftist to repeatedly hear "leftists hate you for being born white/male/rich/etc". I really can't get over how Rush Limbaugh popularized the term "feminiazi" and told an entire generation that feminists were angry man-haters when they literally are not. But that's exactly how the grift works!! I should know, I grew up in exactly this Rush Limbaugh kind of house!!

"Don't blame the hyper-wealthy for ruining the economy, blame women and foreigners for taking all the jobs! Don't blame the ruined economy when nobody wants to have kids anymore, blame the women! Don't blame patriarchy and all the misogyny it taught you when women avoid your misogynist ass, blame the women! Remember, the feminazis hate you!!"

So what to do?

On an interpersonal level, sometimes it can be really easy. This is a comment made to Innuendo Studios's video "How to Radicalize A Normie" on this exact topic (which I highly recommend watching).

"Hey, ex-alt-right member here. First, really like this series. I feel like you’re validating the radicalization that me and my male friends experienced. Putting it into words and showing us how we got tricked, exposing the magician and their tricks. Second, I vot out not through argument and discussion but actually through feelings. I was very edgy and would use the n-word in jokes all the time. My male friends would not call me out on it. But a female friend of mine said it made her uncomfortable and that she didn’t appreciate these jokes when we played fortnite together. That shook me to my core as I cared for my friend and that’s how my deradicaliztion started. Just wanted to add in this personal story, keep up the great work :)"

If this is someone you know, tell them their behavior is not cool.

THIS GOES DOUBLE FOR THE MEN READING THIS. Misogynists are more likely to listen to you than they are to listen to women!! If someone is being a shithead in your vicinity, consider: are you gonna let it slide? Or are you maybe, possibly, going to be the one thing that yanks them out of a hatespiral and prompts them to re-examine their hateful worldview? Tell them "hey not cool".

This might not work the first time. This might not work at all for some people. But if the situation is relatively safe, then it's worth trying.

And this does not mean that you personally are responsible for "centering men in your conversations" or "marginalized people putting in even more emotional labor" or "if a man is misogynist it's because you failed him" what the fuck ever like I've seen in this discourse. Come the fuck on.

It means you can probably try saying something to somebody you know. And if it doesn't work? You can say you tried.

On a policy level, we have more work to do. It shouldn't come as a surprise to any leftist that the current economic and political system in the USA exists to separate and exploit people. I think we all agree it really sucks to live in a system like this. Your average reactionary misogynist also thinks the system sucks, but as explained above, they've been trained to place the blame on some convenient scapegoats instead. Immigrants. Women. Queer people. Muslims. Anybody who's not white. Et cetera. "Government needs to get out of the way of smart people and then Elon Musk will build a utopia for The Faithful (which includes me) on Mars" or some shit.

These people need to hear that their anger is justified, but that their blame is misplaced. They need policies that will hold the responsible parties accountable. They need policies that won't leave them impoverished and isolated and exhausted after working a 40+ hour work week. They need to realize the system isn't sorting people into "the worthy rich" and "the unworthy poor", rather, that it's exploiting everyone except the wealth-owning class. They need to realize it's their politicians' biggest campaign donors that are doing this to them.

The Democratic Party needs to actually talk about this. I'll be dangerously pithy here: the Democratic Party needs to sound more like Bernie Fucking Sanders. Politicians need to oppose health insurance companies and get Medicare For All going. Politicians need to stop voting to give the military two fucking billion dollars every single day and fund free college and trade schools. Politicians need to tell business interests to fuck off and get a livable minimum wage AND a universal basic income passed, which will severely undercut employers' ability to exploit and isolate us.

And we need Citizens United repealed. Badly. I'm not trying to imply the problem is only with Republicans' campaign donors, because Democrats' biggest campaign donors are also often the same people exploiting us. But look at how Democrats did a tiny little bit of pro-union and anti-trust work these past 4 years and they screamed bloody fucking murder. If Democrats are relying on these people's money to get them elected, I think it's going to be really hard to get policies passed that will actually make USAmericans safer and happier (ie. address Republicans' economic fears that they keep blaming on various scapegoats).

Although with Republicans controlling the entire Federal government for the next two years minimum, this feels more distant than ever.

That's what we need to be taking seriously. If you don't give any credence to the fears and insecurities underlying the horrifying reactionary politics, you're not actually addressing anything. If you can't admit that capitalism fucks all of us over and makes all of us miserable and looking for a remedy, are you even a leftist?

[bonkaii4]

Mel being an empath

(Okay i just got say arcane has sparked passion in me i haven’t felt for a show and fandom in yeeeears i haven’t written a meta in forever so bare with me.)

Anyway at first watching act 3 the reveal of Mel being empath felt crazy like that’s such a huge bomb that we didn’t get build up on or much follow through but i do think it explains so much about her character. Traditionally empaths are written to be overly emotional or sensitive sort of like telepaths and being smart but Mel wasn’t written like that she’s quite calm and collected her most emotional outbursts are with her mother and jayce and even with jayce it’s only because he’s hurling accusations at her and she still remains relatively calm in her responses. I think her knowing people’s emotions wether she was aware of this or not plays into this she knows Jayce is coming from a place of hurt and confusion where as her mother back in season one she knows she’s being disingenuous with the reasons of being in piltover.

First watch this just seems like a disgruntled daughter and her mother trying to get on her good side but knowing that Mel can read people’s emotions adds another layer she see right through her mother which not only from just being raised by her but through her her empath skills.

also wanted to bring this up someone pointed this out tiktok and someone else pointed out that this maybe because we’re seeing this scene through Mel’s POV and since she is empath she see that Maddie is secretly enjoying executing Caitlyn. This got me thinking about her career as council member/politician I’ve wondered how she got so high up while seemingly not only being the youngest member but being young period if she’s assumed to be Jayce’s and Victor’s age this makes her about 24-27 in s1 which is extremely young for council member which essentially this region’s governing body. Being able to sense people’s true intentions allowed her to know who to align herself who not to, knowing when people agreed and disagreed with her, or when people sympathize with your views, causes, or concerns on certain issues which all helped her advance quickly her career. I’m sure being from a high born house helped but we see other high born houses in council positions but they’re all older.

She also seems to be somewhat bored with politics and somewhat disillusioned when we meet her i mean giving a fellow council member a child’s toy almost like a practical joke doesn’t seem like someone who views politics and her colleagues with utmost seriousness it isn’t until she meets Jayce that we see the passion for change. I think being empath she saw that Jayce and Vicktor’s vision for hextech and Piltover and Zaun were pure and genuine which is why she supported them. I also hate the rhetoric that Mel never loved jayce and just manipulated for her own gain she does everything in her power to stay true to him and Vicktor’s vision she doesn’t push him to do anything that goes against their morals and goals. When Jayce is worried about Vicktor and his absence at the council may lead to she reassures she won’t let them corrupt their dream. Like i said early she isn’t written like a typical empath she also isn’t written like a typical manipulator(if you can call her that) she is genuine in what she’s says to Jayce she just also knows how people work and his feelings on the matter so she’s able to play on that.

Ambessa describes her to be too soft and she tells Jayce she didn’t Medarda standards i think the way she operates as empath is the cause of that I don’t think Mel is welling to corrupt herself or others when getting what she wants unlike her Mother and the rest of her family i think they operate much more cut through in their goals.

Whew anyway mind any typos i didn’t mean for this be as long as turned out just wanted to share revelation i had!:)

[purifiedclitoris69]

Breaking point

a/n: Finally got to the nat version of silent comfort. It’s a little short tbh so sorry about that. hope you enjoy!

pairings: Natasha Romanoff x supersoldier reader

warnings: violence

You’d been with the Avengers for almost a year now, and in that time, you’d managed to carve out a space for yourself on the team. Sure, being the former Hydra experiment wasn’t exactly the most inviting introduction, but you didn’t let that define you. It wasn’t who you were anymore. You were the team’s go-to for a laugh, always cracking jokes, lightening the mood, and making it easier for everyone to handle the high-stakes pressure of their lives. What you didn’t talk about, though, was your past. Not because anyone had told you not to, but because you didn’t want to relive it.

Especially not now, when things were starting to feel... normal.

Normal was spending late nights on the couch with Natasha, arguing over which movie to watch but never finishing them because you’d get caught up in teasing each other. Normal was training together and catching her smiling at you when she thought you weren’t looking. Normal was her throwing playful jabs about how you talked too much, only to call you out on being unusually quiet when something was bothering you.

You weren’t sure when things had shifted, but somewhere along the way, the time you spent with her had become the highlight of your day. And judging by the way she always seemed to find excuses to stay close, you thought maybe—just maybe—she felt the same way.

Neither of you had said anything yet, though. It was comfortable, whatever this was, and you didn’t want to ruin it.

--------------------------------------------------------

The quinjet hummed softly as the team prepared for the mission. Hydra remnants were regrouping, and the team had been sent to intercept a high-level target.

You were double-checking your gear when Natasha sauntered over, a sly smile already playing on her lips.

"You know," she said, leaning casually against the wall beside you, "I’ve noticed you spend an awful lot of time fussing over that utility belt. Got a secret stash of candy in there or something?"

You snorted, pulling a strap tighter. "Jealous I don’t share my snacks with you, Romanoff?"

"Please," she shot back, tilting her head. "If I wanted candy, I’d just take it," she shrugged her shoulders, "I always get what I want."

You glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try."

She stepped closer, her green eyes glinting with mischief. "Careful, or I might have to prove it."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "You’re all talk."

"Am I?" She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of your belt, and for a split second, your heart skipped a beat. But instead of taking anything, she smirked and stepped back, clearly enjoying the way you were watching her.

"Tease," you muttered, pretending to focus on your gear again.

"You make it too easy," she quipped, crossing her arms.

Before you could come up with a comeback, Steve’s voice cut through the moment. "Gear up. We’re heading out in five."

Natasha straightened but didn’t move immediately. Instead, she leaned in just enough for only you to hear. "Try to keep up out there, rookie."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. "Try not to get distracted, Romanoff."

She laughed softly as she walked away, the sound lingering in the air long after she was gone.

--------------------------------------------------------

Though successful the mission had been thoroughly chaotic, to say the least. Things had been going smoothly until Natasha went off-script.

You hadn’t even known what was happening at first. One second, you were covering her six, and the next, she was gone, chasing intel Fury and Maria Hill had deemed critical. It left you in a tight spot, trying to hold your ground without her, and you’d taken a few hits you shouldn’t have.

By the time the mission wrapped, you were sore, bruised, and too exhausted to joke around like you usually would. The tension on the jet ride back to the compound was thick, everyone keenly aware that Steve was seething.

The hanger was suffocatingly tense as the quinjet’s ramp descended with a mechanical hiss, and everyone piled out, the weight of the mission hanging heavily in the air. Conversations were sparse—exhaustion mingled with the unspoken tension. You were still catching your breath, the fight replaying in your mind, when Steve’s voice broke the silence.

“Romanoff, we need to talk.”

You glanced at Natasha, who was walking beside you. Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t stop, striding toward the hangar floor like she hadn’t heard him.

“Natasha.” Steve’s voice carried more force this time.

She stopped, turning around slowly, her face calm but her eyes sharp. “What?”

Steve’s expression was stony as he marched toward her. “What the hell was that back there?”

“The part where we got the job done?” Natasha shot back, her voice icy.

“The part where you ignored orders and jeopardized the team,” he countered, standing toe-to-toe with her now.

You stepped closer instinctively, but for now, you stayed silent, your fists clenching at your sides.

“I didn’t jeopardize anyone,” Natasha said, crossing her arms. “I prioritized the bigger picture. Fury and Maria needed that intel, and I got it.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Fury and Hill aren’t the ones in the field. We are. And when you decide their priorities are more important than this team, you’re not just making a bad call—you’re making a selfish one.”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t look away. “I made a call that benefited everyone in the long run. You might not like it, but it worked.”

“Did it?” Steve snapped, gesturing toward you. “Because they almost didn’t make it out thanks to you.”

Your chest tightened as his words hit. “That’s not fair, Steve,” you said, stepping in now.

He turned on you, his voice rising. “It is fair. You wouldn’t have been in that position if she hadn’t dragged you into her little side mission.”

“That’s enough,” you said, your voice low.

But Steve ignored you, his focus still on Natasha. “You know, it’s always the same with you. You play both sides, keep everyone guessing. It worked for you in the Red Room, maybe even with S.H.I.E.L.D., but here? That doesn’t fly. We’re supposed to be a team, but you’re still looking out for yourself first.”

The mention of the Red Room made your blood run cold. You saw the flicker of something in Natasha’s expression—a crack in her armor.

“Watch your mouth,” you said, stepping in front of her now, your voice dangerously calm, as you met Captain America eye level.

Steve’s gaze snapped to you, his frustration redirected. “Stay out of this.”

“No,” you said firmly. “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

“Or what?” Steve challenged, jaw tightened, his temper bubbling over as took a step closer, eyes blazing with anger.

The moment he moved, you acted. Your hand shot out, gripping his wrist and twisting with precision. With a sharp pivot of your hips, you flipped him over your shoulder. The impact reverberated through the hangar as Steve crashed into a nearby crate, shattering it into splinters.

The hangar went silent, the sound of the crash echoing in the vast space.

Steve was already scrambling to his feet, his eyes blazing with disbelief and fury. Bucky intercepted him, gripping his shoulder and holding him back

“Steve, don’t,” Bucky said, his voice firm but calm.

Natasha was in front of you before you could react, her hands pressing against your chest as she pushed you back. “Enough,” she said, her voice low but forceful.

You froze, the reality of what you’d just done hitting you like a freight train.

You glanced around the hangar, catching the wide-eyed stares of your teammates. The expressions on their faces weren’t just shocked—they were scared. Of you.

Your gaze landed on Natasha last. Her green eyes were glassy, her brows furrowed with confusion and something that looked too much like hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice barely audible. Then you turned and walked away, your boots echoing in the silence of the hangar as you disappeared into the compound.

--------------------------------------------------------

The rooftop felt like the only place you could breathe. The cool night air bit at your skin as you sat on the ledge, your hands gripping the metal railing.

What the hell had you done? You’d spent so long trying to prove you weren’t the weapon Hydra made you, but one moment of anger had torn that facade apart.

“Hell of a move back there.”

You didn’t have to look to know it was Natasha. Her voice was light, but there was an edge of something else—concern, maybe.

“Didn’t mean to wreck the crate,” you muttered, still staring out at the city lights.

She walked over, her steps soft, and leaned against the railing beside you. “The crate’s fine. Steve, on the other hand…”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah, bet he’s thrilled.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just studied you with that piercing gaze of hers. “Why’d you do it? he was right, I left you out there."

You sighed, finally meeting her eyes. "I would've been fine Tasha, and I know you know that," you looked down to your lap, "besides I couldn’t stand the way he was talking to you. Like you haven’t done more for this team than anyone.”Her expression softened, and for a moment, the world felt a little less heavy. “I don’t care about your past, Nat,” you said quietly. “And I’ll be damned if I let anyone throw it in your face.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile as she reached out, her hand brushing yours. “You’re not who they made you either, you know.”

You looked at her, and for the first time all day, you felt like maybe you hadn’t completely lost yourself.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t have to fight for me," her gaze dropping to your lips as you both began to lean in, " but thank you for doing it anyway," her breath fanned across you. Before you could reply, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was well over do. Her lips were soft against yours, warm and grouding in a way that made everything fade away.

When she pulled back, she smiled—a real, genuine smile. “Now let’s go figure out how to apologize to Steve.”

You groaned, but for the first time that night, you felt like everything might just be okay.

[honeychamomile1]

Odd One Out

JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Summary: Reader feels invisible around the Pogues.

Warnings: Crying, feeling strongly excluded, comfort, mention of disease, etc.

Note: I know this wasn’t part of my “Future Stories” post, but it’s been a side story for too long so I decided to post it! Hope you like it!

Masterlist

“I’m tellin’ ya, pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, that’s uh,” Pope chuckled at the silly conversation of debate whether the topping belongs on the delicious food or not before finishing his sentence, “the end of discussion. Debate closed.”

The whole room was still trying to wear off its laughter, a few people still going off in a fit before calming down again.

The girl was laughing too, just a lot softer and less full of….what’s the word….happiness.

Most of the time she didn’t know what the jokes were about, or the little references they would whisper to each other were on the topic of. It didn’t help the fact that she was sitting away from the majority of the group, the one sitter arm chair away from the couch they crowded.

She still remembers the encounter of them practically pushing her away from the group, forcing her to sit on the chair alone. She had walked in with them, all of them still laughing at some joke JJ said but of course she couldn’t get a word in on what he spoke at all, for she was always in the back of the group anyhow. The friends had walked in the house, one by one plopping on the couch or on the floor in front of it, so there wasn’t a single little space for her to squeeze in.

If she thought back deeper and shut her eyes, she could still feel the stare they laid upon her, waiting to see her point of action towards the matter. It was almost like they didn’t like her, like if she went near one of the particular that very person would be the unlucky girl or boy to have to deal with her for the rest of the hang out.

So yeah, her cheeks flushed deep red as she stumbled over crossed legs and ankles towards the back of the room, muttering soft pathetic apologies before sitting in the very chair she is sitting in now.

Now it wasn’t so bad, just that she was in the back, meaning all she could see were backs of heads and once in a while profiles. So the bit of participation she wished she had was no longer available, so now she was sitting in the chair, her legs crossed apple sauce style so they wouldn’t accidentally kick someone.

JJ was so close. So close that all she had to do in order to talk to him was tap him on the shoulder. He would turn around and talk to her and smile, giving her one of those blue eye sparkles. Maybe then she’d-

If she kept thinking like this she’d never be able to participate in the conversation. So she forced out a chuckle, trying to ease herself in.

Maybe she could squeeze her own voice in with all the others? If there’s room for them there has to be room for her too, right?

“One time I went to a pizza shop and-“

Her voice dyed out, the response being absolutely nothing. No eye contact, no expression change, not even a glance from anyone, almost like they didn’t even hear her.

She was speaking loud enough, the same volume of everyone else, but she also didn’t want to talk over the whole group just for a grab of attention.

So the conversation she wasn’t included in continued, someone else’s voice covering hers.

That someone else being Kiera, who of course everyone has to pay attention to. “Yeah, I agree, no more pineapple on pizza talk, maybe we should get actual pizza.” She suggested, and everyone loved the sound of that.

So did she, her stomach being the other thing she was thinking about besides the fact she wasn’t being included. She got up with the others, heading out the door behind JJ.

If she just tapped him on the shoulder-

He closed the door. Maybe he didn’t see her, since there was a corner to go around before exiting the house, but he didn’t forget about her, right?

She stared at the closed door, the past events causing small tears to arise in her eyes.

No.

She can’t cry just because someone closed the door in her face. It was such a small thing, a small action of a mistake he might’ve made. She almost expected him to come back, staring at the handle to see if it would twist, awaiting his face to pop in and apologize for the little thing he did.

But he never came.

She took a sharp breath in, reaching forward for the handle herself and leaving the house.

The group was outside piling into the Twinkie, talking about. She went to the side door too, hoping she could squeeze in somewhere.

But all the seats were full, and all the pitiful eyes were on her.

“Oh, there’s no room. Maybe you could drive in your car and meet us there?” Sarah suggested, and it was the first time that day they spoke directly to her. And it should’ve been something she enjoyed, like a little invitation to join the conversation or an offer to squeeze next to someone, them willing to be a little bit uncomfortable just so she could join.

But it was something she wished didn’t happen, because why did she even go to the side of the car in the first place? Did she really think there would be room for her?

“Or someone could squeeze over..?” Sarah trailed off, looking over at the rooms of people, and the girl couldn’t help but notice how John B moved closer to the edge with the window, covering a small space. Her heart broke.

“Or ya could sit on my lap, Princess.” She heard JJ chuckle, and she glanced at him, her broken little heart believing him for a second, her cheeks softly flushing, before realizing it was a joke. Some people laughed, Kie smacking JJ on the arm but there was a smirk on her lips.

The girl cleared her throat awkwardly, fiddling with her hands, all eyes still on her.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna go anymore, I’ll just go home…I’m not feeling so well.” She had to come up with some excuse, some ticket to get out of there, not like they would miss her at all.

She just walked away, heading to the sidewalk to walk home. Alone.

No one wished her well, despite her lie, but she still wished to at least get a “get well soon” or a “goodbye”.

Nothing. Just pity looks as she walked away, not long before chatter filled the car once more and they drove off.

She didn’t feel like eating anymore, despite her stomach yelling at her because she missed the only chance to eat; they would probably make her pay for her own meal anyway.

So she headed home, arms crossed as tears finally made their way down her cheeks. It hurt, the concept of not being included. She was the nickel out of all the pennies. They were all tan skin and smiles, considering themselves lucky because they found each other, very similar to being lucky when you find a penny. But she was all silver and plain, having a different engraving on her and being a different size than everyone else; they were all small and sweet, yet she was the biggest fool out of all of them.

She hated being a nickel. What did she have to do to be a penny?

She didn’t know, and that right there made her cry harder. She wiped at the tears but nothing worked, for whole rivers were already down her face by now. Her heart cracked, she felt it, because she knew if John B moved over just a little there would be enough room for her to sit with them.

But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to sit next to her, like she was some sort of disgusting disease that he didn’t want to catch.

All she wanted was to be included, to feel loved and fit in by them. But she’ll always be the odd one out.

She fell asleep crying, and woke up hungry since she skipped dinner the day before.

She got out of bed, seeing her red-eyed self in the mirror while brushing her teeth.

She decided to go out today, to JJ’s house.

Now, it didn’t seem like a good decision, but she needed comfort and he was the only person she knew that would provide it. Maybe she would tell him how she’s feeling, not the crying all the way home part, and he would assure her he likes her in the group.

At least that’s what her brain told her he’d say.

Because her mother wouldn’t understand, plus she had other things to deal with, and she didn’t want to bother her father with all the work loads he had on his mind.

But JJ, he was the shiniest penny of all of them, and he seems like the only person to trust. Sadly she didn’t forget about the joke he made the day prior, suggesting she sat on his lap, but it was a one time thing and he could’ve been peer pressured to make it.

That’s what her brain kept telling her.

But the morning was sunny and warm, practically begging for her to enjoy it so she couldn’t refuse.

She put on some Jean shorts and a sun shirt, putting some knitted bracelets on her wrist because she saw everyone else wearing one; plus they were fun to make.

She had made one for JJ, his two favorite colors she overheard him reveal tied into the bracelet. She was gonna bring it to his house, maybe have the courage to give it to him.

She got to his house on foot, spotting his blob of blonde hair behind his car hood, where it normally was.

She shyly made her way over, gazing at his car to pass time. She liked how rusty it was, showing its age but it was still quite clean, like it was his prize possession. (It probably was)

“She looks good, doesn’t she?”

She flinched, looking over at him and making eye contact. His blues were something she admired, but looking directly into them overwhelmed her so she looked away. He chuckled.

One of the main reasons why she went to him was because JJ was the type of person who could talk to anybody. He knew the words to say or the way to talk to make the person comfortable (friend wise that is.)

She hoped he would do just that while he talks to her, and so far so good.

She nodded in response, hands in her back pockets of her shorts and fiddling with the bracelet she made him.

“Yeah, looks great.” She assured, despite the fact that she knew he already knew that, but then again it was all worth the smirk he gave in response, leaning back into the hood.

“What’s wrong with it?” She had the courage to ask, hands out of her pockets now and fingers fiddling together.

He shook his head. “Absolutely nothin’, just had to replace the engine.”

She smiled softly at that, glad that there wasn’t anything severely wrong with his car. “That’s good.”

He nodded, clearly half listening but she knew it was only because he was so focused on the task at hand.

They fell into silence for a little bit, and she was kinda glad he didn’t ask why she was there, mainly because she needed time to build up the courage to start the topic.

“Hey, JJ?” She blurted out, forcing her lips to move. Her heart started beating quite quickly. He looked up at her briefly at the acknowledgment before glancing back down, letting her know he was listening.

“Mm?” He hummed.

“Um,” she started, fiddling with her hands harder than before and trying to ignore the surprisingly annoying racing of her heart. “I noticed yesterday-“

“You noticed the toilet paper I put on John B’s shoe? You didn’t tell him, did you?” He interrupted, his eyes sparkling as he looked at her. She’s always wanted an eye sparkle from him, that meant the topic was mischievous and exciting for him.

But now wasn’t the time, for she needed to get to the point before her courage wore off. “Well, no, I didn’t tell him, but-“

He let out a sigh of relief. “Good, I wanted it to be there when we went to get pizza, which…”

He slowly trailed off, realizing she wasn’t there when they went out.

She swallowed nervously, feeling her cheeks flush. “Yeah, whatever, anyway, I really need to talk to you about something.”

She was satisfied that she could get that sentence out, for the courage in her chest hasn’t left yet.

His face drew back, twisting with confusion but he looked okay with it. “Okay, what’s up, sugar?” He said casually, leaning back down and popping the old engine out, lifting it before placing on the ground.

Her cheeks flushed red at the nickname, but brushed it off so she could stay on task. She kept telling herself that talking to him would help, so she really wanted to get her point across.

“Um, well, I’m feeling a bit, I don’t know, like I don’t…belong.”

The word: belong. It was something she always wanted to do, something she would die just for a taste of being it. It was something she so wanted to be that she held the word close to her heart, holding onto it tightly so it wouldn’t leave her. It was slowly fighting back against her grip ever since she met the group, yet she wanted friends so badly she kept trying.

She stared at JJ to see his reaction, watching as he lifted the new engine towards the car hood. He must have felt her stare because why else would he look up, eyes looking as clueless as ever.

“Did you say something?” He said, scratching his head, closing the hood.

“What?” She pathetically whispered, tears welling up but she blinked them away. She cleared her throat. “N-no, I didn’t say anything. I was gonna say I made this for you.”

Her voice was soft and helpless, setting the bracelet on the now closed hood of the car after taking it out of her pocket. He stared at it, eyes softening slightly before looking up, meeting her glossy eyes.

“I-I hope you like it,” She said, voice thick and her lips were quivering, tears so close to bursting themselves out.

“Woah, what’s wrong?” He said, stepping around his car and reaching for her, but she snatched her wrist out of his reach.

“You weren’t listening to me!” She sputtered. “Just like everyone else.”

“I’m sorry.” Was all he could get out because he was in shock at her outburst. Normally she is the quiet cute girl in the corner, now her eyebrows were furrowed in anger and her cheeks were red. Smoke was practically coming out of her ears.

“Sorry?” She quoted. “I have been feeling like this for weeks, and I finally had the courage to talk to someone, that someone being you of all people because I had a speck of hope that you would listen but when I do you can’t do that just this once?!”

“Feeling like what?” He said- almost demanded- his eyebrows furrowing. She threw her arms in the air in asasperation at his response, like out of the whole outburst she expressed the only thing he heard was that little part. “Does it even matter?” She almost yelled. “You had one chance to listen and you didn’t take it. If you cared you would’ve listened.”

“I do care, sugar,” he desperately assured. “I didn’t know you needed my full attention. I should’ve listened, and I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t even matter anymore, forget about it, JJ,” she said, wiping her cheeks before turning away.

“No no talk to me, princess. I’m listening I promise,” he whispered, dirty fingers curved around her wrist.

She turned to him, desire for someone to listen to her was strong.

Once he knew she wasn’t gonna leave, he let go of her wrist, the warmth from his touch leaving her. She fiddled with her fingers, looking into his eyes that seemed so sincere.“You promise?”

He nodded almost instantly. “I promise.”

He even held out his pinkie to her, making her laugh but seal the promise nonetheless.

The rest of the morning they sat and talked, JJ’s smile as big as ever and the threads tied around his wrist.

She laughed.

Laughed.

And she actually got to hear his jokes for once. The ones she missed, misheard, and never repeated for her.

And those sounds were as genuine as they could get, her heart singing as he gave her a real eye twinkle.

It was at that moment her heart fell, fell hard for the boy next to her.

And at their next hangout she didn’t have to sit on the chair alone like she normally does, for now she got to see on Maybank’s lap (as offered) as she laughed with the group and got to have her say.

She felt loved. Felt like she was included.

And, most important of all, she felt belonged.

-Tell me what you think? 🫶🏻

[draconeko]

I just arrived and I apologize in advance if I write a lot of text but omg I like to explain what's on my mind even if there's no need @asperanna @jonksi @onionowt @nanomii @rainbigbrain @ejsuperstar @ebi-skycotl ( You don't have to read my ramblings but I put the tags anyway )

Pluto is a mix of orange, skrunkly and smol. The kind of cat that I would totally hold in my hands but end up with a bitten finger. They are funny, they talk a lot and I find them very authentic, the kind that you imagine running energetically around you and their motivation rubs off on you, when I met them I thought they were more chill but I never felt disappointed for being wrong

Jojo/Kitty/Catofaurora I would say is a mix of Loaf and skrunkly, she is very funny, she makes you feel welcome, she is understanding and her humor always makes me laugh, she always has some joke to make about some random post. You can tell she has a good heart, that's why she is a loaf to me, I wouldn't be here if she hadn't found me.

Onion, nanomii and Rain were definitely (maybe still are) Tux, but now that I've interacted with them they're more of a mix of Tux and other cats

Regarding Rain, I agree with Pluto, they're totally a cloud, they're chill, they're calming and friendly, probably introverted like most of us, but they're the perfect person to talk to when you have an anxious mind.

Onion is a shorthair! Outside of admiration, I always remember the post that talked about their studies, I've always perceived them as someone who has worked very hard but is unable to notice how much their effort has paid off. As a person they seem very soft to me, maybe that's why the hug, must protect?

Nano is smol, we're both too anxious to even talk, we probably want to but we don't know how, if you read this nano, I appreciate you just for leaving little messages on rbs

EJ would say they're smol too, maybe smol creature? they are right in the middle where they are not chill enough to be a cloud, but not chaotic enough to be orange or skrunkly. It's a balance that I find very curious. I can't describe this with cats but I find them very full of passion, I admire people who are passionate about the things they like (even if it's just a hyperfixation). Basically a person that makes me very curious but I'm not sure how to interact

Ebi, Ebi is Loaf and shorthair, they makes me feel cuteness aggression, very soft, very gentle, a good listener not only to friends but to total strangers, sometimes very altruistic too. It's a surprise that there's so much evil for their ocs in their heart, I can expect it from Ari, from pluto, bohap or aria, but ebi… Anyway I still remember what they wrote when thet made the drawing of the deer of the nine colors, I think it's something that totally stuck in my memory and I don't know why.

I hope I haven't forgotten anyone, I'm sure I can assign a cat to some other mutuals but right now my mind isn't bringing them up.

WHAT KINDA CAT ARE YOUR MUTUALS

I REALLY WANNA SIT HERE AMD GO THROUGH TAGGING EVERYONE BUT I HAVE TO GO TO BED NOW SO I’LL DO SO TOMORROW!!!

[goldfades]

★ 'cause she's watching him with those eyes / and she's loving him with that body, i just know it / and he's holding her in his arms late, late at night / you know, i wish that i had jessie's girl / i wish that i had jessie's girl / where can i find a woman like that? ───JB⁹

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18k (a lot more than i expected...)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a college student navigates her complicated feelings for her charming yet infuriating neighbor, joe burrow, while dating the seemingly perfect linebacker. after a series of missteps, flirtatious teasing, and an unexpected kiss, she finds herself caught in a whirlwind of tension, confusion, and unexpected sparks, all while trying to avoid the loud, chaotic presence of joe and his ever-constant parade of girls.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited (sorry... i got lazy), NSFW (with lots... and lots... AND LOTS of plot), unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it, kids) praise, teasing, lots of kissing/foreplay, p in v, uhhh.. descriptions of big dick joe??? enemies to lovers, roommates, mentions of drinking/alcohol, cheating (not on reader), joe being an asshole, cocky joe, lots of fighting, heated arguments.

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this has been in my drafts for a good 2 months and finally decided to finish it up on the sunday before american thanksgiving! so... yaya! please let me know your thoughts!

The muffled sound of Ja’Marr Chase’s bass-heavy playlist seeps through the thin walls of your apartment, rattling the picture frames you swore you hung up straight last week. The tiny LSU apartment complex, with its peeling beige paint and eternally broken elevator, has its charms—like the way the front door doesn’t lock unless you kick it just right or how the air conditioner only works when it’s below 70 degrees outside.

But Joe Burrow? He’s not one of those charms.

No, Joe Burrow is the bane of your existence, the human equivalent of a pothole on a road you have to take every day. His name alone makes your best friend, Ella, roll her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. “Just ignore him,” she says every time you come storming through the door, ranting about whatever fresh annoyance he’s cooked up that day. “He only bothers you because you’re fun to mess with.”

Right. Like that’s supposed to make it better.

Living next door to Joe and Ja’Marr was tolerable at first. Sure, they were loud, occasionally messy, and probably violating a dozen lease terms, but it wasn’t personal. Then, you had one small misunderstanding—okay, so maybe you yelled at Joe for leaving his bike in front of your door after you tripped over it—and now it’s like he’s made it his life’s mission to drive you insane.

Sometimes, it’s harmless: an obnoxious smirk when you cross paths on the way to class or his sarcastic comments about how you always seem to be spilling coffee on your shirt. Other times, it’s borderline infuriating: stealing your parking spot, taking the last box of cinnamon rolls at the grocery store, or claiming the shared apartment complex grill for “official game day business” every single Saturday.

Still, there’s something annoyingly magnetic about him, even when you want to wring his neck. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing at his own jokes. The stupid mop of curls he somehow manages to pull off. The effortless confidence that borders on cocky, though you’d never say it out loud because that’s exactly the kind of thing that would go straight to his head.

Ella always jokes that you two are like an old married couple, constantly bickering but secretly loving it. You disagree. Mostly because Joe already has enough people falling at his feet—like the swarm of girls in purple-and-gold jerseys who show up at the apartment complex every other week, giggling like they’re auditioning for a reality show.

You sigh, brushing a stray crumb off the countertop as Ella flops onto the couch behind you, textbook in hand. And if his stupid grin when he sees you on your balcony later tonight is any indication, he’s already got something planned.

You just don’t know it yet.

The parking lot outside your apartment complex is a war zone at 11 p.m., with far too many cars crammed into a space that was clearly designed with only half the residents in mind. You circle the lot for the third time, your headlights cutting through the dark like a searchlight on some hopeless mission. After eight grueling hours at the campus library helping undergrads figure out why their printers are possessed, your brain feels like oatmeal, and all you want is to collapse into your bed.

But, of course, tonight isn’t going to be that simple.

Because there he is. Joe freaking Burrow.

He’s in his Jeep—windows down, music playing softly, and, naturally, there’s a blonde perched in the passenger seat laughing at something he said. Of course, he found the last available spot. Except—it’s not his spot, because you saw it first. Your blinker’s been on since the beginning of time (or at least the last 30 seconds), and you refuse to back down now.

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as he slowly starts to reverse into the spot, like he hasn’t noticed your very obvious claim to it. Heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and indignation, you tap your horn. Just once. Polite, but firm. He stops, glances in his rearview mirror, and then—of course—he smirks.

Oh, hell no.

You roll down your window and lean out. “Hey, Burrow! I was waiting for that spot.”

He leans his elbow casually against the window frame, his curls catching the faint glow of the streetlight. “Were you? Didn’t see your name on it.” His voice is slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to be a pain in your ass.

You glare at him, barely suppressing the urge to snap. “I was here first.”

“And I started reversing first,” he counters, raising an eyebrow like it’s a debate class and not a parking lot at nearly midnight. The blonde giggles beside him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Just let me have it. You look like you could use the exercise.”

Oh, he’s done it now.

“Excuse me?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you’re too far gone to care. “I’ve been on my feet for eight hours dealing with entitled freshmen, and if you think I’m about to let you—”

“Alright, alright,” Joe interrupts, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m not trying to ruin your night.” He throws the Jeep into drive, and with a dramatic sigh, he pulls away, leaving the spot open for you. But not without one last parting comment. “Don’t scratch the paint when you park. Oh, wait—you’re really close to that pole—”

You park with excessive precision, throwing your car into park before leaning out the window to call after him. “I didn’t ask for your help, Joe!”

His laugh echoes across the parking lot, carefree and infuriating. You slam your door shut a little harder than necessary, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you trudge toward the building. Finally, peace.

Or so you think.

Because just as you reach the elevator, its ding announcing its arrival, you hear the telltale sound of sneakers scuffing against concrete and—because your luck is absolute trash—Joe freaking Burrow strolls in behind you, Blonde Giggles McGee still glued to his side.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says casually, stepping into the elevator with you like he didn’t just steal and relinquish a parking spot out of sheer pettiness. The blonde gives you a wide, vaguely clueless smile, her gum snapping between her teeth.

You press the button for the third floor with a pointed jab and cross your arms, leaning against the elevator wall as Joe and his date take their sweet time figuring out which floor they’re going to. The door finally slides shut, and the tension in the small space is unbearable.

“So,” the blonde says brightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “you guys, like, live here? That’s so fun! Like, neighbors and stuff. Wow.”

Your lips press into a tight smile, trying to avoid eye contact with Joe, who you can feel grinning at you like this is the highlight of his week. “Yep. Fun,” you reply curtly, forcing the word out like it’s laced with acid.

Joe’s shoulders shake slightly, and you realize he’s laughing. He glances at you, and there’s that damn smirk again, like he knows exactly how close you are to losing it. “She’s real talkative tonight,” he says, tilting his head toward you. “Usually, she’s got more to say.”

You turn to him with a withering glare. “Don’t you have something else to do, Burrow?”

Before he can reply, the elevator lurches slightly as it comes to a stop on your floor. You step out quickly, muttering a polite “Good night” that is entirely devoid of warmth. Joe follows, his pace annoyingly casual as he throws one last look over his shoulder.

“See you around, neighbor,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You don’t look back.

The smell of cheap ramen hits you the moment you open the door to your apartment. It’s comforting, in a way—familiar, like Ella’s answer to every late-night craving or bad day. She’s in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, barefoot and wearing the oversized LSU sweatshirt you’d bought together during freshman year.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up, her voice light with mock reproach. “Was the library on fire, or did you stop to fight Burrow in the parking lot again?”

You kick off your shoes with a sigh, tossing your bag onto the couch. “Option B. Obviously.”

That gets her attention. She turns, spoon in hand, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? It’s, like, midnight. You two are going to give each other aneurysms before graduation.”

You slump into one of the kitchen chairs, letting your forehead hit the table dramatically. “He stole my parking spot. Had the audacity to smirk about it, too. And then—get this—I got stuck in the elevator with him and some girl who wouldn’t stop talking about how ‘fun’ it is to have neighbors.” You lift your head to glare at Ella, who is now struggling to hold back a laugh. “I’m cursed. That man is my curse.”

Ella snorts, pouring the ramen into two mismatched bowls. “He’s not your curse. He’s just a guy with too much charm and not enough common sense. And clearly, you’re living rent-free in his head, which, honestly, is kind of impressive considering he’s got a playbook in there.”

You accept the bowl she slides across the table, your stomach growling despite your lingering irritation. “I don’t want to live in his head. I want him to stop being so… so Joe all the time.”

Ella sits across from you, propping her chin in her hand with a sly grin. “Are you sure? You seem to spend a lot of time talking about him.”

You glare at her over a mouthful of noodles. “Don’t start.”

But she’s already started, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, it’s giving sexual tension.”

You nearly choke, coughing as you wave her off. “Nope. Absolutely not. There’s no tension. Only irritation. And rage. And an overwhelming desire to see him move to a different apartment complex.”

Ella laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Whatever you say, babe. But for the record, I think you secretly enjoy it.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can form a retort, there’s a knock at the door. Both of you freeze, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights.

“You expecting someone?” Ella whispers, her tone suddenly conspiratorial.

“No,” you whisper back, your heart sinking as a horrible suspicion creeps over you.

Ella gestures for you to check, and with a deep, resigned breath, you shuffle to the door, bowl still in hand. You crack it open just enough to see who’s on the other side, and—because the universe apparently hates you—there he is. Joe Burrow, in all his smug, infuriating glory, holding a box of cinnamon rolls.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says, his grin infuriatingly wide. “Figured I owed you something for stealing your spot.”

You stare at him, speechless, for a moment. Then, finally, you manage, “It’s 11:30 at night.”

He shrugs, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable time for a peace offering. “Better late than never, right?”

From behind you, Ella’s voice rings out, barely containing her amusement. “Is that Joe? Invite him in!”

You turn to glare at her, silently vowing revenge, but when you look back at Joe, he’s already stepping inside like he owns the place.

“Nice place,” he says, glancing around before holding up the box. “So… cinnamon roll?”

You sigh, shutting the door behind him. It’s going to be a long night.

Joe leans casually against the counter, still holding the box of cinnamon rolls like he’s been invited to stay for a late-night hangout. You narrow your eyes at him, folding your arms. “So, what’s this about, really? Cinnamon rolls aren’t exactly your style.”

“Wow, judgmental much?” he says with a mock-wounded expression. “What if I just wanted to be neighborly?”

Ella snickers softly behind you, spooning up her ramen as she watches the exchange like it’s prime-time TV.

Joe grins, ignoring your skepticism. “Actually,” he says, setting the box on the counter with a little too much flourish, “I’m out of sugar. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

You blink at him, incredulous. “Sugar? You came over at almost midnight to borrow sugar?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the “p” for emphasis, completely unbothered by your glare.

Ella, ever the peacemaker—or enabler, depending on the situation—sets her bowl down and gets up to rummage through the cabinets. “We’ve got some,” she says reluctantly, pulling out a small bag. She walks over and places it in Joe’s outstretched hand, but not without narrowing her eyes at him. “You better bring this back, Burrow. Or at least repay us with something better than cinnamon rolls.”

“Noted,” he says with a charming smile, tucking the bag under his arm. He turns to you, his grin softening into something almost teasing. “Thanks, neighbor. You’re a real lifesaver.”

You don’t bother replying, instead stepping aside so he can leave. He makes his way to the door, pausing for a moment. “Oh, and don’t forget to check your parking job in the morning,” he says with a wink before slipping out into the hallway.

The second the door clicks shut, you groan, slumping against the counter. Ella bursts into laughter, practically doubling over as she grabs her bowl again. “You two are ridiculous,” she says between bites.

“I’m moving out,” you mutter, dragging yourself to the couch. “I don’t care if it’s to a cardboard box in the quad. It’ll be quieter than this.”

You think that’s the end of it—Joe’s random sugar-borrowing adventure, Ella’s endless teasing—but of course, you’re wrong. Because a few hours later, just as you’re finally starting to drift off in the tiny bedroom you call your sanctuary, you hear it.

A muffled giggle. A low, rumbling voice you’d recognize anywhere. Then, unmistakably, the rhythmic creak of a bed frame against the wall.

Your eyes snap open, and for a moment, you pray you’re imagining things. Maybe it’s a nightmare—a cruel joke your overtired brain is playing on you. But then you hear it again, louder this time, followed by a very enthusiastic “Oh my God, Joey!”

You groan, grabbing your pillow and pressing it over your ears.

From the other side of the wall, Ella’s muffled voice reaches you through the darkness. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” you hiss, your voice barely audible through the pillow. “It’s him.”

She snorts, and you can hear her shifting in her bed. “Well, at least he’s getting good use out of that sugar.”

You let out a strangled laugh, torn between exhaustion and disbelief. “I swear, if this goes on all night—”

As if on cue, there’s another creak, louder this time, followed by more giggling and exaggerated moaning.

Ella sighs. “Thin walls, huh?”

“Apparently,” you mutter, rolling onto your side and glaring at the wall like it’s personally offended you.

The noises continue—giggles, muffled moans, the occasional thud that makes you wince. You bury your face in your pillow, silently cursing Joe Burrow and his audacity.

It’s going to be a very, very long night.

The next morning comes too soon. Despite the symphony of creaks, giggles, and thuds that plagued the night, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed and cranky. The coffee pot sputters as you pour yourself a life-saving cup, muttering curses at your neighbor under your breath. Ella, still in her pajamas, watches you from the couch with an amused smirk.

“You look alive,” she teases, spooning cereal into her mouth. “Barely.”

“I hate him,” you say flatly, taking a long sip of coffee.

“Sure you do,” she singsongs.

You don’t dignify her with a response, grabbing your bag and heading out the door.

As luck—or fate—would have it, the universe isn’t done with you yet. Because just as you’re locking your apartment door, you hear the unmistakable sound of high heels clicking down the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it.

There she is. Last night’s Blonde of the Hour, strutting toward the elevator with a walk of shame so confident it might as well be a victory lap. She’s wearing Joe’s oversized LSU hoodie, paired with last night’s skirt and heels. Her hair is tousled, but she doesn’t seem to care.

And because the universe apparently has a sense of humor, she notices you at the same time you notice her.

“Morning!” she chirps, her voice way too chipper for someone who clearly didn’t sleep much.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing, nodding in acknowledgment. “Morning.”

The two of you step into the elevator together, the silence stretching awkwardly between you. You steal a glance at her from the corner of your eye, wondering if she has any idea that her night of “fun” ruined yours. But then she sighs and adjusts the sleeves of Joe’s hoodie, completely unbothered, and you realize she probably doesn’t care.

The doors slide open to the lobby, and you step out first, your pace brisk as you make a beeline for the exit. But as you push through the glass doors into the bright morning sunlight, you nearly collide with none other than Joe Burrow himself.

He’s leaning against his car, coffee cup in hand, looking far too put together for someone who should be as tired as you. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, then flick over to the blonde trailing behind.

“Morning, neighbor,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.

“Morning,” you reply dryly, brushing past him toward your car.

But of course, he can’t just let it go. “Sleep well?”

You stop dead in your tracks, turning to glare at him. His smirk is infuriatingly smug, and you can’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless or just messing with you.

“Thin walls,” you say pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

His smirk falters for half a second before he recovers, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Noted.”

The blonde, oblivious to the tension, giggles. “Joe, you didn’t tell me your neighbors were so fun!”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead unlocking your car with more force than necessary. “Oh, we’re a blast,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the driver’s seat.

As you pull out of the parking lot, you catch a glimpse of Joe in your rearview mirror, still leaning against his car, watching you leave. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or curiosity—but you don’t have the energy to figure it out.

Later that afternoon, when you’re back in your apartment trying to catch up on work, Ella pops her head into the living room with a mischievous grin.

“Guess who I ran into at the coffee shop?”

You glance up warily. “Who?”

“Joe,” she says, plopping down on the couch. “He said he’s planning a little ‘building mixer’ this weekend. Invited everyone on the floor. Including us.”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the couch. “No. Absolutely not. I am not going to some Burrow-hosted mixer.”

“Oh, come on,” Ella says, nudging you with her foot. “It could be fun. Free food, free drinks… awkward encounters with your mortal enemy…”

You glare at her, but she just laughs. “You’re going,” she says firmly. “I already RSVP’d for us.”

And just like that, you realize your week is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Saturday night rolls around faster than you’d like, and with it comes the so-called “mixer” that Joe Burrow somehow convinced Ella you had to attend. You’d held onto the slim hope that it would be a small, quiet gathering of your neighbors in the building, with maybe some snacks, polite small talk, and an early exit for you.

Instead, you step off the elevator into what can only be described as chaos. The hallway is packed with people, the distant thrum of music vibrating through the walls. Someone’s yelling about finding the keg, and the faint scent of spilled beer and cologne wafts toward you.

“This is not a mixer,” you mutter to Ella as you both navigate your way through the crowd.

Ella, of course, looks thrilled. She’s dolled up in a crop top and high-waisted jeans, her hair and makeup perfectly done. “Relax,” she says, looping her arm through yours. “It’s just a party. Have a drink, let loose. Who knows? You might even have fun.”

You highly doubt that, but before you can argue, she spots Ja’Marr Chase leaning against the doorway to Joe’s apartment and perks up immediately. “I’ll catch up with you later!” she says, already untangling herself from your arm and heading toward him.

“Ella!” you call after her, but she’s too busy tossing a flirty smile Ja’Marr’s way to notice.

Great. Now you’re alone in the middle of a party that feels like half of LSU showed up to, surrounded by strangers and sticky floors. You push your way toward the kitchen, hoping to grab a drink and then find a corner to blend into until Ella decides it’s time to leave.

But, because the universe apparently loves messing with you, you hear his voice before you see him.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

You groan internally and turn to see Joe leaning against the counter, a Solo cup in hand and that ever-present smirk on his face. He’s dressed casually in a fitted t-shirt and jeans, but somehow still manages to look like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

“I’m only here because Ella dragged me,” you say, crossing your arms. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Joe chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Come on, admit it. You’re having the time of your life.”

“Yeah, sure,” you deadpan. “Sticky floors and loud music are exactly my idea of fun.”

He grins, clearly enjoying your irritation. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with me so badly, you could’ve just asked. No need to pretend Ella dragged you here.”

“I—” You stop yourself, realizing there’s no point in arguing. It’s exactly what he wants. Instead, you grab a bottle of water from the counter and turn to leave.

“Hey, hold up,” he says, stepping in front of you. “You’re not just gonna drink water all night, are you?”

“Yes, Joe, I am,” you say, trying to sidestep him, but he moves to block you.

“At least let me get you a real drink,” he says, gesturing toward the makeshift bar someone set up on the other side of the room. “I make a mean rum and Coke.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, stepping aside, but not before adding, “But you’re missing out. My bartending skills are unmatched.”

You roll your eyes and head toward the living room, finding a spot near the wall where you can observe without being dragged into the chaos. You sip your water and watch as Joe works the room, effortlessly charming everyone he talks to.

About an hour later, you’re starting to regret not leaving when Ella abandoned you. You’ve been stuck making awkward small talk with strangers, and the music is only getting louder.

Then Ella appears out of nowhere, grabbing your arm with a giggle. “Come with me,” she says, pulling you toward the corner where Joe and some of his teammates are lounging on a worn-out sectional.

“Why?” you ask, resisting her tug.

“Because Ja’Marr wants to introduce me to his friends, and I don’t want to go alone!”

You sigh, reluctantly following her over. Ja’Marr greets Ella with a grin, and she practically melts under his attention. You, on the other hand, find yourself stuck sitting next to Joe, who looks far too pleased about the arrangement.

“Miss me already?” he asks, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.

“Not even a little,” you reply, glaring at him.

He chuckles, clearly unbothered. “You’re really bad at hiding how much you enjoy my company, you know that?”

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, one of his teammates interrupts. “Yo, Burrow, who’s this?”

“This,” Joe says, gesturing toward you with a dramatic flourish, “is my lovely neighbor.”

“Neighbor, huh?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. “You two seem… close.”

You snort. “Not even remotely.”

Joe grins, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind you. “Don’t listen to her,” he says. “She’s just shy.”

You shoot him a withering look, but he only laughs, clearly enjoying himself.

As the night drags on, Joe makes it his personal mission to annoy you. Every time you try to leave, he finds a way to pull you back into the conversation, teasing you relentlessly. His teammates, to their credit, seem amused by the dynamic, occasionally chiming in with their own jokes.

By the time Ella finally decides she’s ready to leave, you’re exhausted—physically and emotionally. You practically sprint for the door, eager to escape Joe’s smirk and the endless teasing.

As you step into the hallway, he calls after you, “See you around, neighbor!”

You don’t bother responding, instead dragging Ella toward the elevator. But as you press the button for your floor, you can’t help but feel like you haven’t seen the last of Joe Burrow tonight—or any night, for that matter.

The next week at LSU passes like any other, but somehow, Joe Burrow has managed to worm his way into your daily routine. It starts small—running into him at the mailboxes, hearing his muffled laughter through the thin walls at ungodly hours, and the occasional “good morning, neighbor!” shouted across the courtyard when you’re clearly not in the mood.

It’s maddening, really, the way he seems to delight in being everywhere you don’t want him to be. And yet, despite your annoyance, you can’t deny that his presence makes life just a little more… interesting.

FRIDAY NIGHT

Ella bursts through the apartment door, her face lit up with excitement. You’re sprawled on the couch, flipping through lecture notes and wishing the week would end already.

“Guess what!” she exclaims, tossing her bag onto the counter.

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Ja’Marr invited you to another party?”

“Close,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Ja’Marr and Joe are throwing a tailgate tomorrow before the game, and we’re invited.”

You groan, already dreading the idea of spending yet another afternoon dodging Joe’s incessant teasing. “I’m busy,” you lie.

“You’re coming,” Ella insists, plopping down next to you. “It’s practically a campus tradition, and besides, you could use a little fun.”

“Fun,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling being forced to socialize with half of LSU now?”

Ella rolls her eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Food, drinks, and—” she grins mischievously—“a chance to hang out with your favorite quarterback.”

You glare at her. “Joe Burrow is not my favorite anything.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing you. “Wear something cute. We’re leaving at noon.”

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The tailgate is, unsurprisingly, a spectacle. Rows of tents stretch across the field, decked out in purple and gold, with grills smoking and music blasting. Students and alumni alike mill about, laughing and chatting as they gear up for the game.

You follow Ella through the crowd, clutching a plastic cup of soda and trying to blend in. She, of course, makes a beeline for Ja’Marr, who’s manning the grill with an ease that suggests he’s done this a thousand times.

And where there’s Ja’Marr, there’s Joe.

He spots you almost immediately, his trademark smirk spreading across his face as he waves you over. “Hey, neighbor! Glad you could make it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but he’s already stepping closer, his easy confidence making it impossible to ignore him.

“What, no hug?” he teases, holding his arms out dramatically.

“Not in this lifetime,” you reply, sidestepping him.

Ella, now fully engrossed in a conversation with Ja’Marr, leaves you to fend for yourself. You glance around, debating whether to make a run for it, but Joe blocks your path, clearly amused by your discomfort.

“You’re really bad at this whole socializing thing, aren’t you?” he says, leaning casually against the nearest table.

“Maybe I just don’t enjoy your company,” you retort, taking a sip of your drink.

He grins. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”

Before you can respond, one of his teammates calls his name, distracting him long enough for you to slip away. You find a quieter spot near the edge of the field, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background.

But, of course, Joe finds you again.

“Thought you’d try to escape, huh?” he says, appearing at your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I wasn’t escaping,” you lie, crossing your arms.

“Sure you weren’t.” He pauses, glancing at the crowd. “Not a fan of tailgates?”

“Not a fan of crowds,” you admit.

He nods, surprisingly serious for once. “Fair enough. They’re not for everyone.”

You glance at him, caught off guard by the genuine tone in his voice. It’s a rare moment of sincerity from someone who seems to live for getting under your skin.

And then, just as quickly, the moment passes.

“Still,” he says, his smirk returning, “you’ve got to admit, the food’s pretty good. Ja’Marr’s burgers? Best on campus.”

The party stretched well into the night, turning the once-bustling tailgate into a dimly lit, hazy scene of music, laughter, and scattered conversations. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated these kinds of events. The air was warm, the smell of grilled food and spilled beer thick, but for once, you weren’t faking a smile just to survive.

Instead, you were leaning against a folding chair near the makeshift DJ booth, chatting with a guy named Wes. He was a linebacker for LSU, though, by his own admission, mostly a benchwarmer. Shy, soft-spoken, and refreshingly normal, Wes wasn’t at all what you expected to find at a party like this.

“You’re telling me you’ve never been to Mike’s cage?” he asked, his voice slightly raised to be heard over the music.

You laughed. “I don’t know, it just never seemed like a big deal to me. It’s a tiger.”

His eyes widened in mock offense. “It’s not just a tiger. It’s our tiger.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’ll check it out sometime,” you said, grinning at his enthusiasm.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement, and instinctively, you glanced over. There, leaning against the bar table, was Joe.

His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on you and Wes.

The sight of his uncharacteristically cold expression sent a jolt through you. Was he annoyed? No, that didn’t make sense. He didn’t care about you, not really.

Wes was saying something about the tiger habitat, but your attention flickered back to Joe. His knuckles whitened around the edge of his red Solo cup, and he seemed to be muttering something to Ja’Marr, who only shrugged in response.

“Everything okay?” Wes asked, his brow furrowed as he followed your gaze.

You blinked, forcing yourself to refocus. “Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

Joe, however, was impossible to ignore. At one point, he stormed past your little corner of the party, brushing close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm against yours.

Wes had just finished telling a story about his first LSU practice, his nervous laughter making you smile, when Joe’s voice cut through the conversation like a jagged knife.

“Nice to see you making friends,” he said, his tone just sharp enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

You turned to find Joe standing a few feet away, his trademark smirk forced and strained. He wasn’t looking at you but at Wes, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, Burrow,” Wes said, his voice even but noticeably quieter.

Joe stepped closer, ignoring you entirely as he clapped Wes on the shoulder. “Wesley Evans, right? Linebacker extraordinaire.” His words were light, almost teasing, but there was a strange undertone to them.

“Uh, yeah,” Wes said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though ‘extraordinaire’ might be a bit of a stretch.”

Joe chuckled, his laugh cold. “Oh, come on. Don’t sell yourself short. I mean, someone’s got to keep the bench warm, right?”

The group went silent.

You froze, your stomach dropping as the words settled over the conversation like a wet blanket. Wes’s easygoing demeanor faltered for just a moment—just long enough for you to catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But he recovered quickly, letting out a forced laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.”

“Joe,” Ja’Marr said sharply, stepping forward. “That was uncalled for.”

Joe raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk faltering. “What? I was just joking.”

“No, you weren’t,” Ja’Marr said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You stared at Joe, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and confusion. What was his problem? You’d seen him tease people before, but this was something else. This was cruel.

Joe’s eyes finally flicked to yours, and for a brief second, something like regret flashed across his face. But just as quickly, he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before stalking off into the crowd.

The group stood in awkward silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said softly, turning to Wes.

He shook his head, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

But you could see the way his shoulders sagged, the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his cup.

Ja’Marr sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not usually like that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, still staring at the spot where Joe had disappeared.

Ja’Marr shot you a look but said nothing. The group eventually dispersed, the easy energy of the night soured by the encounter.

And as you followed Ella home later, you couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head, trying to piece together why Joe Burrow seemed so determined to ruin the night—not just for you, but for Wes, too.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the faint buzz of crickets and distant party music filling the air as you and Ella navigated the dimly lit sidewalks. The night had been long, and your head was still spinning from Joe’s earlier outburst. You’d always known him to be annoying, maybe even a little infuriating, but tonight was different. There was a sharpness to him, an edge that left you unsettled.

Ella broke the silence first, her voice soft. “What do you think that was about? With Joe, I mean.”

You shrugged, kicking a loose pebble down the pavement. “Who knows? Maybe he ran out of people to torture and decided to branch out.”

Ella laughed lightly but didn’t press further. By the time you reached your apartment complex, the cool night air had started to seep into your skin, making you shiver. All you could think about was collapsing into bed and forgetting this day ever happened.

But, of course, Joe Burrow had other plans.

There he was, right in front of your door, pressed up against yet another blonde, her manicured nails tangled in his hair as they made out like the world was ending.

You stopped dead in your tracks, Ella nearly bumping into you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

At the sound of your voice, Joe broke away from his hookup, turning to face you with a smirk that was equal parts shameless and infuriating.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Wes not invite you over for a post-party study session?”

Your jaw tightened. “Get out of the way, Burrow.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “What’s the rush? You don’t want to hang out? I can introduce you to…uh…” He glanced at the girl beside him, snapping his fingers as if trying to remember her name.

The blonde giggled, clearly unbothered. “Stephanie,” she offered, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Right. Stephanie,” Joe said, his grin widening.

Ella groaned softly beside you, crossing her arms. “Joe, move. We’re tired.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping aside but not before leaning casually against the doorframe, effectively blocking your path again. “But seriously, where’s Wes? Thought you two were hitting it off. Or is he back on the bench already?”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, finally losing the last shred of patience you had left.

Joe straightened up, clearly surprised by the sudden bite in your tone. “What? I’m just messing around.”

“No, you’re being a jerk,” you shot back. “First, you humiliate Wes at the party, and now you’re standing here, rubbing it in like it’s some kind of joke. What’s your problem?”

Stephanie shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between you and Joe. “Uh, maybe we should—”

“Not now,” Joe cut her off, his tone sharper than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t even look at her, his eyes locked on yours.

Stephanie’s mouth fell open in shock. “Excuse me?”

“Just go,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm.

For a moment, the three of you stood frozen, the tension hanging thick in the air. Then, with an indignant huff, Stephanie grabbed her purse and stormed off, her heels clicking angrily against the pavement.

Ella’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Wow,” she muttered under her breath.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply before turning back to you. “Happy now?”

“No,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re still here.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re acting like I committed some crime. I was just joking, okay? It’s not my fault you can’t take a little teasing.”

“Teasing?” you repeated, incredulous. “Joe, you embarrassed Wes in front of everyone tonight. And for what? To make yourself feel better? To prove you’re the big man on campus?”

His jaw clenched, the cocky facade cracking ever so slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then enlighten me,” you challenged, taking a step closer. “Why do you always have to be such an ass?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and tense. “Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting like a punch to the gut. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his door slamming echoing through the quiet hallway.

Ella let out a low whistle. “Well, that was…something.”

You stared after him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Something.”

“Did he just…?” Ella’s voice was barely a whisper beside you.

You swallowed hard, not trusting yourself to speak. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It wasn’t like Joe to be vulnerable—hell, he practically lived to get under your skin. And yet, there it was, hanging in the air: the truth you never asked for, wrapped up in all his stupid teasing and annoying antics.

“Forget it,” you finally muttered, fumbling with your keys as you moved to unlock the door. “He’s just trying to mess with me.”

“Uh-huh,” Ella said slowly, following you inside. “Because, you know, the guy who just ditched a hot blonde to argue with you at midnight clearly doesn’t care.”

You shot her a glare, unwilling to entertain the idea. “I’m going to bed.”

Ella raised her hands in surrender, smirking knowingly as she headed for her room. “Okay, but don’t act surprised when he shows up tomorrow. He’s not exactly the type to let things go.”

“Goodnight, Ella,” you said firmly, shutting your bedroom door behind you.

But as you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t get his words out of your head. Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention. Was he serious? Or was this just another game to him, a way to throw you off-balance and make you question everything?

With a frustrated sigh, you rolled over, punching your pillow as if it was somehow Joe’s fault that you couldn’t sleep. Whatever his deal was, you weren’t going to let him get under your skin any more than he already had.

But deep down, you knew it was too late. Because whether you liked it or not, Joe Burrow had already wormed his way into your thoughts—and no amount of denial was going to change that.

The next morning, you woke up to a series of loud knocks on your door, far too early for any sane person to be awake. Groaning, you pulled the covers over your head, but the knocking continued, persistent and unrelenting.

“Go away!” you yelled, but the noise didn’t stop.

With a huff, you threw off the blankets and stumbled out of bed, yanking open the door with every intention of giving whoever it was a piece of your mind.

But, of course, it was Joe.

He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just woken you up at the crack of dawn, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Morning, neighbor.”

You stared at him, too stunned and too tired to muster a response.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” he said, his tone annoyingly chipper.

“I wasn’t,” you snapped, rubbing your eyes. “What the hell do you want?”

His smile widened, and he held up a to-go coffee cup, the LSU logo bright against the paper sleeve. “Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

You blinked at the cup, then at him, suspicion rising. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said, still holding it out. “Just coffee. Truce?”

You hesitated, the words from last night still lingering between you. But, against your better judgment, you reached for the cup, your fingers brushing his for a brief second. “Fine. Truce. For now.”

His eyes gleamed, like he’d just won some kind of invisible battle. “I’ll take it.” He turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way—I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing in the doorway with a coffee cup in hand and the distinct feeling that, somehow, things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Things between you and Wes have been going really well. You’ve been texting each other daily since that first meeting in the quad, and his messages always seem to bring a smile to your face. Some days, you talk about classes and the usual college chaos—complaining about professors who seem to thrive on assigning last-minute papers, laughing over campus gossip, or sharing music recommendations.

Other days, the conversations drift into deeper topics: family, future dreams, and the things you never thought you’d share with someone you’d barely known a few weeks ago. It's easy, effortless, and you feel like you've known him forever. There's a connection that grows stronger with each passing day, his texts becoming a constant you look forward to amid the swirl of college life.

When game days roll around, you make sure to watch, even if football has never been your thing. You learn enough of the basics to text him encouragement before each game and tease him when his team makes a stupid play. And every single time he wins, you get a photo of him in his jersey, sweaty and glowing with victory, his smile so wide you can feel it through the screen.

One crisp Saturday evening after a particularly big game—a win that had the entire stadium roaring and chanting for more—your phone buzzes. It’s Wes, as expected, but this time the message is different.

Wes: Big win tonight. You should come out to celebrate—party at the house. It'll be fun, promise.

You hesitate for a moment. Frat parties aren’t usually your scene, but the idea of seeing Wes in person after weeks of building up this text-based connection makes your heart beat a little faster. It feels like the right time to finally break out of the comfort of your phone screen. You don’t want to overthink it, so you respond quickly.

You: Okay, I’ll come! What time? Wes: Perfect. Starts at 9, but I’ll be there around 10. Meet me out front? I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.

You can’t help but laugh at that—his protective side has become more apparent lately, and you find it kind of endearing. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of anticipation. You try on half your wardrobe, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness that makes your stomach flutter. After way too much deliberation, you settle on something that’s cute but comfortable—a black crop top, jeans that fit just right, and your favorite sneakers. Casual, but you don’t want to come off like you’re trying too hard.

The party was in full swing by the time you and Wes went in, the familiar buzz of laughter and music filling the air. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders as you made your way through the packed house, a red solo cup already in his hand. It was a typical LSU post-game celebration—teammates hyped up from their win, students eager for a reason to cut loose, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

Wes, ever the golden retriever type, was all smiles as he greeted his teammates. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as you plastered on your own smile. Wes was great—sweet, thoughtful, and good-looking to boot—but there was something missing. Conversations with him always felt a little too polished, like he was sticking to a script.

Still, you weren’t going to let your wandering thoughts ruin the night. As he led you toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen, you decided to let loose a little, leaning into his world for the evening.

You were two drinks in when you felt it—a shift in the air that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Glancing across the room, your eyes locked with Joe’s. He was leaning casually against the wall, his cup dangling from his fingers as he laughed at something Ja’Marr said. But his focus wasn’t on his teammate—it was on you.

That look.

You’d seen it before, the one that screamed I’m up to something. Your stomach twisted as his lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“What’s wrong?” Wes asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

Wes didn’t notice your distraction, too busy rambling about the game. You nodded along, but your attention kept drifting back to Joe. He was still watching, and now he was moving.

Straight toward you.

“Wesley,” Joe said, his voice louder than necessary as he clapped a hand on Wes’s shoulder. “Man of the hour! Hell of a game tonight.”

Wes beamed, his chest puffing out a little. “Thanks, Burrow. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Joe said smoothly, his grin sharpening. “You’re really making a name for yourself out there.” He paused, his tone dipping just enough to make the compliment feel off. “You’ve got a solid five minutes of playing time this season, right?”

Wes laughed, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Yeah, Coach says I’m improving every week.”

Joe nodded, his expression the picture of sincerity. “No doubt. You’re an inspiration, man. Really showing the bench how it’s done.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back the urge to step in. Wes didn’t deserve to be Joe’s verbal punching bag, even if he was too oblivious to notice.

Then Joe shifted his focus.

“And this,” he said, gesturing toward you with his cup, “is the girl everyone’s been talking about?”

You stiffened, already bracing yourself.

“She’s great, right?” Wes said proudly, tightening his arm around your waist.

“Absolutely,” Joe said, his eyes locking on yours. “Smart, pretty, patient.” His lips twitched as he added, “Definitely one of a kind.”

The room felt hotter, smaller. You knew what he was doing, and you refused to let him win.

“Wow, Joe,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “That’s almost a compliment. Are you feeling okay?”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy.”

Wes chuckled awkwardly, clearly missing the tension simmering between the two of you. But the people around you weren’t as oblivious. Conversations around the kitchen began to quiet, heads subtly turning in your direction.

Joe leaned in slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Though I gotta say, Wes, you’ve got your hands full. She seems like the type to keep you on your toes. Always ready with a snappy comeback.”

You took a step forward, your jaw tightening. “Maybe because some people deserve it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re talking about me,” Joe said, his smirk widening. “But hey, you’ve got to admit, I keep things interesting.”

“Interesting?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You mean infuriating.”

By now, you were toe-to-toe, the space between you charged with unspoken words and something else you refused to acknowledge.

Joe’s eyes flicked down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he smiled again, softer this time. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you were certain everyone in the room could see the way your cheeks flushed, the way your chest rose and fell faster than it should have.

Joe straightened, patting Wes on the back. “You’ve got a good one here, man. Don’t screw it up.”

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing back into the crowd with that stupid smirk still on his face.

Wes turned to you, oblivious as ever. “Man, Joe’s great, isn’t he?”

You didn’t answer, too busy trying to calm the storm raging inside you. Because as much as you hated to admit it, Joe Burrow had just gotten under your skin again. And this time, you weren’t sure you could shake him off.

The days blur together after the party, each one bleeding into the next with a heavy quiet you can’t shake. Joe hasn’t teased you, hasn’t made any more snide comments in passing. It’s almost like he’s disappeared entirely, and the silence he’s left behind feels suffocating.

But it's not the kind of peace you wanted—it's the kind that echoes, that bounces around inside your skull, replaying the things he said over and over again until you can’t ignore them anymore. You try to focus on Wes, try to let his easygoing, good-natured attitude soothe the irritation that keeps curling under your skin, but the more you think about Joe’s words, the more they fester. Suddenly, everything about Wes feels too soft, too careful. He’s kind, yes, but there's a blandness to it, a safe predictability that only makes you itch for something sharper.

Then, days later, you find yourself in the apartment lobby, bundled up against the late autumn chill, glaring at a maintenance form on the wall. The hot water’s been out for days, and you’re halfway through filling out a complaint when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is—the shift in the air is enough.

"Wow, fancy meeting you here," comes Joe’s voice, smooth and mocking, with just enough bite to make your spine stiffen. You don’t turn around, don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you keep writing, the pen pressing hard enough against the paper that it almost tears.

"Cold water bothering you too?" he continues when you don’t respond, his tone amused. You can feel him looming behind you, a little too close, and you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stay calm.

"Just trying to get it fixed," you reply curtly, finally turning around and catching the cocky smirk tugging at his lips. You’re not in the mood for whatever game he’s about to play, but of course, he’s not about to let you off that easy. His gaze slides from the form in your hand back up to your face, one eyebrow quirking up in that infuriating way that always makes you want to wipe the smugness off his face.

"Surprised you’re handling it yourself," Joe drawls, his eyes bright with something almost like delight. "Thought you'd get your little boyfriend to do it for you."

Your fingers tighten around the pen, and you force yourself to take a breath, ignoring the way your pulse quickens. "Not everything revolves around Wes," you shoot back, but your voice wavers just enough to make Joe’s smirk widen. His eyes flick over your face, and you hate the way he seems to read every expression, every crack in the mask you’re struggling to hold up.

"Really?" he says, the word heavy with skepticism. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall like he’s settling in for a show. "Could’ve fooled me. He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, huh? I bet you’re the perfect, supportive girlfriend." His voice drips with sarcasm, and something inside you snaps.

"Shut up, Joe," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. You turn back to the form, determined to ignore him, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he leans in closer, his breath warm on your ear.

"Why?" he murmurs, his voice soft but taunting, like he’s got all the time in the world. "Hit a nerve?"

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because the truth is, he did hit a nerve. And he knows it.

"Come on," he pushes, a note of genuine curiosity in his tone now. "Don’t you ever get tired of it? Playing nice, doing everything right, sticking with someone who’s… I dunno, safe?"

You spin around, eyes blazing, and Joe’s face lights up with triumph. "You don’t know anything about him," you snap, but there’s a waver in your voice that makes Joe’s eyes narrow with interest. "Wes is kind, and he’s decent, and he actually cares about people, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you."

Joe’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it only grows wider, almost wolfish, and you hate that it sends a thrill through you, a charge that leaves your heart racing. "Yeah," he says, his tone almost pitying, "he’s safe. Boring. He’s exactly the kind of guy who’d never get in your way, never challenge you, never push back. And you’re happy with that? Really?"

You glare at him, your blood boiling, but you can’t look away. Because some part of you—the part you’ve been trying to silence for days—knows he’s right, and it makes you want to scream. "What the hell is your problem, Joe?" you demand, your voice shaking with anger. "Why do you even care? What does it matter to you if I’m with him or not?"

For a moment, something flickers in Joe’s eyes, something you can’t quite read, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that infuriating smirk. "I don’t care," he says, too quickly, his voice a little too smooth. "I just think it’s funny, that’s all. Watching you pretend like he’s enough for you."

You step closer without realizing it, your fists clenched at your sides. "You don’t know what you’re talking about," you insist, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. Joe’s gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and you feel a jolt of something hot and dangerous twist in your stomach.

"Don’t I?" he murmurs, and suddenly, you’re standing toe-to-toe, your breath mingling with his, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his smirk softens just enough to be dangerous.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

There’s a beat, a moment suspended in time where it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of you, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air. Then, suddenly, Joe’s expression shifts, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face as he leans back, breaking the spell. He claps you on the shoulder, his touch light but lingering.

"Good talk," he says, his tone infuriatingly cheerful as he pushes past you towards the elevator, leaving you standing there, breathless and rattled.

"Have fun with Wes," he throws over his shoulder, and the door slides shut behind him before you can find the words to reply. You’re left staring at the closed elevator doors, your chest heaving and your hands still trembling around the pen, the echoes of Joe’s taunting voice ricocheting in your mind.

And for the first time in days, the silence feels even louder.

The days drag by, and every one of them feels heavier, weighed down by Joe's words. They hang over you, echoing whenever you try to ignore them, seeping into your thoughts when you're with Wes. The way he holds your hand, the way he smiles politely at your jokes, the way he never raises his voice or teases you too hard—it’s all safe. It’s what you thought you wanted. But now, thanks to Joe, it’s all starting to feel empty, like a shell with nothing inside.

As if to make matters worse, Joe's been louder, more present, and more irritating than ever. He’s upped his game, bringing a new girl home almost every night, the kind who giggle just a little too loud in the stairwell, whose heels click sharply against the tile floors, waking you and Ella up in the middle of the night. You hear them laughing through the paper-thin walls, their voices carrying long after you wish they’d shut up. Ella throws a pillow at the wall one night, groaning in frustration, but you just lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, the annoyance mixing with something else—something you refuse to name.

And then Wes’s birthday sneaks up on you, like a storm you’d been pretending not to see on the horizon. Everyone's talking about it—the party of the semester, hosted at his parents’ mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. You know it’s a big deal. Wes’s parents are the kind who throw events instead of parties, the kind where everyone’s wearing their best, and you’d feel out of place if you weren’t on Wes’s arm. You spend way too long picking out your dress, ignoring Ella’s teasing smile as you change twice and then settle on something classy, something you think Wes’s parents will approve of.

The mansion is even more extravagant than you expected. Tall, stately, and glowing with warm light spilling from every window. A string quartet plays softly near the entrance, and there’s enough champagne to drown in. It’s a perfect picture of Southern elegance, the kind of party where everyone’s on their best behavior and no one dares spill a drink on the white marble floors.

You’re almost able to relax, standing with Wes as he introduces you to old friends and relatives, his arm around your waist like you’re some kind of prize. But then, from across the room, you catch sight of someone familiar stepping through the grand double doors, and the air goes still.

Joe. And he’s not alone.

On his arm is a girl who looks like she’s stepped straight out of a beauty magazine—perfect curls cascading down her back, a dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, and a pageant smile that could light up the whole room. She’s everything you’re not: polished, pristine, and undeniably beautiful. And Joe’s leaning in close to her, whispering something that makes her laugh, the sound light and carefree, echoing above the music.

Your heart sinks. You should have known he’d be here. You should have known he’d show up with someone like her.

The moment he walks in, it’s like the temperature drops. You feel him scan the room, his gaze sliding over the crowd until it lands on you. There’s a flicker of recognition, a half-smile that tugs at his lips, and for a second, you swear he’s going to make a beeline for you, but then he turns to his date, all easy charm and confidence.

You look away quickly, swallowing down the hot, bitter twinge of jealousy that rises in your chest. Beside you, Wes is oblivious, laughing with some cousin or another, completely unaware of the storm that’s building in your mind.

The party moves on, but you can't shake the weight in your chest. Every time you turn around, Joe is there—always in your peripheral, laughing with his date or effortlessly sliding into conversations with people he’s never met, commanding attention without even trying. And it’s driving you mad. You hate that he’s here, hate the way his presence seems to seep into every corner of the room, hate that you can’t stop looking for him, even when you don’t mean to.

Wes’s parents announce dinner, and you find yourself at a long table, perfectly set with silverware that you don’t even know how to use properly. Wes is on your left, chatting away, and you force yourself to smile and nod at the right moments, though your gaze keeps drifting over his shoulder. Joe is at the far end of the table, but his eyes meet yours—bright and full of something that feels like a challenge. He raises his glass in your direction, and you don’t miss the way his date practically glows under his attention, leaning into his side.

You grit your teeth, focusing on Wes, who’s completely unaware of the way your stomach is twisting. He’s sweet, attentive, a perfect gentleman, and you wish you could ignore the itch under your skin, the restlessness that grows with each passing minute. But it’s there, burning hotter every time you catch sight of Joe, laughing too loud or leaning in too close to whisper in his date's ear.

By the time dessert is served, you’re practically vibrating with frustration, and Wes’s voice is starting to blur into the background. He’s telling some long-winded story about his summer at the family lake house, but all you can think about is how easy it would be to just walk over to the other end of the table and—

“Hey, you alright?” Wes’s voice breaks through your thoughts, and you force yourself to focus on him, pasting on a smile that feels hollow.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, reaching for your glass of champagne and taking a sip that burns all the way down. He seems satisfied, squeezing your hand gently under the table, but his touch feels distant, almost suffocating.

And when you glance back at Joe, he’s watching you, his smile sharper than you remember. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes your skin prickle, like he’s waiting for something, like he knows exactly what kind of game he’s playing. His date is still chattering away, oblivious to the way his gaze keeps flicking back to you, like a tether he can’t quite cut loose.

You look away, your face heating, and try to drown out the feeling with another sip of champagne. But it's no use. The night has only just begun, and you already know—it’s going to be a long one.

You escape upstairs, the noise of the party fading as you climb the grand, spiraling staircase. It’s quieter up here, with the muted sound of conversation and laughter drifting up from below, and you can finally breathe a little easier. You’re not even sure what you’re doing—just that you need a break from the suffocating conversation, the polished smiles, and the feeling of being watched. Wes is deep in conversation with a teammate, and it was easy enough to slip away unnoticed. You tell yourself you're only going to the bathroom, but you don’t even bother finding one. You just wander down the hall, hoping to collect yourself, to calm the thudding in your chest.

But then, of course, you see him.

Joe, leaning lazily against the wall at the end of the hallway, like he’s been waiting for you. There’s no sign of his date—she’s probably downstairs, lost in the crowd—but Joe’s here, and he looks too damn comfortable, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He gives you that infuriating half-smirk the second your eyes meet, like he’s been expecting you. Like he knows you’re going to stop.

“Lost?” he drawls, his voice a low, lazy tease, and you freeze, every muscle in your body going tense.

“No,” you snap, hating the way your heart skips when he pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. “Just getting some air.”

“From Wes?” he asks, eyebrows raising, and you can hear the taunt in his tone, the way he draws out the name like it’s a joke. “Or from this whole perfect little party of his?”

“None of your business,” you shoot back, but he’s closer now, and you hate how your breath catches, how the air between you feels thick and electric. He’s looking at you like he’s stripping away all the layers you’ve put up—the polite smiles, the careful charm—and seeing straight through to the part of you that’s restless and hungry for a fight.

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate. “Or if you’re just playing the role of ‘good girlfriend’ to make everyone happy.”

“Shut up, Joe,” you warn, but your voice is weaker than you want it to be, and he notices. Of course he notices. He takes another step, and suddenly he’s way too close, the heat of him radiating into the space between you, making it harder to breathe.

“Or is it that Wes is just…too boring for you?” he presses, and something snaps. You step forward, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble back a step, anger flaring white-hot in your chest.

“Why do you care?” you demand, your voice rising. “Why do you always have to ruin everything? You can’t stand seeing me happy, can you? You always have to get in the way—”

“Oh, please,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp with irritation. “Don’t act like I’m the one ruining things. You’re the one who can’t stop looking at me. You’re the one who’s pretending this perfect little relationship is enough for you.”

You don’t even think. You just react, stepping closer, your chest heaving with the force of your anger, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You don’t know anything about me!” you shout, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them. “You don’t know what I want or what I need, so stop pretending like you have me all figured out!”

He’s laughing now, a low, mocking sound that sets your teeth on edge, and you want to hit him, to scream, to do something to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face. But then he’s had enough. Suddenly, he moves, quick as a flash, and before you can even blink, he’s grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you up as if you weigh nothing, throwing you over his shoulder in one swift, effortless motion.

“Put me down!” you shout, struggling against him, but he just tightens his grip, carrying you down the hall like you’re some kind of rag doll. Your fists beat uselessly against his back, and you’re half-cursing, half-panicking as he ignores you, kicking open the nearest door and stepping inside.

The door slams shut behind him, and you barely register the darkened room—a guest bedroom, dimly lit by the moonlight streaming through the curtains—before he’s setting you down, pressing you up against the wall with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. You’re too stunned to move, your back hitting the cold plaster, and suddenly his body is pinning you there, his hands on either side of your face, caging you in.

“Finally shut you up,” he mutters, his voice rough, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the way his breath brushes your cheek, hot and fast. His eyes are dark, burning with something you’ve never seen before, and the space between you feels like it’s crackling, alive with an energy that makes your skin prickle and your pulse race.

“Why do you have to be such a—” you start, but he cuts you off, leaning in closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his chest pressing against yours. His mouth is inches from yours, his lips twisting into a wicked smile.

“Go on,” he taunts, his voice low and dangerous. “Say it. Tell me what you really think.”

You’re breathing hard, your anger warring with something hotter, something that’s been building between you for months, and you can’t stop yourself. “You’re an asshole,” you spit, your hands coming up to shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. He just leans in, his nose brushing against yours, the air between you thick and suffocating.

“And you,” he says softly, his voice almost gentle, “are a liar.”

You don’t know who moves first—whether it’s him closing the distance or you surging up to meet him—but suddenly his mouth is on yours, hard and desperate, and you’re kissing him back like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted. The kiss is furious, full of all the things you can’t say, all the frustration and the longing and the anger that’s been building up for so long it feels like it’s going to explode. His hands are in your hair, his grip almost painful, and you’re clinging to him, pulling him closer, gasping into his mouth as he presses you harder against the wall.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispers against your lips, his breath ragged, and you shake your head, too far gone to think, to lie, to do anything but pull him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shut up,” you breathe, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he kisses you again, deeper this time, slower, like he’s savoring the taste of your surrender. The room feels too small, the air too thick, and you know you should stop, you know this is wrong, but you can’t, not when his hands are sliding down your sides, not when his body is pressing into yours, not when he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

And then, suddenly, it’s too much. You push him away, your breath coming in short, harsh gasps, and he lets you go, stepping back with a grin that’s all arrogance and triumph. Your lips feel swollen, your face flushed, and you hate that you can’t stop looking at him, that you want more even though you know you shouldn’t.

“See?” he says softly, his voice maddeningly smug. “I do know you.”

The words barely have time to leave his mouth before you’re on him again, shoving him away from you, your hands hitting his chest with more force than you intend. He stumbles back a step, a flash of surprise crossing his face before his eyes harden, that infuriating grin vanishing. You’re both breathing hard, the air between you heavy with everything unspoken, with all the sharp words that have been building up since the day you met.

“You don’t know anything!” you snap, your voice cracking, and he just laughs, a short, humorless sound that makes your blood boil.

“You keep saying that,” he shoots back, his voice low and dangerous, “but here you are. Every time, it’s the same thing. You want me to stop? Then say it. Tell me to leave.”

You open your mouth to say exactly that, to tell him to go to hell and stay out of your life, but the words won’t come. They catch in your throat, tangled up with the truth you can’t face, and he sees it. He always sees it. His gaze softens, something like understanding flickering in those dark eyes, and it pisses you off more than anything.

“See?” he murmurs, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You can’t. Because you don’t want me to.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but it’s too late—he’s already crowding into your space, his hand curling around the back of your neck, tilting your face up to his. You hate him for the way he’s looking at you, like he’s unraveling you with a single glance, like he knows exactly how to break you down, and before you can stop yourself, you’re surging up, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him again, harder this time, angrier.

His arms come around you instantly, pulling you closer, and you hate that it feels good, that it feels right, even as you’re pushing against him, your nails digging into his shoulders. It’s a mess of teeth and tongues, the kiss desperate and furious, and you’re drowning in it, in the heat of him, in the way his fingers are tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

Then the door swings open, and you both jerk apart, your breaths coming in ragged, uneven pants. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you see Ja’Marr standing there, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. He looks at you, then at Joe, and lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

“Really, Joe?” he says, his voice laced with disappointment. “In the middle of Wes’s birthday party? Do you have a death wish or something?”

“Calm down,” Joe says coolly, like he’s not the least bit bothered, his gaze still fixed on you, as if daring you to run. “We were just talking.”

“Yeah,” Ja’Marr scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Talking, right. Because making out with your teammate’s girl is totally a normal conversation.”

You feel your cheeks burn, and you step back, smoothing down your clothes like you can erase what just happened. “This—this was nothing,” you stammer, trying to ignore the way Joe’s lips curl into a smirk at your flustered tone. “We’re done here.”

Joe just gives you a lazy, almost triumphant smile, like he’s won some unspoken battle, and turns to Ja’Marr with a shrug. “She’s got a mind of her own, you know,” he says, and you want to punch him, to scream, but Ja’Marr just shakes his head, looking equal parts disappointed and resigned.

“Whatever,” Ja’Marr mutters, grabbing Joe’s arm and pulling him out into the hallway. “You need to get your act together. Wes is going to notice if you keep pulling this crap.”

Joe’s eyes flick to you one last time, something unreadable in his expression, before he lets Ja’Marr drag him away. The door clicks shut behind them, and you’re left alone in the darkened room, your heart racing and your thoughts spinning out of control. You know you should follow them, that you should go back downstairs and pretend like nothing happened, but your knees feel weak, and it takes you a long moment to gather yourself, to steady your breathing.

By the time you make your way back down to the party, your face feels numb, and you’ve forced on the brightest smile you can muster. Joe is already back in the thick of things, his arm slung casually around his date’s waist, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. You want to be angry, to hate him for making it look so easy, but then Wes catches sight of you, his eyes lighting up as he excuses himself from his conversation.

“Hey, there you are!” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. You try to smile, but it feels fake, like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore. “Where’d you disappear to?”

“Just needed a minute,” you say, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. You’re about to say something else, anything to fill the awkward silence, when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

Joe’s watching you, his gaze flicking from your face to your mouth, and that’s when you realize—his lips are still stained with the faintest trace of your lipstick, a dark, telltale smear at the corner of his mouth.

Wes follows your gaze, and his smile falters, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Joe, what’s on your—”

But Joe cuts in smoothly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin widening as if he finds the whole thing hilarious. “Guess I got a little carried away,” he says, his voice dripping with mock innocence, and you feel the ground sway beneath you as Wes’s arm tightens around your shoulders, his confusion shifting to suspicion.

“What’s he talking about?” Wes asks, his eyes narrowing, and you open your mouth to respond, to deny, to do something—but nothing comes out. Your voice has abandoned you, and all you can do is stand there, frozen, as Joe’s smirk deepens and he lifts his drink in a mocking toast, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Good party,” Joe says casually, his tone almost friendly. “Really enjoyed myself.”

You don’t remember what happens next—just the blur of faces, the noise of the party swelling around you, and the hollow ache settling deep in your chest as Joe turns away, laughing with someone else, like he hasn’t just blown everything to pieces.

Wes's smile is strained when he pulls you aside, away from the music and the crowd. There’s a tightness around his eyes you haven’t seen before, something almost defeated, and for the first time that night, you feel a genuine pang of guilt. This is the part you were dreading—the confrontation, the disappointment in his eyes. But instead of yelling, instead of demanding an explanation, he just looks... tired.

“Hey,” he starts softly, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t wanna make a scene, okay? But I think... I think maybe you should go.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat. There’s no anger in his voice, just resignation, like he already knows the answer before you can even try to lie. You can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.

“Wes, I—” you begin, but he holds up a hand, a weak, defeated smile pulling at his lips.

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, and there’s something achingly kind in his voice, which somehow makes it hurt more. “I think we both know this... isn’t what you want. Not really.”

You feel relief flood your chest so suddenly that it’s almost nauseating, and that’s how you know he’s right. Because instead of being devastated, instead of scrambling to explain yourself, you just feel lighter. Like a weight you didn’t realize you were carrying has finally been lifted.

You reach out to touch his arm, but he steps back, shaking his head. “Don’t,” he says quietly, and you let your hand drop, nodding numbly. There’s nothing left to say. You don’t try to apologize; you don’t try to make excuses. You just turn and leave, the buzz of the party fading behind you as you slip out the front door, the cold night air hitting you like a slap.

The walk back to the apartment feels like a blur, your mind whirling with everything that just happened, everything you don’t want to think about. You don’t know if it’s the relief of being free from something you never truly wanted, or the shame of how it all went down, but by the time you reach your building, your hands are trembling and your breath is hitching.

You let yourself into the apartment, your eyes already burning with unshed tears, and you find Ella curled up on the couch, half-asleep in front of the TV. The moment she sees your face, though, she sits up, worry creasing her brow.

“Whoa, what happened?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, but you don’t even know where to begin.

“Everything,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and then it all spills out. You tell her everything—about Joe, about the kiss, about Wes’s sad, tired smile and the way he let you go without a fight. You’re talking so fast you’re stumbling over your words, your emotions a chaotic tangle of regret and relief and frustration, and by the time you’re finished, you feel completely wrung out.

Ella listens without interrupting, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief to sympathy as you pour your heart out. When you finally go quiet, she just sighs and pulls you into a hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and you don’t realize how much you needed to hear that until the tears start falling. She doesn’t tell you that you screwed up, she doesn’t lecture you about Joe, she just holds you while you cry, rubbing soothing circles on your back until the tears run dry.

By the time you pull away, your throat is raw, and you’re exhausted. Ella doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look that says she understands, that she’s on your side no matter what, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.

But then, just as you’re wiping your eyes and trying to compose yourself, you hear it—a loud burst of laughter echoing through the thin wall you share with Joe’s apartment. It’s followed by the high-pitched giggle of a girl, and your stomach twists. Of course. Of course.

Ella catches the look on your face and scowls. “He’s such an ass,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. ���You want me to go bang on the wall and tell them to shut up?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s... it’s fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

You don’t even believe yourself, but you can’t deal with Joe right now, not after everything. So you go to your room, shut the door, and try to block out the noise. You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself it’s over. But sleep doesn’t come easily, and all you can hear is Joe’s voice in your head, his mocking words echoing long after the sounds from next door have finally gone quiet.

Over the next few days, you try to fall back into a routine, but everything feels off-kilter. Wes doesn’t text you, and you don’t reach out, letting the silence stretch between you until it feels like a mutual understanding—something that was always going to happen. Ella hovers, supportive but careful not to push, and you appreciate that. You just need space, time to sort through everything.

Joe, however, is a different story.

You barely see him around the complex, but when you do, it’s impossible to ignore him. He’s still bringing home girls—more than ever, it seems—and they’re always loud, obnoxiously so, like he’s doing it on purpose, like he’s rubbing it in your face. And maybe he is. Maybe this is his way of proving a point, of showing you that he doesn’t care, that he never cared, and the worst part is... you don’t know if you care either. Or maybe you care too much.

One night, after a particularly sleepless stretch of listening to laughter and footsteps pounding through the walls, Ella finds you staring blankly at the ceiling, dark circles smudged beneath your eyes.

“He’s doing this on purpose, you know,” she says bluntly, her tone halfway between irritation and pity. “He’s trying to get to you.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, rolling over to face the wall. “It’s working.”

Wes’s birthday party fades into memory, and a few weeks pass. It’s easier to pretend you don’t care when you don’t have to face the fallout. You focus on classes, avoid places where you might run into Joe, and try to ignore the way your heart sinks every time you hear his voice next door.

Then, one Friday night, there’s a knock on your door. You’re half expecting Ella’s latest Tinder date or a package, but instead, you find Joe leaning against the doorframe, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. There’s something almost hesitant about the way he looks at you, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.

“Hey,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, and it catches you off guard.

“What do you want?” you ask, and you hate how defensive you sound, how you can’t help but put a wall between you.

Joe’s eyes flicker, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing down the hallway before he looks back at you. “Can we talk?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s asking because he wants to or because he thinks he has to. “Please?”

You hesitate, every part of you screaming to slam the door in his face, to tell him to go to hell. “Talk?” you echo, as though the very idea is laughable. “What’s there to talk about, Joe?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his hands still deep in his pockets. “I just—” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. For once, he doesn’t look cocky or composed. He looks tired. “I screwed up, okay? I know that. And I just… I want to make things right.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Now you care about making things right? Weeks later? Where was this when you were busy humiliating me in front of everyone at Wes’s party?”

Joe flinches, and the sight of it sends a small, mean thrill through you. You want him to feel every ounce of the anger and hurt that’s been simmering inside you since that night.

“I was drunk,” he mutters, like it’s an excuse. “You know I didn’t mean half the shit I said.”

“Oh, so you only mean half of it?” Your voice rises despite yourself, and you take a step closer. “Which half, Joe? The part where you said Wes was too good for me? Or the part where you implied I’m some kind of charity case?”

Joe groans, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s not what I meant! You’re twisting it—”

“I’m twisting it?” Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “No, Joe. I’m finally calling you out on your crap. You think you can just waltz in here, throw out a half-assed apology, and I’m supposed to forget how you treated me? Newsflash: I’m done being your punching bag.”

“Punching bag?” His voice spikes, and you can see his patience starting to fray. “Are you kidding me? You think I don’t care about you? That I’d say that stuff to hurt you on purpose?”

“Then why did you say it?” you snap, stepping closer until you’re almost toe to toe. “Why, Joe? If you care so much, why do you always find a way to make me feel like I’m not enough?”

He stares at you, his jaw tightening, his chest rising and falling as he tries to keep his temper in check. But then he snaps, his voice loud enough to make you flinch. “Because you drive me crazy, alright? You’re in my head all the damn time, and it’s like I can’t think straight when I’m around you!”

You’re stunned into silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with something electric, something you can’t name but can feel in every nerve of your body.

Joe’s eyes are blazing, his chest heaving as he takes a step closer. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to feel like this about you? I didn’t, okay? But I do. And it scares the hell out of me.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “Joe…”

He shakes his head, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m sorry, alright? For all of it. I just—I didn’t know how to deal with this, with you.”

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you is gone. Joe’s hands are on your arms, his grip firm but not rough, and you’re looking up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

Joe doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let the anger rise again. He stays close, his hands still resting on your arms, his grip grounding and firm. His gaze softens, something vulnerable breaking through the tension in his voice.

“You think I like being the guy who gets under your skin?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s no bite to it now. Only honesty. “You think I enjoy pissing you off just for fun?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift, the rawness in his tone. “Don’t you?”

Joe lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “No. That’s just the only way you ever seem to notice me.” His words hit like a punch to the gut, and your breath hitches. “If I’m not in your face, annoying the hell out of you, it’s like I don’t even exist to you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He’s too quick, too honest, and you don’t have a defense ready for the truth.

“That’s why I invite them over,” he continues, and there’s no cockiness in the admission. Just exhaustion. “Those girls, the loud music, the stupid games—it’s not because I want them. It’s because I’m trying to get you to see me. To pay attention. Even if it’s just so you can yell at me.”

Your stomach twists, a lump forming in your throat. You want to stay mad, to cling to your anger like a shield, but it’s slipping through your fingers. Joe doesn’t stop; he steps closer, so close now that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“I don’t know how else to get through to you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tired, okay? I’m tired of pretending like I don’t care when I do. So much more than I should.”

Your breath catches, and your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. You don’t know what to say, what to feel. Joe watches you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, his hesitation palpable. And then, before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.

It’s not rough or demanding like you might have expected. It’s soft, tentative, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His hands slide from your arms to your waist, anchoring you gently, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds back.

For a moment, you freeze, torn between the urge to push him away and the overwhelming need to lean into him. But then your walls crack, and you kiss him back, your hands clutching at the front of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Joe pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. His breathing is unsteady, his expression a mix of relief and something deeper. Without a word, he steps forward, his hands tightening around your waist as he gently pushes you through the door.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then sweeps you off your feet in one swift, effortless motion. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you down the hall toward your bedroom.

“Joe…” you begin, but he silences you with a look—a look so tender, so unlike the Joe you thought you knew, that your words die on your lips.

By the time he lays you down on the bed, the anger and frustration from moments ago have evaporated, replaced by something else entirely. Something that hums between you like a live wire.

He hovers over you, his weight supported by his arms on either side of your head. His eyes search yours, silently asking for permission, for understanding. And when you nod, so small and uncertain, he dips his head to kiss you again, this time deeper, more sure of himself.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging gently as he trails his lips down your jaw, your neck, every touch making your pulse race. He’s careful, almost reverent, as if afraid to break the fragile moment you’re sharing.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—Joe Burrow isn’t the selfish, cocky guy you thought he was. Maybe, behind all the bravado, he’s just a boy who wanted you to see him. And now, you finally do.

Joe’s lips trail along the curve of your neck, leaving a warm, electric path in their wake. He takes his time, his breath hot against your skin, and every deliberate touch makes your pulse thunder louder in your ears.

His hands glide over your waist, fingers pressing lightly, almost teasing as they trace the hem of your shirt. You feel his smile against your neck when you squirm slightly beneath him, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “No more yelling? No smart remarks?”

You swallow hard, trying to find some semblance of control, but the way his hands move, the way his lips hover so close yet don’t quite touch, leaves you breathless. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say to you right now,” you shoot back, though your voice wavers.

Joe chuckles, lifting his head to look at you, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his thumb brushing over the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’ve always got something to say to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off.”

You glare at him, but it’s half-hearted, your resolve crumbling as he dips his head again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I like it when you get all fired up,” he whispers, his tone teasing. “But I think I like this quiet side of you even more.”

You huff, trying to ignore the way your body betrays you, leaning into him despite yourself. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Joe smirks, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand slides under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin, and you shiver at the contact. “Maybe,” he admits, his tone smug, “but you’re still here, aren’t you?”

You want to retort, to wipe that cocky grin off his face, but before you can, he shifts his weight, his lips capturing yours again. This time, the kiss is slower, deeper, and you feel the teasing edge in his movements as he kisses you until you forget whatever comeback you had planned.

His fingers inch higher, tracing light patterns on your stomach, deliberately avoiding the places where you want him most. It’s infuriating, how easily he has you unraveling, and when he pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, you let out an exasperated groan.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, tugging at his shirt in frustration.

Joe leans down, his nose brushing against yours, his lips curling into a playful grin. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

He shifts again, his hands sliding up to frame your face as he kisses you once more. His lips are soft but insistent, drawing you in until all you can focus on is him—his weight pressing you into the mattress, the warmth of his skin, the way his touch sets every nerve in your body alight.

“Say the word,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft but laced with a challenge. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You stare up at him, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. But the word never comes. Instead, you pull him down again, your fingers threading through his hair as you kiss him with all the pent-up frustration, anger, and longing that’s been building between you for weeks.

Joe groans softly, his hands sliding down your sides, his teasing touch giving way to something more intentional. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your lips, his tone smug but laced with something warmer, something that makes your stomach flip.

Joe's lips find yours again, the kiss deepening as his teasing facade begins to slip. His hands roam your body with more purpose now, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s memorizing every curve. He nips lightly at your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Still hate me?” he whispers, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. He moves back slowly, before pulling off your leggings, his eyes never leaving yours.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you pull him closer, your nails grazing the back of his neck, and the quiet groan he lets out is enough to make your pulse race.

The leggings are long forgotten now, leaving you exposed in your underwear. Joe chuckles softly, his breath fanning against your lips as he trails kisses along your jaw, then lower, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck. His tongue follows, soothing the faint sting, and the combination has your hands fisting in his shirt.

“You’re not as tough as you act, you know,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. His hands slide beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your bare skin as he pushes the fabric up slowly. “I think you like this way more than you’re letting on.”

“You talk too much,” you manage to gasp, but your retort loses its bite when his thumb grazes just beneath your ribs, sending a rush of heat through your body.

Joe pulls back just enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He takes a moment to look at you, his blue eyes dark and filled with something you can’t quite name, and for a second, the teasing smirk is gone, replaced by something softer.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard.

Your breath hitches, and you feel your cheeks flush under his gaze. Before you can overthink it, his lips are on you again, softer this time but no less insistent. His hands trace slow, deliberate patterns along your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra, and you arch into his touch without meaning to.

Joe grins against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower as he presses kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and then to the edge of the fabric.

He pauses, glancing up at you as his fingers toy with the clasp, his expression both playful and questioning. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says again, his tone softer now, without the usual cockiness.

But stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. Instead, you pull him down to you, your lips crashing into his with a fervor that answers his unspoken question.

Joe groans against your mouth, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising ease, and you feel the shift in his demeanor as his teasing gives way to something more raw, more urgent. His lips trail lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake, and every deliberate touch has your body humming with anticipation.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, his voice rough and teasing, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as he looks up at you.

You reach for him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. “Shut up, Joe,” you whisper, your voice breathless but firm, and for once, he listens.

Joe's smirk returns, but it’s softer now, laced with something warmer than his usual arrogance. He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and full of disbelief, as if he can’t quite believe where the night has led. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he lets his lips and hands do the talking, his touch reverent but still filled with that undeniable fire that seems to burn between you.

He slowly pulls away, looking up at you with a small smirk before he gets up. Before you could start questioning him, he takes off his shirt and sweats swiftly, your eyes widening at his body.

Joe’s smirk deepens as he catches the way your eyes widen, lingering on his toned frame. His confidence seems to grow with every second you stay silent, your gaze betraying the sharp tongue you usually use to deflect him. He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to drink him in.

“You’re staring,” he teases, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes burn with something more primal. “I knew you liked looking at me, but this is a new level.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat rushing to your cheeks gives you away. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice wavers slightly, betraying the effect he has on you.

Joe chuckles, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of you, his face inches from yours. “Too late for that,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’ve already done it for me.”

Before you can fire back, he trails his hand down your side, fingers skimming over your waist and hip with maddening slowness. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your chest, each one softer than the last, as if he’s savoring the way you shiver beneath his touch.

You can feel his hardened bulge against your stomach, and you're just about done with his teasing. You need him, now. “Joe,” you whined as he pulls back with a smirk.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he says, his voice low and raw. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours again, his kiss stealing whatever snarky comeback you might have had. His hands move with purpose, sliding over every inch of bare skin, and the slow, deliberate way he touches you has your body aching for more.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, the words a quiet challenge. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with all the frustration and longing you’ve been holding back for weeks. Joe groans, the sound vibrating against your lips as his teasing slips away entirely, replaced by something deeper, more desperate.

“God, you’re impossible,” he mutters, his voice laced with both exasperation and awe. But his actions betray the truth—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He finally pulls away, breathless as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with adoration and lust. “I'm gonna fuck you, alright?” he mutters before leaning closer. “And for all those times you pissed me off, and annoyed me, I'll forget about all of that if I can just... hear you.”

You're caught off by the request and you almost think he's joking, but you're mistaken. He's dead serious. All you could was nod slowly in response and Joe leans away, pleased.

Joe’s control starts to slip, and it’s evident in the way his kisses grow hungrier, more urgent. His hands tremble slightly as they trail over your body, mapping out every curve like he’s afraid this moment will disappear. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his breathing uneven.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice raw, the cocky edge completely gone. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”

Then finally, he slowly peels off his briefs, and his large, hardened cock falls out.

Joe lets out a small groan as his head falls back, relief in his expression. His pink tip is already leaking with pre-cum. You practically faint at the sight, you couldn't help but let out a whimper. His hands find his cock before he slowly begins to pump it, his eyes finding yours again.

He spreads your legs open before leaning in, his lips finding yours as his hands lead his cock to your cunt. His forehead falls against yours as he slowly begins to insert himself, a heavenly groan leaving his lips at the feeling of your warm, tight walls.

You felt like you were being split in half, in the best way possible. You can't even describe how good his cock felt, he wasn't even a quarter inside of you, but you still felt like you were filled to the brim.

“O-oh, fuck, Joey,” you moaned as your swollen lips form an O, your head falling back onto the plush pillows. Now you understood why the girls in his apartment were so loud—they definitely weren't exaggerating.

His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you closer as if he wasn't inside of you already. His lips crash against yours again, the kiss filled with desperation, like he’s trying to pour every suppressed emotion into it. It’s intoxicating, the way his need for you feels almost overwhelming, and you find yourself clutching at his shoulders, wanting to be as close as possible.

He bottoms you out slowly, and he tries to give you a second to adjust—he really, really tried. He just couldn't. He slowly started thrusting in and out of you, and before you could even process the change in speed, he was rocking his hips against yours like the world depended on it.

The bed was creaking loudly underneath the two of you, the only sounds that could be heard was your loud moans, his grunts of pleasure, and the sound of skin against skin.

His cock was dizzying, to say the least. It hit all the spots you swore nobody had ever reached, making you question all your previous partners. You couldn't even form a singular thought about anything else except for Joe's huge cock and the way he was making you feel.

“Joe!” You manage to gasp as he begins to pound into you impossibly harder, but he cuts you off with another kiss, groaning softly against your lips.

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice husky and edged with desperation. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you gasp as his hands spread your legs wider, pinning you to the mattress.

Before you can respond, his lips are on yours again, his kisses growing more frantic, more needy. His hands are everywhere, exploring, worshipping, as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. The way he touches you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, leaves you utterly undone.

His words make your head spin, and you can’t find a response. You're too caught up in the way he was pounding into you, like a fucking animal.

But Joe doesn’t seem to care; he’s too caught up in you, his hips moving faster and faster until you're practically crying out loud. His hands roam your body as if he’s memorizing every curve, every inch of skin. There’s no pretense now, no games—just raw, unfiltered desire.

You begin to feel the knot in your stomach begin to form, tight and persistent. You begin to grip his shoulders even tighter, your head falling back into the pillow as you moaned.

“O-oh, fuck! I'm gonna cum, please.” You began rambling as your legs wrapped around his waist, his hips not faltering one bit—if anything, he began going faster.

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He grunted out, his own impending orgasm. “Cum for me, baby.”

That was all you needed. The knot in your stomach snapped violently, your whole body spasming as you cried out in utter pleasure. The orgasm washed over you perfectly as Joe's hips began to falter, and a few moments later, his cum spilled into you.

You both lie there, tangled in the sheets, your breathing ragged and your hearts racing as the room settles into a heavy, satisfied silence. Joe’s arm is draped lazily across your stomach, his fingers tracing light, absentminded patterns on your skin. The intimacy feels different now—softer, quieter, as if the storm that had built between you for so long had finally passed.

He exhales deeply, his chest still rising and falling against your side. “Well,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, “that was... long overdue.”

You glance over at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile despite yourself. “You think?” you reply dryly, the lingering warmth of the moment making it hard to muster the sharp edge your tone usually carries with him.

Joe turns his head to look at you, his hair mussed and sticking out in every direction, his cheeks still flushed. There’s that cocky grin of his, but it’s softer now, tinged with something you don’t think you’ve seen before—contentment, maybe. “Yeah,” he says, chuckling lightly. “So overdue I’m almost mad at us for waiting this long.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. His grin widens as he props himself up on one elbow, leaning over you. His gaze flicks across your face, and he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “But hey,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, “now that I’ve finally got you right where I want you, I think it’s time to make this official.”

Your brow furrows slightly as you tilt your head at him. “Official?”

Joe nods solemnly, though the sparkle in his eyes gives him away. “Yup. A real date. No fighting, no yelling, no storming off. Just you, me, and a public setting where we try very hard not to tear each other’s clothes off.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Oh, is that so?”

“That’s so,” he replies with a grin, catching your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze softening. “Come on, let me take you out. I’ll even behave. Swear.”

You arch a skeptical brow, though the warmth in your chest betrays you. “Behave? You? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Joe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Guess you’ll just have to say yes and find out,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but undeniably sincere.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Fine,” you say, trying to sound reluctant but failing miserably. “One date. But if you embarrass me, it’s the last one.”

Joe’s grin is blinding as he flops back down beside you, pulling you against his chest. “Deal,” he says, his voice full of triumph. “You won’t regret it. Best date of your life, guaranteed.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he counters, his tone smug as his hand tightens around yours.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[o-batll3]

Can I request a laia codina or Kiera walsh fic please 🫶🏻 maybe one where her and reader are friends but they get drunk and sleep together and things are weird for a bit till they decide to keep things casual, no feelings. And at the end can they realise that they have feelings for eachother and get together. Maybe their team helps push them to realise

a night to remember - l.codina x reader

warnings : none, little suggestive

masterlist

you and laia codina have been best friends ever since you both joined arsenal. training together, traveling for matches, and late-night conversations over cups of tea—a bond neither of you had expected to form so quickly. over time, you became inseparable, the kind of friends who knew each other’s thoughts without speaking a word. and tonight, the team’s big victory against a rival club meant the whole squad was out celebrating at a local bar.

the atmosphere is electric; the team is laughing, drinking, and dancing. you’re already a few drinks in when laia challenges you to a tequila shot contest, and there’s no way you can back down.

“alright, y/n, let’s see what you’ve got,” she teases, eyes glinting mischievously as she lines up the glasses.

you smirk, feeling the warmth of the alcohol making you bold. “oh, you’re on, codina. don’t cry when you lose.”

the contest quickly escalates, and before long, both of you are laughing so hard you can barely stay on the barstools. shots blur together, and the world gets hazy around the edges. eventually, the two of you stumble outside, leaning on each other, sharing breathless laughs and struggling to stay upright.

“you know,” laia slurs, “you’re... you’re not half bad, y/n.”

you roll your eyes, the night spinning slightly as you look at her. “and you’re... you’re trouble.”

she raises an eyebrow, grinning in that way that always makes your heart beat a little faster. “oh yeah? prove it.”

before you realize what you’re doing, you’re pulling her in by the collar of her jacket, your lips crashing together. she responds instantly, her arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. the kiss is messy, all heat and urgency, and it feels like a line you’ve just crossed, one that you can’t come back from.

you both break apart, breathing hard, foreheads touching. the world is spinning, and her eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide with alcohol and something else you don’t dare name.

“my place,” she whispers, voice rough, and you don’t hesitate to nod.

you wake up with a throbbing headache and the weight of an arm draped over your waist. for a moment, you don’t move, confusion and disbelief mingling in your mind. then realization hits: laia. last night. the kiss. the heat of her body against yours. you turn your head slowly and see her, still asleep, hair a mess across the pillow. she looks peaceful, content, and for a second, you think about just staying like this.

but panic sets in. carefully, you slip out from under her arm, grab your clothes, and make your way to the bathroom. you stare at yourself in the mirror, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, and you can’t believe what happened. what you let happen. it was a mistake, right? just a drunken slip-up. you can’t afford to make things weird with laia, not when she’s your best friend and your teammate.

when you step back into the room, she’s stirring, rubbing her eyes with a lazy smile. “hey,” she says softly, voice still rough with sleep.

“hey,” you reply, forcing a casual tone. “i, um, should probably get going. early training tomorrow and all.”

her smile falters just a little, but she nods. “yeah... yeah, of course. see you there.”

you grab your things and leave, heart racing as you practically run out of her apartment, trying to push away the memory of her lips on yours, the feel of her skin under your fingertips.

things are weird after that. not awful, just... different. at training, you catch her glancing at you when she thinks you’re not looking. when you joke around with her like you always do, it feels forced. she’s still laia, and you’re still you, but there’s a tension now, something unspoken hanging in the air. you keep telling yourself it’s fine, that it’ll blow over, but every time you’re near her, all you can think about is that night.

the team notices too. they’re not stupid—especially not the older players, who exchange knowing looks every time you and laia fumble a pass or seem a little too stiff during drills. it doesn’t help that you’re both quieter in the locker room, that the easy banter you used to have has been replaced by careful, measured words.

finally, one evening after training, you find laia waiting for you outside the locker room. she looks nervous, chewing her lip in that way she does when she’s thinking hard about something.

“we need to talk,” she says, and your stomach twists with both relief and dread.

“yeah,” you agree. “we do.”

you walk together to a quiet corner of the training grounds, the evening air cool against your skin. she crosses her arms, looking everywhere but at you. “look, y/n, about that night... i don’t want things to be weird between us.”

you nod, trying to ignore the ache in your chest. “me neither. it was... i mean, we were both drunk. it didn’t mean anything.”

she nods quickly, almost too quickly, and something flashes in her eyes that you can’t quite read. “yeah. exactly. it didn’t mean anything. so... we’re good?”

“we’re good,” you say, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack your face.

things go back to normal, sort of. the tension fades, but it’s still there, simmering just beneath the surface. a few weeks pass, and one night, after another win, you and laia find yourselves back at her place, a few drinks in, the unspoken promise of that first night hanging heavy in the air.

she’s the one who brings it up this time, voice hesitant. “maybe... maybe we could keep it casual. no feelings, no strings. just... fun.”

your heart skips a beat, but you nod. “yeah. no strings.”

and so it begins. late nights at her apartment after matches, stolen kisses in the backseat of the team bus when no one’s watching, and quiet mornings tangled in sheets. you tell yourselves it’s just physical, that there’s nothing deeper there. but each time you leave, you feel a little more hollow, like you’re leaving a part of yourself behind.

it takes a few months for the team to finally step in. you don’t know who starts it, but one by one, your teammates begin to push. viv gives you a knowing smile every time you sit next to laia on the bus. beth corners you in the locker room after training and says, “you know she likes you, right?”

“we’re just friends,” you insist, but even you don’t believe it anymore.

then, during a particularly tense training session, kim pulls both you and laia aside. “whatever’s going on with you two, sort it out,” she says firmly. “it’s affecting your game. and we need you both at your best.”

you and laia exchange a look, and there’s a silent agreement in her eyes. something has to change.

it’s after a hard-fought match, and the adrenaline is still pumping when you find laia alone in the locker room, staring at her phone like it holds the answers to all her problems. without thinking, you cross the room and pull her into a kiss. it’s slow this time, gentle, and when you pull back, she’s staring at you with wide, shocked eyes.

“this isn’t just casual for me,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “i think i’ve been lying to myself about that for a while.”

her breath catches, and for a moment, you’re sure she’s going to walk away, but then she’s pulling you back in, her arms tight around your neck, and you can feel the answer in the way she kisses you back. this time, it’s not rushed or desperate. it’s a promise. the way she pulls you hair back whilst whispering sweet nothings and praises has your mind spiralling.

things are different after that. you’re not hiding anymore, and your teammates don’t bother to hide their satisfaction either, cheering and teasing when you and laia walk into training hand-in-hand. the tension is gone, replaced with something steadier, something real.

[jhilsara]

Of Bookstore, Coffees, and Late Nights

Sunshine!Reader/Southern!Reader/Plus Sized!Reader

Summary: After Spencer is shot he can't do much in the field for a while, being stuck to the offices in Quantico. His insomnia starts to amp up and instead of an urge for McDonald's at 1 AM he finds himself desperate for a new book and a coffee. Somehow, he finds the Midnight Owl, the late night bookstore/cafe open at weird hours with a cute southern co owner who probably gets the same amount of sleep as he does.

She also makes the best coffee that is disgustingly sweet. Exactly how he likes it.

Word Count: 11k

Warnings: Mentions of Season 5 100 episode and canon typical BAU themes

|Next

The one with the late night bookstore    

If Spencer could pace, he would, but his new semi-permanent crutch situation was impeding his mobility. He hasn’t been able to sleep, much less relax with the knowledge of Hotch being stabbed by George Foyet in his own home. Or how it’s clear that Foyet is playing an extreme game with the BAU, but mostly Hotch. Spencer didn’t even want to think about poor Haley and Jack being thrown into witness protection. These were scenarios Spencer knew came with the job he does, but seeing it happen to people he knows and cares about, makes his stomach churn. He couldn’t imagine if it was his own mother being threatened. It sends a cold chill down his back. He needs a distraction.    

Spencer’s eyes drag over to his used and abused bookshelf. Looking through his collection trying to find something to read. Even for a distraction he’s not very interested in rereading any of the texts on his shelf. His go to comfort of Sherlock Holmes doesn’t even seem all that appealing at the moment. He needs something that isn’t about criminals or detectives right now. Too bad nothing else on his shelf seemed to catch his eye. Spencer eyes his clock and the analog clock on his wall tells him it’s two in the morning. He’d be lucky if anything besides a dingy twenty-four-hour cafe was open, much less a bookstore.    

He sighs and looks over at his discarded laptop on his desk. He boots it up to see if maybe he could at least check how early the library opened. He could try to sleep but his insomnia was eating away at him, trying to focus on anything else but work seemed harder and harder. Spencer had to get out of his apartment. He looks up the library hours as well as a few bookstores. Just trying to see how soon he could sit down and avoid the never-ending running of his brain. He’s surprised when he finds a bookstore that was advertising its hours as open. Surely that was wrong. He spots the phone number on the webpage, and he decides to call to double check.    

The line rings for roughly two seconds before it’s picked up, a melodic voice on the other line states, “Midnight Owl, this is Y/N how can I help you?” The cadence of the woman’s voice much too chipper for the middle of the night.    

Spencer’s shocked into silence for a moment before he responds, “I thought the hours posted were wrong...” He finds himself stating.   

“Nope!” She replies, unbothered by his blunt response. “We’re open 24/5, only closed on Fridays and Saturdays!” She tells him brightly, “You wouldn’t be the first to call thinking we posted our hours wrong though. More common than you think.”    

He coughs awkwardly and finds himself nodding even though she can’t see it. “Okay, great, thank you so much.”    

“Not a problem, swing by some time we have the best drinks crafted by yours truly!” She jokes with a soft laugh trailing her sentence. She drawls out the end of her words in a way that has them twisting together as sweet as the tea he’s almost positive she drinks.   

“Have a good night.” He states before hanging up the phone.    

He looks at the address listed and finds that it’s just up the street, barely a block away.    

Spencer eyes his crutches for a moment debating on whether he should go or not. His good leg shakes in anxious movements as he sits on his couch. What were the odds that there was a bookstore up his block that was open at odd hours that catered to him? He knew the odds; they were incredibly low . He shrugs to himself and hobbles to grab his crutches, he’ll check it out. Why the hell not? If it’s too good to be true he can add it to the list of places he’ll never visit again like that one coffee shop downtown that burns everything he’s ever ordered.    

He desperately needs to get out of his apartment.    

-   

Y/N’s night at the Midnight Owl was going slowly. You had a few regulars wander in, which you were happy about since the store had only officially been open for four months. There was a couple that sat on the loveseat in the cafe every Thursday night reading their books together and drinking the cafe’s famous homemade lavender lemonade. Not that you��could brag about it, your co-owner makes pastries and premade drinks. All homemade family recipes. On the opposite side of the store was the guy who came in every other day to check for anything new. He grabs a coffee and roams the stacks for an hour. Sometimes he buys, sometimes he doesn’t. He comes in at the same time though, so you’re pretty sure he works a graveyard shift.    

There were a couple of students at a table in the cafe section clearly up studying and writing papers. The semester for school had only just started a month ago, but the influx of students coming and going was increasing by the day.    

You loved your little bookstore, and during the day it was popping. A rising trendy place for local university students. You preferred the quiet of the nights though. It gave you time to make orders for books, restock, and change out displays. It was methodical cleaning and sorting that kept you sane. Your daytime life was overly complicated and having your own corner of the world was nice. It felt like a safe bubble that didn’t necessarily feel like work.    

You’re in the middle of compiling a list of books to reorder that have already sold out when the front doorbell chimes telling her someone just entered. You are behind a stack finishing what you're writing on your notepad when you calls out, “Be right there!”    

You bound around the stack to the counter to meet the newcomer, “Welcome in! How can I help you?” you asked happily pushing your hair behind your ear nervously.    

You scan the guy from head to toe, he’s definitely new. He looks like a grad student, probably around your age. His mousy brown hair is tied back into a low ponytail and he’s in a well-worn Caltech shirt and sweatpants. The oddest thing about him is the crutches he’s sporting as he comes in. You send him a warm smile.   

Spencer looks at the woman standing at the counter and finds you’re not what he expected you to be. You look like the moon; you have features that are soft and delicate, and your eyes shine with the bright ambience of the bookstore. Spencer almost loses his train of thought as he takes in the bookstore worker’s features that just made you seem so inviting.    

It takes a second before he registers that you asked him a question. “Oh, yes,” he rushes out awkwardly. “Is the cafe still open?” He questions, tilting his head to the empty-looking bar on the other side.    

You nod happily, “It is! I’m the only one who works the night shift, so I run the register and the cafe. Would you like something?” you ask him, already walking toward the counter that holds the cabinet of pastries and coffee machines.    

“A latte would be great actually.” He says in a much clearer voice.    

“Can do.” You grin at him radiantly and it’s so infectious he finds himself returning one. You turn and almost have a skip to your step as you walk, far too awake for him to deem reasonable for two in the morning.    

Spencer watches her as he slowly moves forward on his crutches, she almost dances around the machines as she makes his latte. She’s humming to the music that he’s finally registered playing in the bookstore. She’s radiating a warmth that Spencer doesn’t get to see much day to day except for the one and only, Penelope Garcia. Garcia looked and acted like the sun, one giant ball of pink and blonde energy. He watches the worker move around her workstation making his latte and it’s seamless how she moves, it’s her second nature.  She’s just at ease here, which settles his uneasy nerves about trying a new place out in the middle of the night. He looks around and sees a few people mingling about.   

Spencer takes time to look around the store and notices how it feels much more lived in than any box stores he’s been to. The overhead lights aren’t fluorescent like a normal store but a few well-placed wooden chandeliers that are carved to look like vines. Every other light is a floor light or table lamp that has mismatched covers and stained glass. He turns to the large windows, and he guesses the store probably gets great sunshine when it’s daylight. The multiple house plants by the window and on the empty tables being a good indicator. The ambiance is so inviting, not to mention the amount of comfortable faux leather seating he sees.    

He could imagine spending a lot of time here, it was just so cozy. Spencer can’t imagine he would have missed this place opening but with all the cases they’ve been busy with, he actually isn’t surprised at all.    

He’s brought out of his thoughts by her placing the drink on the pickup bar, “So what ails you?” Your voice carries to him, and you tilt your head waiting patiently.   

“Excuse me?” He finds himself stuttering out.   

You shrug nonchalantly, “Well, it’s the middle of the night and I’ve never seen your face in here before.” You state the fact like it's so obvious.    

“So, what’s buggin’ you?” Your voice drawls out sweetly as you look at him expectantly.   

It’s almost like the lights in the cafe frame her from behind, bright and dazzling. She’s clearly personable and Spencer isn’t used to people with Y/N’s personality being overtly kind to him. He’ll see how long it takes her to dismiss him like most people do. It doesn’t annoy him like it used to, he expects it really. Especially when his own team and friends do it almost regularly.    

You are waiting patiently for his response with unwavering kind eyes.   

“Insomnia,” He settled on admitting to you, he gave you a tight lined frown. “I needed a new book; I’ve read through my catalog.”    

Your eyes light up, “That’s my specialty! I mean, I make a mean latte, but my favorite part of this place is the books.” you whispered conspiratorially.    

“So,” you come around from the back of the bar and put your hands on your hips, “What genre were you looking for? Or was it a specific book?” you ask him.    

“Fantasy, preferably. I’ve read all of Tolkien and Gaiman’s works.” He tells you.    

You nod in understanding your eyes giving a quick look of him from head to toe, “You look like a man who’s read The Hobbit and American Gods .” You said, almost more so to herself.    

Spencer gives you a quizzical look, unsure if he should be insulted or not. You read his face and your own cheeks flush with embarrassment. Your hands start moving exaggeratedly as your voice pitches, “Not in a bad way! I promise, I’m here for a well-read person! Not that you have to have read those two authors to be well read, I just-” You take a deep breath and stop yourself.    

“Sorry, I just mean, you look like you’ve probably read some of the most popular titles in that genre.” Your voice grows smaller, and your face is bright in a flush as you rush through your words, drawling them out in that voice that sounds like sugar. You bite the inside of your cheek forcing yourself to stop talking.    

Spencer chuckles and shakes his head, “I get it, you’re good.” He tells you reassuringly.    

You sigh in relief, pushing your hair out of your face nervously, “Sorry, I really didn’t mean anything by it. I just meant you probably want something different and not recommended every time you ask for fantasy.”    

Spencer just gives you a smile, “I appreciate it.” He shifts his weight on his crutches to awkwardly sip his latte.    

You usher him over to one of the comfortable chairs with a nice side table lamp that has beautiful green and red stained-glass roses on it.    

“Here sit, I’ll grab some recommendations, and you can let me know what you think.” You don’t even give him a chance to rebuttal before you’re off and disappear into the stacks.    

The silence that followed her absence was overwhelmingly loud, except for the soft music playing from the speakers. Spencer takes his time drinking his latte and it’s delicious. Better than the place the BAU grabs coffee from, and much better than whatever was in their coffee pot at the office.    

You pop back out from the stacks within ten minutes holding at least five book options for him to sort through.    

“These all have different sub-genres but are fantasy in nature. Let me know if any look good to you.” You hand them over to him happily. He notices you biting the inside of your cheek again, as you watch him look over the books.    

You’re rocking on your feet, as you watch Spencer thumb through the books, reading the summaries keeping his face neutral. You start picking at your nails trying not to seem like a dog waiting for its owner. You should busy yourself with something else besides trying to gauge Spencer’s reaction to the books, but you can’t help it.   

Spencer pauses on a book with a bright colorful cover that was in the middle of the stack. It’s the only one he pauses on and your face lights up.    

“I loved Howl’s Moving Castle !” Your voice pitches up in enthusiasm. You start talking with your hands again, “It’s fun, and the cast of characters who, in a magical world, feel so relatable. The two leads also have great dialogue! I was genuinely laughing out loud.” Your face splits into a grin as you explain the book to Spencer without spoiling anything.    

You are so filled with joy as you talk about the book, it doesn’t take him but a second of listening to you to know he’s sold. He’s reading this, your genuine joy selling him on it. He doesn’t have to look through the rest of the stack, though he’s sure you’ve likely read all the books you offered him.   

“I’ll take it.” He said, moving to stand up to purchase it at the counter.    

You move to stop him, “Don’t worry about it! You can pay on your way out. You look like you’ve been struggling with those crutches.” You tell him waving him back down to sit.    

“Just relax, drink and read. It’s what the Midnight Owl’s for.” You chirp happily shooting him a triumphant look as you move to walk back to the counter.    

You go back to working on creating an order for books back at the checkout counter. You have the work desktop open back to the list of books you were cross referencing for prices. You go back and forth from looking at your handwritten list to researching prices from different distributors.    

The couple who was there earlier finally get up, waving goodbye to Y/N.    

“Have a great night y’all! See you next week.” You tell them with your own wave that’s brief as you make the order.    

The only noise in the store is some shuffling and the music playing overhead and you humming along to it. It’s a mix CD you burned a few years back and most of the songs are still your favorite. You keep meaning to make a new one, but you just haven’t had time. Your eyes wander from your computer to check on your new customer reading in the corner. You don’t want to hover, but you try to gauge if he’ll be a regular or not. You hope so, he seemed nice enough.    

Spencer can feel her eyes on him occasionally, he can see her fidgeting behind the counter. Every other song he can spot her leaning out of the corner of his eye to look over to him. He tries to hide his grin; he knows that look well. She’s trying to see if he’s enjoying the book. Spencer tries to read at a normal pace, even though he can read twenty thousand words per minute, that defeats the purpose of him trying to get out of his apartment to just devour this book. Plus, he kind of enjoys watching the store clerk.   

She’s full of energy and he has no idea where it comes from, but it’s almost a nervous energy. She’s constantly moving, either fidgeting or walking through the stacks to check or tidy the books. She’s also passed in front of him a few times to check the cafe machines or even grab a pastry he’s sure has been there for too long, and she feels bad about selling it.    

Spencer stays there for a few hours; he really doesn’t notice how long until the door opens and the bell chimes again.    

“Morning!” The new woman cheers sleepily.    

You wave at her, “Morning Josie. There are still a few pastries left from yesterday, but I put them in the back fridge for you.”   

The new woman, Josie, waved back, “Thanks, I’m going to prep for today.”    

Spencer finally looks at the time and realizes it’s five in the morning, he sighs standing up. He grabs his crutches and pushes himself toward the counter to pay for his book. If he’s lucky he could get an hour or two of a nap before work.    

He gently slides the book over to you and your whole face brightens, “Have you liked it so far?” you asked him.    

Spencer grins “It’s charming. You were right about the cast; it’s a great blend of characters that shouldn’t fit as well as they do together.”    

You nod excitedly. “I don’t know if you’ve gotten to a certain part, but I won’t spoil it, I loved how they explain the magic that affects Sophie! It was a fun book.”   

Spencer hands over some cash to pay for his book. “I’ve liked it so far. I’ll have to ask for another recommendation.” He tells you.    

If you were a dog, your ears would be pointed up and tail wagging, you cannot contain your pure joy.    

“Absolutely! Anytime, it’s one of my favorite things.” You push your hair back and you look down at the table nervously pushing his book back toward him with his change.    

“I’m always happy to see a returning face.” You said looking up at him, your eyes sparkling. “I’m Y/N by the way, I don’t know if I introduced myself.”   

Spencer takes the book and his change; you smile brilliantly at him, and he feels a little enchanted by the bookstore clerk. He returns it. “Spencer. It was nice to meet you.”    

He gives you a small wave before walking out, crutches pushing him forward.    

The one about Halloween    

You have decided that you do not care if it’s only September, you are decorating for Halloween. Maybe it’s that you’re festive or maybe it’s from growing up in a southern community that went all out for decorations, but you are determined that the Midnight Owl will be the place to be for October. You’ve also planned a few events for the spooky month for all ages.    

There are a few reading hours planned for children during the day, costume contests, and some trick or treat candy lined up to buy. Your shopping list was filling up quickly. For the nighttime events you’ve gotten together with Josie to throw a movie night every Sunday night at eight in October. You’ve already planned a lineup of movies to play and popcorn to order. You still can’t decide on having two movies or not, a family friendly one first and then a scary one. She’ll figure it out.    

To say that you are bubbling with excitement is an understatement.    

You're in the middle of dragging out one of the boxes of decorations from the attic when the door chimes open.     

“Welcome in! Help yourself to shop or if you wait a few minutes, I can fix you a drink at the cafe!” You shout from behind the large box you’re carrying. It’s not heavy, filled mostly with paper and plastic decorations. The box itself is just quite large, and it blocks your view when you walk.   

“What are you doing?” A soft chuckle passes through, and you recognize it immediately. It’s your new favorite regular.    

You set the box down in a huff behind the counter and look at Spencer exasperatedly.   

“If you must know, I’m preparing for Halloween.” You said matter-of-factly.    

Spencer’s hazel eyes light up, the same way he gets when he’s about to tell you a long list of facts about something. You love it when he gets excited. It’s contagious.   

“Oh, please continue then. It’s never too early for Halloween.” He said happily.   

You let out a burst of laughter and it echoes in the room, “Thank you! Finally, someone who understands.” You tease him.   

Spencer’s been coming in almost every night since his first visit. It’s only been a month, but you love talking to Spencer. He’s full of endless information and he loves to read just as much, if not more, than you do.    

He has an unfair advantage though. He had admitted how quickly he could read to you in passing a few weeks ago and your jaw dropped. You didn’t believe him at first.    

-   

 “Okay, that’s the fifth book you’ve finished in like two days Spencer. Are you even actually reading them?” You had teased him, when he returned to the shelves looking through the selections.    

“Of course I do. I just happen to read twenty thousand words per minute.” He said easily running his fingers along the spines of the books as he pursues.    

You scoff, “Yea right.” you rolled your eyes. “Just say you skim through them.”   

Spencer shakes his head, “I’m serious, I have an eidetic memory too.” he said.    

You blinked at him a few times in disbelief before just bursting into a fit of small giggles.   

“Wow, I wish I could read that fast. I’d get through my TBR so much faster!” you said impressed.    

Spencer pauses looking at you, trying to assess if you're trying to make fun of him or not. Your face is split into a wide grin, and he realizes you are intrigued by this little tidbit. You didn't think it was weird, that he’s weird.    

Spencer felt his face flush a bit, and he just shrugged it off. “It’s not a big deal.”    

“No, it’s just a really cool fact about you.” You said, like it was obvious.    

Spencer mouth tighten into a fine line, and he shook his head, “That would be a first.” he had mumbled under his breath.    

You didn’t press him, but you did file away in the back of your mind his response for later. Clearly Spencer wasn’t used to someone reacting positively to this tidbit about him.    

-   

You look at Spencer as he stands there watching you. He’s in his work clothes, which you're used to by now, but it’s the opposite of what he wore when they first met. He’s in a purple button up shirt that he’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. His cardigan is hanging off his faded brown leather satchel sitting against his hip. He’s leaning on his crutches as she assesses him.    

“C’mon,” you said waving for him to follow. “Let’s make something fall flavored to get rolling with the season.” You suggest a small smile tugging at your lips.    

Spencer just nods and follows you toward the cafe section.    

“Are you a fan of pumpkin flavors or do you prefer other autumn flavors?” You ask him as you walk around the counter to the coffee machines.   

The pickup counter for the cafe doubles as a normal place to sit and Spencer grabs a stool to sit in, leaning his crutches against the counter.   

“I only like my drinks sweet. Flavor isn’t too important.”    

You hum in acknowledgement and get to work on making him a drink. “I’ll just surprise you then.”    

Spencer brings out a few books he’s reading and places them on the table. While you make his drink you ask, “What’s your favorite book to read to get into the spooky spirit?”    

He perks up, “There’s plenty of options, I think I prefer something classic like The Shinning or maybe even an old compilation of ghost stories. Those are always good.” he said passionately.    

“Ooh! I’m obsessed with the paranormal!” you gasp in excitement.   

Spencer feeds into the enthusiastic response, “Did you know there are a multitude of categories of the paranormal? Most people only associate it with ghosts or demons, but ufology and cryptozoology are also subcategories. Personally, as interesting as ghost or demon possession stories are, I’m far more fascinated by cryptozoology and the creatures that different areas of the world claim to see and state they have proof of.”    

Spencer realizes he’s rambling and tries to cut himself off, but your eyes are wide as you actively lean against the counter giving him your rapt attention.    

You notice his abrupt stop and you tilt your head, “Keep going, you have my full attention! I’m trying to get into the spooky spirit!” You drawl out, your rich accent seeping through.    

You turn to grab his drink and hand it to him. It's in a nice burnt orange colored mug, “It’s a maple chai latte. Felt like fall to me.” you said quietly, having a matching mug with him. You lean against the counter and bat your hand at his forearm.   

“C’mon tell me more!” you giggled.    

Spencer stared at you in awe for a moment, before he tried to hide his expression through drinking his latte.    

“Ghost hunting became popular in the early 2000s, but it’s been around since the 1920’s and even before then there were popular ghost stories told throughout history! Humans have always been interested in the afterlife which is why we’re probably so fascinated by looking for proof of the afterlife.”   

You nod and sips from your own mug, “Have you ever watched those ghost hunting shows before?” you asked curiously.    

Spencer shook his head no. “I don’t watch a lot of television.”    

You hum in thought, “Yeah, that checks out. Well, they’re super cheesy and trashy. Love them to be honest.”    

“Which one’s your favorite?” he asked, leaning closer against the bar.   

It felt like it was only the two of them in the bookstore. Inside their own bubble, the world moved slowly inside the confines of the Midnight Owl.    

“This is gonna sound so awful!” you laughed lightly shaking your head, “There’s a show called Ghost Adventures, and the main guy, Zak Bagans, he’s such a dick to the ghosts! He instigates all the time, and I mean, regardless of if ghosts are real, he goes in hot ! Not to mention he always throws his costar Aaron into the worst places! It’s just insane, absolute trash.” you shake your head in disbelief.    

“But you love it?” Spencer asked.    

You gave him a deadpan stare, “Oh absolutely, it’s the best kind of quality trash.”   

You burst into a fit of giggles and Spencer couldn’t help but find it contagious.    

“Aaaaaaanyway~” You drag out, moving to grab your box of decorations.    

“Wanna help me decide how to decorate?” you ask him, grabbing a pumpkin garland out of the bin and tossing it dramatically over your shoulders like a scarf.   

Spencer brushes his loose hair out of his face and nods. He may still be useless on crutches, but he could help... Kind of.    

You empty the containers of the bin on the counter where Spencer’s sitting and he quickly grabs his mug to lift it up to avoid being knocked over from the avalanche of orange and black. You smile at him apologetically before trying to dig out your favorite decorations.    

-   

Spencer’s face is twisted in a look of frustration as he sits in the corner reading. He came in a while ago and besides his drink, he hasn’t spoken much to you.    

Which isn’t a bad thing, tonight was one of the busier nights. It was mid-October, and the festivities had been nonstop. Tonight was vampire night, which upon entering the building Spencer was already grimacing. There was a special drink deal on the board hanging above the cafe for anyone buying a vampire related book. Twilight , Dracula , Carmilla , Interview with a Vampire, just pick a title it was an option with its own fun themed cafe drink that was absolutely red.   

 It wasn’t like you knew he had just finished working on a case that involved vampirism, but the odds weren’t in his favor for finding an escape from the most recent case. Halloween season had its ups and downs he supposed.   

There was no way of explaining his slightly irritable mood. Spencer hadn’t mentioned his work to you. You never asked, and he didn’t feel like explaining that he spent most of his waking hours profiling serial killers. In the past it hasn’t made the best openers in conversation. It’s also nice to have this small corner of his life not be coated with unsubs, victims, and death. It’s just his favorite bookstore.   

Spencer looked up to see you making more drinks, the cafe was popular tonight. Your chatting up another woman who’s laughing at the joke you told her. The other woman is holding a book that Spencer is positive is a vampire novel.    

“And I have one raspberry mocha for a Carmilla lover!” your voice rang out and you handed over the drink to the customer.    

“Come back Sunday for our movie night, we’re playing Beetlejuice !” you said and waved goodbye to the customer.    

For eleven o'clock at night the shop was busy. Busting out drink after drink and ringing up books at the cafe register. It was your idea to do a deal with a themed book and drink combo, but you didn’t expect to still be busy into the night. You hadn’t even had a break in customers to say hello to your regulars.    

For business, this was great, for your own mental health, you were struggling. You just needed it to slow down enough to catch your breath. You should have scheduled someone else on shift with you, but you weren’t about to call for help now. It was your mistake, and you'll live with it. You made a note to make sure someone is on shift with you tomorrow night for a different themed deal.    

After another round of five more customers there is finally a break. You sighed leaning against the counter and took a grounding breath. You don’t move for a minute, just catch your breath before you look up and catch Spencer from his chair looking at you. You shot him a shaky smile that is supposed to be reassuring but actually looks like you’re about to cry. Spencer’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he decides to get up and come over. The cafe was still bustling but no one was sitting at the counter. Spencer shoves his book into his bag, grabs his crutches and hobbles to the counter.    

“Busy night?” he asked, already knowing the answer but trying to see how you were doing.    

Your eyes look up into his hazel ones and you look worn. “In my head, the whole vampire boom and Halloween themed event seemed like a good idea. For profit, absolutely. For my sanity? I never wanna see another Twilight shirt or raspberry flavored item for a while.” you said in a groan placing your head against the counter.    

“What is Twilight ?” Spencer asked.    

He doesn’t know anything except that it has something to do with vampires and its popular enough that the victims of the latest case were also obsessed with it. He knows it’s a book, but besides that, he has no clue.    

You slowly move to look up and blink at him for a moment, trying to deduce if he’s being serious or not. “Very funny Spencer, I know you’re not asking what the pop culture phenomenon Twilight franchise is.” you replied with a laugh.   

After a moment of looking at Spencer’s confused face you realize he was in fact, unaware. Your eyes widen.    

“Wait, wait, wait, you seriously don’t know? I mean it’s like everywhere. The second movie is coming out in less than a month. I don’t think I’ve sold so many copies of a book in my life. I can’t keep New Moon on the shelves.” you said almost exasperatedly, but the smile on your face gave it away. If Spencer didn’t know any better, he’d think you were getting a kick out of it. He knows by now you won’t make fun of him; you're elated for a completely different reason.   

“I just know it’s popular and about vampires.” He replied with a shrug.    

“Oh my god, I get to explain Twilight to you.” your face splits into a massive grin, your energy returning quickly.    

Spencer quirks an eyebrow, “I thought you were over hearing Twilight ?”    

“No, no, no, no! This is totally different!” you're almost vibrating with excitement. “I’ve read all the books, I’m gonna let you borrow my copy next time you’re in! Actually, I’ll give you the first two since you read so fast!” her words are running together in a run on sentence she’s talking too fast. Your accent came through stronger than ever with your eagerness.    

He doesn’t have it in him to turn you down, you're just so thrilled. Spencer just finds himself too caught up in your joy to tell you he had no interest in the book series. He finds himself agreeing to borrow your copies.    

“I can buy them if you need me too. I don’t want to take your copies unless, you’re sure.” He offers.   

You shake your head, “I can’t keep them on the shelves long enough for you to buy them. Just go ahead and take my copies.” You move to make Spencer a drink that isn’t one of the red blood themed drinks on the menu. “It’s not a big deal. I do have a lot of sticky notes in there though, my friends and I read it for a book club night.”    

He sits up a little straighter, suddenly becoming more interested in reading these books. Not because of their pop culture relevance but because he could read your commentary. There was something special about that, sharing a book with annotations.   

“I’ll bring one too.” He finds himself offering before he can think.    

Your face glows as you hand him a chai latte. “I’d love that! It’ll take me a bit longer to read than you will.” you joked lightly.   

“It’ll be worth it; I haven’t had someone to talk to about books since my mom.” He said looking down at his drink, his eyes growing distant for a split second.   

You open your mouth to ask but quickly shut it, biting the inside of your cheek to stop. You might be nosy, but you knew when to not pry. It was how Spencer seemed to be somewhere else in his mind, if only for a moment. It was enough to know that you had no business asking him to open a can of worms he maybe didn’t want to. Instead, you turn around to grab a set of fake vampire teeth to put in your mouth. They were small and awkward and not cute by any means, but if you could get him to smile, that was all you needed.    

You patiently wait for Spencer to look back up at as you rest your head in your palm and keep your face neutral. The fake teeth are making your mouth uncomfortable, but you’ll survive.    

When Spencer does look up and sees you dramatically batting your eyes at him and grinning madly with children’s plastic vampire teeth, he can’t control the bubbling laughter that takes over him. His shoulders shake with the full body movement, and he shakes his head in disbelief.   

“Where did you get those?” he asked through his fit.    

You turn to spit them out into the trash, your mouth disgustingly filled with drool from the uncomfortable teeth. You cover your mouth and grab your own drink to flush out your mouth.    

“They were a gimmick for the themed drinks tonight.” you finally replied. “Good for a quick joke not for actually wearing.” you said groaning.   

“Pretty sure they are made for children’s mouths.” Spencer teased.   

You shrug and sigh, “Well, being a vampire for Halloween is off the list of options this year. I don’t want to wear those for a whole night.”   

“Probably better off.” He said trying to not immediately focus on Dante and his manager coercing a mentally ill young woman into committing vampire ritual like murders.   

“Yeah, the whole thing with that celebrity kinda left a sour taste in my mouth.” you mentioned grimacing.    

“Dante?” Spencer asked for clarification.   

“Yeah, it was all over the tabloids,” you pointed to the magazine stand by the main register. “Got them in this morning.”    

Spencer tries to not make a face as he sees them, “You read that?”    

You let out a loud snort of a laugh. “No, no, no, oh god!” you stand up a little straighter and push your hair back. “I don’t trust a TMZ article as far as I can throw it, but those murders are real. Making it look like vampire bites...” you shudder, “that just skeeves me out.”    

Spencer drinks from his mug but nods his head in agreement. He didn’t peg you to believe paparazzi reports. The magazine articles would be wrong anyway; they didn’t make the arrest until that afternoon. It was refreshing to see someone not believe everything they read.    

“If vampires are off your list, what other costumes are you thinking about?” he asked, trying to change the subject.    

“No idea.” you groan out in irritation. “I usually do group costumes with my friends but, kind of hard when they live 600 miles away.”    

“South?” he asked.    

You snorted with a roll of your eyes, “Aw geez what gave it away?” you tease with an exaggerated drawl, making your accent thicker than normal.    

Spencer shakes his head in amusement. “Very funny. Why move here?”    

You tense up, avoiding his doe eyes. You look down biting your lip nervously. “It’s uh, a long story.” you said quietly.    

Your body almost looks like it’s trying to shrink in on itself. Spencer doesn’t need to be a profiler to understand your body language. Whatever it is, you’re not ready to share it.    

Instead, he tries to be reassuring that he’s not prying for information.    

“I’m a transplant too. I grew up in Las Vegas.”    

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, “I’ve never been, is it really just the strip filled with casinos or are there nice pockets of peace and no tourists?” you asked.   

You sigh, “It is a lot of tourists. There’s plenty of local places, ones that are only there if you’ve grown up knowing how to get to them.” he told you in a quiet voice, almost conspiratorially.    

Your mouth splits into a smile that reaches your eyes, “So you’ll be my tour guide, right?”   

Spencer’s face heats up from the suggestion and your giggles fill the room.    

“I’m just teasing you,” you pat his arm reassuringly before going to grab a pastry from the front display.    

“Come on and split this last cookie with me, I know I'm not going to sell it.” you said grabbing a chocolate chip cookie and warming it up before cutting it in half.    

Spencer’s face is still tinted pink but the soft cookie and the way it melts when he bites into it and seeing you look happier than earlier, is enough for him. A small corner of peace in the world inside the Midnight Owl.   

The one after Haley’s funeral    

You’re sitting at the checkout counter reading the book Spencer most recently traded with you. It’s one of the Sherlock Homles books, which you had admittedly never read before. You've watched plenty of films and shows but reading it never really crossed your mind.    

You joked about making Spencer watch The Great Mouse Detective when you finished so you could explain your first introduction to Sherlock Holmes. He had no idea what you were talking about, which you found charming in its own way. You loved introducing Spencer to the pop culture media that just filled your brain. Even if it was trashy. You had promised him The Great Mouse Detective was anything but trash. A childhood classic for sure.    

You take your time reading the books Spencer lent. He started leaving small post-it notes for you in them with commentary and questions. It was like you two had your own language, and it was books. Even if he let you borrow a genre you had no interest in, you suddenly were invested. It was a way to get to know him, and in turn he took your books happily. Your annotations were way more scattered brained and filled with tiny commentary to yourself.    

You saw Spencer reading one of the books you let him borrow and he laughed, loudly, in the middle of the store. You both flushed in embarrassment. It was a busy night, filled with university students studying late at night, so it was mostly silent besides the music that was playing through the speakers. You knew you had written something insulting about one of the characters in that sticky note. You were creative with your insults, and you had completely forgotten to take that out before giving it to him. Spencer teased you about your comments on Gale from The Hunger Games for the rest of that night.    

You’re in the middle of The Hounds of Baskerville when the door opens. You look up to greet them but your face falls when you see Spencer, he looks terrible. You slowly close the book and move to walk toward him.   

His eyes were hollow and the normal dark circles under his eyes seemed impossibly darker than usual. Spencer just seemed sad and defeated. You hadn’t seen this side of him and all you wanted to do was press your thumb to his forehead and smooth out the furrow of his brow. To get him to relax, if only for a moment.   

“Hey honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently walking toward him. You reach out to rub his arms affectionately, “What happened?”    

Your voice is soft and sweet, the way you said honey with your southern drawl feels like a hug. Spencer just needed a minute. One second of peace. The image of Haley’s body unmoving with blood still fresh behind his eyes.    

“It’s been a long week.” His voice comes out a little rough. He’s haggard from the flight from Nashville and he really didn’t want to go home.    

The only comforting place he could think of immediately was the Midnight Owl, of you. Your warm voice and comforting drinks were the only things he could stand to be around.    

Your face softens at his words, and you tilt your head, “Do you need a hug?” you asked softly.    

There’s a shaky sigh that escapes Spencer’s mouth and he just nods his head, unable to form the words.    

You pull him into your embrace gently, your arms wrapped around his shoulders tightly. You rub soothing circles into his back and Spencer holds onto your waist. Your body radiates heat and it's comforting as he shoves his face into your shoulder. You smell like vanilla, cloves, and parchment paper and his whole body relaxes into you. You hold onto him until Spencer pulls away, not wanting him to feel like he was a burden. The store was empty anyway, it's been a slow night.   

He takes a deep breath before peeling himself off. He moves his hands to hold your arms so he’s supporting himself. Your eyes soften as you look him over, her hand coming up to cup his face.    

“You don’t have to talk about if you don’t want to, but I’ve been told I’m a great listener.” You whisper softly.    

Spencer relaxes against your touch and doesn’t say much, just hums in response. He eventually finds his words, “My friends wife died recently, and it just, it was a shock.”    

He doesn’t want to get into how Haley died. That his job makes him and his coworkers targets. The people they love. George Foyet died at Hotch’s hands for killing Haley and attempting to kill Jack. Spencer watched Hotch’s face crumble, fall and lose what he loved the most. He knew Hotch didn’t want to divorce Haley, he loved her and his son with his whole heart.    

That love had cost him Haley’s life.   

“Oh hun,” your voice brings him back, “I’m so sorry.”    

He shakes his head, “I’ll be fine. I’m just processing it.”    

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me, you’re allowed to process and grieve, especially if you knew her.” you tell him firmly. “C’mon, go sit down and I’m gonna make a delicious warm drink and we can just relax alright?”    

Spencer gives a tiny, tight smile and lets you grab his hand to pull him to one of the nicer chairs. He sets his cane against the arm rest and is floored by how easy everything is with you.  

You don’t push or pry for information, let him ramble, and Spencer doesn’t think he’s had a real friend outside of the BAU in a long time, much less someone his age. As much as he loves his team, there are times where they don’t understand him. It’s a lot easier to be himself with you. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what he’s doing most of his days, and he could argue with himself that you don’t know him. Almost 90% of his life is the BAU, and who is he if he isn’t Dr. Spencer Reid, FBI agent in the Behavioral Analyst Unit? A small part of him hopes he could be the person he becomes when he enters the Midnight Owl.    

He’s too lost in his thoughts to notice you walking over with two steaming mugs.    

“Here, it’s just tea but I think you need a relaxing drink. No caffeine.” you said with a sweet tone looking him over.    

You sit on the arm rest of the chair cradling your own mug. “Can I try something?” you ask him.    

Spencer drinks from his mug, but he mutters an agreement under his breath.    

“Lean back fully in the chair.” you instructed.   

He does as he’s told, he lowers his hands to his lap, mug still warmly pressed into his hands. Spencer isn’t sure what you’re trying to do until your hands are running through his hair, feather light. You’re not massaging his scalp, just the lightest of touches as you card your fingers through his long hair. Spencer’s eyes close and he almost moans from how the tension leaves his body immediately.    

You let out a tiny snort but continue the motions.    

“My momma used to do this when I was little.” you whisper to him, keeping a low voice.   

“I would be asleep in an instant.” you emphasized with a quiet snap of your fingers.   

Spencer’s eyes flutter open to look up at you, his big doe eyes looking up to see your soft features be highlighted in the warm glow of the lamps. You look down at him and tilt your head.    

“I might pass out like this.” he murmured in a low voice.   

“You can if you want. Promise I won’t let anyone bother you... not that anyone’s coming in anytime soon.” You drawl out looking around at the empty shop.    

“Just a quick nap, twenty minutes.” he told you, voice already fading and his eyes growing heavy.    

You don’t respond to him, just continue stroking his hair until he falls asleep. He felt the warm mug leave his hands and he heard ceramic clank onto the wooded side table next to him.   

You watch Spencer sleep, giving him much longer than twenty minutes. His dark circles told enough; he needed this nap more than he was letting on. It takes less than five minutes for Spencer to pass out. His body relaxed into the chair with all tension leaving his body. You slow down your movements until you feel safe enough to stop. His small snore a sign he was asleep.    

You moved to stand and went back to your duties, which wasn’t anything more than inventory tonight. Mondays were always slow.   

You moved about the bookshop, filing away books, crossing off things on your checklist, and beside the few customers that came in for less than twenty minutes each, the night was quiet. Enough so that you let Spencer sleep much longer than twenty minutes.    

Spencer sleeps peacefully for most of the night. You check on him occasionally, and besides the few snores, he’s sound asleep.    

Around four in the morning he stirs awake, blinking blearily and looks around the store. You hear him and poke your head out from behind a shelf.    

“Good morning sunshine!” you teased in a chipper tone.    

Spencer looks at you confused before looking down at his watch. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” he asked, tone not accusing, just confused.    

You shrug and make your way over to him, “You looked like you needed the sleep.”    

You gently reach your hand up to smooth the furrow of his brow. “You’ll die young from all that stress you’re carrying on your shoulders.” You tell him softly. The way you’re gently touching his forehead is like you’re trying to erase the stress and pressure.    

Spencer sighs into the light touch, “For sleeping on a chair, it was pretty peaceful.” he murmurs.    

You snort in amusement. “Well, at least I know they’re comfy.”    

“I sleep on planes frequently, so this is much better.” he said.   

“Travel a lot for work?” you asked.   

Spencer just nods. Not wanting to explore too deep into his job. The job that was leaving him sleepless most nights.   

“Do you feel any better?” you ask quietly.    

He nods solemnly. “Better than when I arrived.” he said with a shrug.    

You frown but don’t press, you push his hair back again giving him a reassuring smile.    

“I’m a good listener if you ever need to talk. Promise.” You hold out your pinky finger in the childish gesture of a pinky promise.    

Spencer finds himself smiling, finding it charming. Regardless of his problem with germs, it doesn’t feel so intense with you. You’re not a stranger anymore. He hooks his pinky with yours.    

“Not now.” He whispers. “But someday...”   

“Someday.” you reaffirm.   

The one about family    

Spencer’s surprised to see that you’re not working one random night in November. He knows that, of course, You can’t possibly be working every single night he comes in. It just throws him off when he doesn’t see you immediately. The sunshine woman behind the bar making him a new sickly-sweet coffee to try. You’ve only ever missed one day max two, so he doesn’t think much of it. Just a blip on his night.   

One night without you suddenly turns into half a week. Every day Spencer walks in and it’s not your bright bubbly voice greeting him. It’s one of the handful of people who work the late-night shift. They aren’t strangers, Spencer’s ran into a couple of them occasionally. So, when Spencer comes into the bookstore to see, yet again, Robert, manning the front desk lazily flipping through a magazine, his mild frustration turns to worry. You've been gone for four days and none of your coworkers seem to know why.   

What if you’re sick? What if something happened to you? Did you take a vacation? What if you’re in danger?    

The thoughts consume Spencer so much he almost calls Garcia to track you down. Or at least give him your address to check on you. He pulls himself together and realizes that it would be a bad idea and an invasion of your privacy. He’ll just have to wait it out.   

Spencer does wait, mostly because he’s forced too. The BAU never truly stops working.   

When he finally sees you again it’s near the tail end of November and way too close to Thanksgiving for his liking. He feels like you've been gone for ages, but it’s only been two weeks. The door chimes behind him as he walks in, he’s expecting to see your eyes light up with a smile on your flushed pink cheeks. The way you’ve always greeted him.    

Instead, he sees a side of you that he’s not used to at all. You look tired, exhausted. The dark circles under your eyes could compete against his natural ones. You’re wearing glasses which he’s never seen on you before. Her hair is haphazardly tied up, and You're in a large well-worn sweater that reads, ‘Read Banned Books’. He doesn’t think you've slept much, if at all, since he last saw you.    

You look like a zombie, barely functioning.   

You don’t even register Spencer enter; you're standing at the checkout counter finishing a transaction with a customer. You're swaying on your feet the whole time.    

Spencer lets you finish the interaction before coming over to the counter, concern clear on his face.   

“Y/N?” He says your name softly as he approaches.    

Your eyes fly up to him and widen a little in surprise, your body reacts with a small flinch. “Oh god Spencer!” You give a soft laugh, your hand coming up to clutch your chest, “You scared me! I didn’t hear you come in.” you try to calm yourself down.   

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes and Spencer can tell. It doesn’t take a profiler to see you’re not yourself. Her eyes are only half open, your hands shaking from what he can only assume is the obscene amount of caffeine you probably have in your system. Everything just seems muted, not the bright colors he used to see you framed in.   

“Are you feeling okay? You’ve been gone for a while.” he prompts, trying to get something out of you. A clue to what might have happened. Anything.   

You shake your head, “I’m fine, everything’s fine.” You said it a little too quickly.    

Spencer doesn’t buy it, but he’s kept enough secrets to himself to know he probably shouldn’t go looking into friends’ private lives. Some things he knows he’d rather keep to himself... but seeing you like this, he wants to help.    

You avoid his eyes and start to play with your hands on the counter. “I-” you open your mouth but promptly shut it again. You bite your cheek with a frown plastered on your face.    

“Sorry, it’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.” you said quickly before turning to grab some books from behind the desk to busy yourself with.    

You don't want to talk about or think about it. It’s been a long two weeks, and you just need some normalcy. Something that you know you can do and enjoy.    

You feel Spencer’s eyes burning into you. You try to keep your usual high energy, you truly do. Everything has been so rough this month; you just need a break. The bookstore was your one solace. The Midnight Owl wasn’t just a job, it was your home. Your safe haven.   

You didn’t want to bring your real life here, not when sometimes your only highlight is seeing Spencer and sharing books back and forth. If he starts asking about your life outside the four walls of your shop, you don’t know if you can hold yourself together. Not today.    

“Y/N,” he opens his mouth trying to get your attention again.    

“Really Spencer, it’s fine, I’m fine!” you tell him, a short tone to your voice.    

You spin on your heels to walk somewhere, anywhere, else. “You know I have your book actually, let me return it. I left some notes in there.” You make it five or six steps before you falter and sways again. Spencer reaches out to grab and steady you.  

“Forget the book, you don’t look fine.” He makes you face him. “You look exhausted.” He chastises you.    

You deflate immediately and let Spencer guide you to a chair. He gently sets you down and he pries the book out of your hand and places it on the side table.    

“Sorry, you don’t have to take care of me.” you murmur feebly swatting him away. “I just...” You take a deep breath. “I had to take dad to the hospital on Tuesday and it’s just been downhill all week...” you admit timidly. You pushed your glasses up to your hairline and pressed the heels of your palm to your eyes.    

“I haven’t gotten much sleep.” you admit.    

“You’ve run yourself ragged.” Spencer lowers himself to be eye level with you. “Is he home now?” he asks gently.   

“No, they’re keeping him one more night.” you said with a heavy sigh.    

Your arms fell in between your knees, and you lean your head back exhausted. “It’s just been hard this past year...” your voice is small and lingers with sadness.    

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked hesitantly.    

Spencer maybe doesn’t like talking about his hardships, but he’ll listen to yours if you let him. He wants to desperately ease your mind, see you smile.    

You look up at him, eyes wide as you assess him. “I don’t want to put my problems on you Spencer.” you give a tight smile. “I’ll figure it out.”   

Spencer reaches out to put a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Talking about it doesn’t mean that you’re inconveniencing me. I'm just worried.”   

You sigh, already feeling him chip away at you. You didn’t stand a chance against his big doe eyes looking at you like you were fragile.    

You take a deep breath before answering him, “My dad has ALS, he was diagnosed a few years ago... I’ve been taking care of him.” you admit.    

“Where we were, the doctors just weren’t cutting it. So, I did some research and of course there were stellar doctors in DC... plus my baby sister came here for university so I just thought... maybe it would be easier. On all of us.” The tone of your voice gives your worry away.    

“Anyway, he just, he had an accident and fell down the other day. His legs are finally giving out and he’s being so stubborn about needing a wheelchair.” Your voice shakes and you close your eyes.    

“It’s been a long week.” you finally admit looking up at Spencer with watery eyes.    

Spencer understands. He’s spent most of his life taking care of his mom because of her own illness. While your dad is suffering from something different, he understands. Probably more than you realize.    

“I get it, I do.” he said. You go to retort, but he cuts you off. “I took care of my mom for a long time. She...” He pauses looking at you, debating for a moment on if he should tell you.    

“My mom has schizophrenia, and I committed her when I was eighteen.” he tells you with a tight frown.   

“It’s hard to take care of your parents, especially when it’s their job to take care of us.” He tells you sincerely.   

You have tears pricking your eyes, “Oh Spencer, I’m so sorry.”   

He shakes his head, “I’m telling you this because I understand. I promise I do, it’s not easy.”    

You take a shaky breath; your heart feels like it’s a thousand pounds. “Does it ever get easier?” you ask softly.    

Spencer squeezes your hand, “No, it doesn’t. There are happy moments though. Moments where you know you’re doing the right thing, even if it’s difficult.”    

You sniffle and wipes your face, “Thanks, I uh, I needed that.” you said with a small smile.    

-   

It’s getting closer to Christmas. The bookstore is decorated and busier than ever. There’s a handful of special events but between people coming in to buy presents and university students staying all night to study for finals, you have your hands full.    

There’s a second staff member working nights with you this month until the holiday break starts for the store. You and Josie were adamant about closing the bookstore between Christmas Eve and New Years. If someone needed a book that badly they could go to a big box store.    

What you really don’t need right now is your baby sister coming to your place of work and harassing you about Christmas and your dad.    

“Bridget, I don’t have time to discuss this with you right now!” you hiss out at your younger sister. “You didn’t spend Thanksgiving with us and daddy really wants you to come home just for Christmas.” you chastised your sister with a frown.    

You have a pause in customers for the moment, but you know that the large study group is coming in half an hour like they have been for the past week and half.    

“That’s not fair Magpie!” your sister groans in frustration using your nickname to try and be sweet. “I made these plans months ago; Mark really wants me to spend Christmas with his family.”  

You cross your arms and look at your sister sadly. “Birdie, we don’t know how much time we get with dad-” you start but is cut off.    

Bridget’s face scrunches in disgust at her sister’s words and huffs exaggeratedly. “Good god Y/N! He’s not gonna die over the holidays, stop fucking guilt trippin’ me over every decision because it doesn’t revolve around dad!”    

Bridget’s annoyed and you can tell, she always tries to skirt around her problems when she’s frustrated. She thinks you’re trying to back her into a corner.    

“Birdie-”    

“It’s Bri. I go by Bri here.” Her sister crosses her arms and looks at you in annoyance.    

“Look, I know dad’s sick, I’m not stupid.”    

“I didn’t say you were Bridget.” you said defensively.   

She rolled her eyes, “I didn’t decide to pack everything up and move dad out to DC. Just because you’re closer doesn’t mean I’m going to stop living my life to take care of daddy.”    

You bite your tongue. Trying to not fight with your sister, but your irritation rises in your throat. Burning words of resentment linger in your mind.    

“Fine. Would you please just call him on Christmas and please come by after the New Year. He really misses you.” You try to plead with your sister.    

Bridget just waves goodbye as she walks out the door, “Will do. See you next year Magpie.” she almost ran out the door.    

You deflate, your shoulders dropping. You almost don’t hear Spencer walking up next to you holding a gift bag in his hands.    

“I didn’t know your sister visited you.” he said.    

You look up at him and smile at your favorite regular. Your friend. You think they’re allowed to call each other friends now. He already saw you cry and that was a big step.    

You shake your head, “Yeah, we’re not as close as we used to be.” you mumble under your breath.    

Spencer nods his head. He never had any siblings, but he can read your face well enough to know you’re not thrilled.  

“Still close enough for nicknames, Magpie?” he asked, biting back a smile.  

“Childhood nicknames, Birdie and Magpie. Cause we were birds of a feather.” You said looking down at your hands sadly.  

“It’s fine.” you shrug it off and give a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. You lean against the counter. “What’s that you got there?” you asked, changing the subject.    

You’re pointing to the gift bag in his hands. You tilt your head curiously.    

“Oh, this is,” he flushes for a split second rushing his words out. “This is for you. I know you’re closing for the holiday soon and I don’t know if I’ll have a last-minute work call or not so., I brought your Christmas present.” He fumbled through his words quickly, but he held out the small bag.   

You light up immediately. Your eyes shimmer with excitement. “Aww, Spencer! This is so kind thank you!”    

You bend down below the counter and grabs your own item, “I actually have your present too.” you said shyly, handing him a wrapped package.    

Spencer is quiet as he gently takes the gift from you, a tiny smile on his face. He brushes his hair back out of his face as he looks at you softly.    

“This is so kind thank you.”    

Giddy giggles consume you, and you hold the gift bag. “Should we open them together or do you want to wait until Christmas?” you asked.    

Spencer shakes his head, “No no, you can open it now.” He reassures you.    

You smile, biting the inside of your cheek and open your present. Under the tissue paper is a sweater that’s twice your size and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt. You pull it out and it’s a purple crocheted sweater with a beautiful sun right in the middle. It reminds you of one of the tapestries from the late nineties that would have been in Practical Magic or something like that.    

“Oh Spencer, this is perfect.” you say quietly holding it tightly to your chest. “Thank you so much, I love it.”    

You pull off your cardigan and immediately shove the sweater on. You nestle yourself inside it and grins widely, “It matches your scarf!”    

Spencer just takes in your joy and how you light up, and he’s happy he could make you feel better.    

“Well go on open yours!” you said excitedly pushing your wrapped package toward him.   

Spencer gently peels back the wrapping paper and uncovers a white box; he opens the box to find a ceramic mug. It's custom made, with some uneven texture. It’s glazed a speckled purple and wrapped around the bottom is a quote, “Some books are so familiar that reading them is being home again.” -L.M. Alcott    

Spencer is quietly inspecting it, and you start explaining. You push your hair behind your ear, “I uh, I took a pottery class in my free time this past year. Since you’re here so much I thought you would like your own mug.” you said hesitantly.    

Spencer’s eyes widen, “You, you made this? For me?” he asked in surprise.    

You nod, looking down at the counter nervously.    

Spencer makes his way around the counter and pulls you into a tight hug. “This is the best gift anyone's ever gotten me.” he whispers to you.    

You return the hug holding Spencer tightly. You press your face into his shoulder, and you feel infinitely better than how your night started.   

When they pull apart you play with the edge of the new sweaters' sleeves, a small blush on your face. “Do you go visit your mama for holidays?” you asked him.    

Spencer shakes his head, “Not all the time. My job doesn’t usually care if it’s a holiday or not.” he tells you.    

You nod, “Well, I hope you get to this year Spencer. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”    

He takes a shaky breath and nods in agreement. “Yeah, I’ll try to see her soon.”    

You nudge him lightly, trying to keep the tone light, “Want a fresh drink in your new mug?” you tease.   

Spencer chuckles but nods his head. “I’d love that.”    

“We’re about to test run if I’m actually good at pottery. So, fingers crossed it doesn’t leak.” you joke moving to the cafe counter at the back of the store.   

Spencer watches you walk away, with a skip in your step like the first night he came to the Midnight Owl. The way you easily glide through the crowd and chatter with customers and giggling.    

You shine bright like a star, like the sun.  

[p0orbaby]

Hi writer, hope you are doing well and if you are accepting request

Requesting a barca teen who is short like aitana and may be shorter than her and the team likes to baby her or tease her good naturedly and The reader is the one who scores the winning goal for barca through a header surprising everyone

-

The match is a big one. The kind where the crowd feels too loud and too quiet all at once, and the floodlights could probably fry an egg if you held one close enough. You’re on the bench—standard practice when you’re 5’2” and look more like you belong at a school assembly than on a pitch. Aitana, the second shortest on the team, is on the pitch, legs pumping like pistons.

“Looking for your big sister?” Mapi teases, leaning back on the bench beside you. “Or maybe your carer?”

“She’s not my sister,” you mutter, flicking the grass off your boots. You’ve heard all the jokes before. Aitana calls you “her shadow,” and the rest of the team has gleefully adopted the dynamic.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Patri chimes in, tying her ponytail for what must be the fifth time today. “You even walk like her”

“No, she skips,” Mapi adds, making an exaggerated bouncing motion with her shoulders. “It’s very cute”

You glower at them, crossing your arms. Cute. As if that’s what you signed up for—endless ribbing and being treated like someone’s younger cousin at a wedding. You’re here to win. To play. To prove you’re not just a mascot with a squad number.

“Alright, you’re in,” the coach says suddenly, and you spring to your feet so fast you almost trip over your bootlaces.

“What, her?” Mapi exclaims, clearly delighted. “Coach, do you want me to carry her onto the pitch?”

You shoot her a look that could cut glass and jog out before she can say anything else.

The game is tied—1-1—and the tension in the stadium feels like a living, breathing thing. You’re darting between defenders, trying not to let the adrenaline make your legs feel like jelly.

Aitana passes you the ball with a grin, whispering something as you pass her by. “Don’t get lost out there, pequeña”

You don’t respond, just shoot her a glare over your shoulder and keep moving.

Then comes the moment. A cross from Patri so perfect it feels like it was gift-wrapped. The defender marking you is taller—of course—but you don’t care. You jump. And for a second, you’re airborne, defying every height-related joke you’ve ever heard.

The header is clean, sharp, and perfectly placed. The ball rockets into the back of the net, and the crowd erupts.

You land with a thud and turn, wide-eyed, as your teammates descend on you like you’ve just cured cancer.

“Was that—” Aitana starts, staring at you like she’s not sure whether to laugh or scream.

“A header,” Mapi finishes for her, running up behind you and hoisting you into the air. “The short one scored a header!”

You’re laughing, almost dizzy from the chaos, but you can’t help the smug grin spreading across your face.

“You know,” you say, as Mapi sets you down, “maybe it’s time you lot stopped calling me small”

Aitana raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Sure. Right after you grow another five inches”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no malice in it. The teasing doesn’t bother you so much now—not when the scoreboard says 2-1, and your name is written next to it.

[kinzhae]

"Unrequited Love"

Reader has been in love with Satoru Gojo for years, but Satoru is oblivious and more focused on someone else. As reader grows closer to Suguru Geto, Satoru becomes jealous and realizes his feelings for reader. Eventually, Satoru confesses his love.

Gojo x Reader, High-school au!, more of a oc?, angst? , comfort, fluff, special ending, unrequited love, jealous gojo.

"Whats going on between you and suguru?"

The classroom was noisy, filled with the dull hum of chatter and the occasional clatter of a pencil hitting the floor. You sat hunched over your notebook, diligently jotting down notes as the teacher droned on about formulas that seemed to stretch endlessly across the blackboard. Next to you, Satoru lounged in his chair, barely paying attention.

But he wasn’t looking at the equations.

You didn’t have to glance up to know where his gaze was locked—it was the same place it had been for weeks now. You could feel it, the way his attention was entirely absorbed by her. The girl across the room with the soft laugh and the fluttering lashes, the one who had unknowingly—or maybe knowingly—captured his heart.

“She’s so perfect…” Satoru muttered, his voice barely audible but weighted with adoration.

Your pen faltered mid-sentence. You swallowed hard, gripping the pen tighter as you forced yourself to keep writing. His words echoed in your head, their impact much sharper than they should’ve been.

Your best friend. Seven years of laughter, secrets, and late-night conversations—and now, this.

You risked a glance at him. Satoru’s lips were curved into a smile, one so uncharacteristically soft that it sent a pang through your chest. He looked at her like she was the only person in the room. She must have felt his stare because she turned slightly, catching his eye and giggling before quickly looking away.

They were a perfect match, weren’t they? She was sweet, charming, and undeniably pretty. And you? You were just...there.

People joked about you and Satoru all the time, shipping the two of you as if it was some kind of game. "You two are inseparable," they’d say, laughter bubbling up like they were stating the obvious. But every time, Satoru would brush it off with a smirk and a wave of his hand.

“As if,” he’d scoff. “We’re just friends.”

Just friends.

You pressed the pen harder against the page, the ink bleeding into a dark spot as the words blurred in front of you. It wasn’t fair, how much space he occupied in your heart when yours barely registered in his.

“Hey,” Satoru whispered, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

You blinked and turned to him, hoping your expression didn’t betray the ache in your chest. “What?”

“Do you think she likes me back?” he asked, his voice tinged with excitement. His eyes sparkled with the kind of enthusiasm he used to reserve for teasing you about your messy handwriting or begging you to share your snacks.

You hesitated, the lump in your throat growing. She already liked him. It was obvious to everyone, even to you, who had tried so hard not to see it. The stolen glances, the way she laughed just a little too hard at his jokes, the way she seemed to linger around him whenever she got the chance.

“Probably,” you muttered, barely audible. You stared at the scribbled notes in front of you, your vision blurring slightly.

Satoru’s grin widened, and he leaned back in his chair with an almost triumphant look. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said, his voice buzzing with confidence. “I mean, who wouldn’t like me, right?”

You forced a small laugh, the sound hollow to your own ears. “Right,” you murmured, keeping your eyes glued to the page.

He didn’t notice, of course. He was too busy stealing glances at her again, his mind already worlds away from the person sitting next to him.

The rest of the class dragged on, every second feeling heavier than the last. You kept your head down, pouring all your focus into your notes as if they could distract you from the weight in your chest. But it didn’t help. Not when you could still hear the faint sighs of admiration slipping from Satoru’s lips, not when you could still feel his excitement radiating next to you.

When the bell finally rang, you shoved your notebook into your bag with shaky hands, eager to escape. “I’ll see you later,” you said quickly, not waiting for his response as you stood and made your way toward the door.

“Wait—hey, where are you going?” Satoru called after you, but you didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.

You weaved through the crowded hallway, your head down as you tried to push the thoughts away. It wasn’t the first time you’d felt invisible next to him, and it wouldn’t be the last. But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

By the time you reached the quiet corner of the library, your usual hideout, the tears were already threatening to spill. You slumped into a chair and buried your face in your hands, letting out a shaky breath.

It wasn’t fair. Loving Satoru wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

You thought back to all the times he’d been there for you, his playful grin and easygoing attitude lighting up even your darkest days. You’d fallen for him so gradually, so deeply, that you hadn’t even realized it until it was too late. And now, you were stuck watching him fall for someone else—someone who could give him the kind of happiness you never could.

The thought sent a fresh wave of pain through you, but you swallowed it down. You couldn’t cry here. Not now.

Taking a deep breath, you wiped your eyes and opened your notebook again. If Satoru was happy, that should’ve been enough for you. It had to be.

But as you sat there, staring blankly at the page, a small, bitter part of you wondered if it ever really would be.

The quiet of the library was broken by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. You glanced up, startled, and found none other than Suguru Geto sitting across from you. His usual calm demeanor was intact, but his sharp eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that made you squirm.

“Skipping out on Gojo?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. His voice was low, almost teasing, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity behind it.

You hesitated, unsure of how much to say. Suguru was one of the few people who knew Satoru as well as you did, maybe even better. If anyone could read between the lines, it was him.

“Not skipping,” you mumbled, looking back down at your notebook. “Just needed some air.”

Suguru raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Air? In a library?” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Your pen faltered again, and you let out a quiet sigh, the weight of the day pressing down on you. “Why are you here, Suguru?”

“To check on you,” he said simply.

You blinked, surprised. “Why?”

“Because you looked like you were about to fall apart back there,” Suguru replied, his voice softer now. “And because I’m not blind. I’ve seen the way you look at Satoru.”

Your heart sank, the words hitting harder than you expected. You opened your mouth to deny it, but Suguru cut you off with a small wave of his hand.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s written all over your face. Has been for a while.”

You looked away, the embarrassment and pain swirling together in your chest. “It doesn’t matter,” you muttered. “He’s in love with her.”

Suguru didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sat back in his chair, studying you with a thoughtful expression. “You know, for someone as sharp as you, you’re pretty stupid sometimes.”

You frowned, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Listen,” Suguru said, leaning forward again. “I’m not saying Satoru doesn’t have a thing for her. He clearly does. But do you honestly think he’d brush you off if you told him how you felt?”

The question caught you off guard, and you stared at him, speechless.

Suguru sighed, shaking his head. “You’re his best friend, you idiot. He cares about you more than you realize. Maybe even more than he realizes.”

A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “That’s the problem. I’m just his best friend. Nothing more.”

Suguru’s expression softened, and he gave you a small, almost sad smile. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re too scared to find out if that’s really true.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken possibilities. You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but deep down, a part of you wondered if he was right.

Before you could respond, Suguru stood, pushing his chair back with an easy grace. “Think about it,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “And if you need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

You watched him leave, your heart still racing from the conversation. Suguru had always been perceptive, but you hadn’t expected him to see through you so easily.

As you sat there, the notebook in front of you forgotten, his words echoed in your mind.

The days following your conversation with Suguru were...different. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but you found yourself gravitating toward him more often. Maybe it was the way he seemed to genuinely understand you, or maybe it was the subtle kindness in his words, the quiet reassurance that you weren’t as invisible as you felt.

Suguru didn’t pry after that day in the library, but he didn’t pull away either. Instead, he started seeking you out during lunch, sitting next to you in class when Satoru was distracted, and walking you halfway home with casual ease.

At first, it felt strange—foreign even—to have someone’s attention focused on you so completely. But as time went on, you began to relax around him. Suguru’s presence was calming, a stark contrast to Satoru’s endless energy.

You weren’t the only one who noticed the shift.

Satoru was glaring. Not at you, not even at Suguru directly, but it was clear as day. His usual cocky grin was replaced by a tight-lipped expression every time he caught you and Suguru talking.

“Yo,” Satoru called one afternoon, sliding into the seat beside you in class with an exaggerated stretch. “What’s up with you and Suguru lately?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden question. “What do you mean?”

Satoru tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been hanging out with him a lot. More than usual.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “We’re just talking. He’s been helping me out with some stuff.”

“Stuff?” Satoru echoed, his tone sharp. “Since when do you need him for stuff?”

Your chest tightened at the accusation in his voice, and you frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? Suguru’s been a good friend.”

Satoru opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he looked away. “Nothing. Forget it.”

The awkward tension settled between you, a stark contrast to the easy banter you used to share.

It wasn’t long before Satoru’s irritation bubbled over.

One afternoon, as you and Suguru walked out of the classroom together, Satoru intercepted you in the hallway.

“Hey,” he said, his tone light but forced. His eyes flicked to Suguru, and the tightness in his smile was unmistakable. “Mind if I steal my best friend for a sec?”

Suguru glanced at you, a knowing look passing between you two, before nodding. “Sure. I’ll catch you later.”

The moment Suguru walked away, Satoru turned to you, his expression unreadable.

“What’s going on with you two?” he asked, his voice low.

“What do you mean?” you replied, folding your arms defensively.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Satoru shot back. “Since when are you and Suguru so...close?”

You felt a flicker of frustration. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters because—” He stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “It just does, okay?”

“Why?” you pressed, your voice trembling slightly. “Because you don’t want me to be close to someone else? Because you’re afraid someone might actually notice me?”

Satoru flinched, as if your words had struck a nerve.

“It’s not like that,” he said, his tone softer now. “I just... I don’t want to lose you.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, and you stared at him, your frustration slowly giving way to confusion.

“Lose me?” you echoed.

Satoru looked away, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do if things changed between us.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and you couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to them than he was letting on.

“Things are already changing,” you said quietly. “You just didn’t notice until now.”

Satoru’s gaze snapped back to yours, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Fear? Regret? Maybe even jealousy?

Whatever it was, it made your heart ache all over again.

“Satoru…” You hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I’m not going anywhere. But you don’t get to act like this just because someone else is paying attention to me.”

His expression wavered, and for the first time in a long while, Satoru Gojo didn’t have a witty comeback. Instead, he just stood there, his silence speaking volumes.

And for the first time, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as indifferent as he seemed.

Time passed, and your relationship with Suguru settled into something steady and comforting. He became your anchor, a quiet presence who never pried too deeply but always seemed to know when you needed someone to talk to—or when you just needed silence.

But the more time you spent with Suguru, the more obvious it became that whatever existed between you two was purely platonic. Suguru didn’t treat you any differently than he treated others he cared about. His kindness wasn’t exclusive; it was simply who he was. And, honestly, that was okay.

What wasn’t okay, however, was the growing tension between you and Satoru.

Every interaction with him felt charged, as though there were unspoken words hanging in the air, threatening to break free. He was quieter around you lately, more subdued than you’d ever seen him. It wasn’t the Satoru you knew, the one who filled every room he entered with a boundless energy that couldn’t be ignored.

And yet, he never stopped looking at you.

You caught him staring more often than not, his usually bright eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite decipher. You tried to ignore it, brushing off the way your stomach twisted every time you felt his gaze linger.

Until one day, he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

---

It was late after school, the sun dipping low in the sky as you packed your things. Most of the students had already left, but you’d stayed behind to finish an assignment. Suguru had offered to walk you home, but you insisted you’d be fine.

As you slung your bag over your shoulder and stepped into the empty hallway, you nearly bumped into Satoru.

“Whoa,” he said, his hands shooting out to steady you. “Careful.”

“Satoru?” you blinked, surprised. “What are you still doing here?”

“I was waiting for you,” he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Your brow furrowed. “Waiting for me? Why?”

He hesitated, his hands slipping into his pockets as he looked away. “Can we talk?”

The weight in his voice made your heart skip a beat. You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He led you outside, where the cool evening air wrapped around you both. You walked a short distance to a bench under a tree, the silence between you stretching uncomfortably.

Finally, Satoru broke it. “I don’t know how to say this,” he began, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “But I can’t keep it in anymore.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. “Satoru, what’s going on?”

He took a deep breath, his blue eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. “I’ve been an idiot,” he said. “I’ve been so focused on other things—on other people—that I didn’t realize what was right in front of me.”

Your breath hitched, and you opened your mouth to speak, but he continued before you could.

“I didn’t realize how much you mean to me,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “And I’m scared I’ve already screwed it up. But I need you to know—” He paused, his hands clenching into fists. “I love you.”

The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. You stared at him, stunned, your mind racing.

Satoru looked down, his usual bravado completely gone. “I know I don’t deserve it, not after how I’ve acted. But I had to tell you. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine.”

For a moment, you were silent, the weight of his confession settling over you.

“Satoru…” you finally said, your voice soft. “Why now?”

He looked up, his eyes filled with something you’d never seen before—vulnerability. “Because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you,” he said. “Not to Suguru, not to anyone. I was jealous, and it made me realize how much I care about you. Not as a friend. As...as something more.”

Your heart swelled and ached all at once, the emotions swirling within you almost too much to bear.

“Satoru,” you said again, your voice trembling. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”

His eyes widened, hope flickering in their depths. “You mean…?”

“I love you too,” you admitted, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I have for a long time.”

Relief and joy washed over his face, and he let out a shaky laugh. “You have no idea how happy that makes me,” he said, reaching for your hands.

You let him take them, his touch warm and familiar. And in that moment, it felt like all the pain, all the waiting, had been worth it.

Satoru Gojo wasn’t perfect—far from it. But as he looked at you with more love than you’d ever thought possible, you realized that he was everything you’d ever wanted.

Special:

The warmth of Suguru’s laughter filled the quiet park, the three of you lounging on a patch of soft grass under the shade of a massive tree. It had become a tradition to meet here after long days at school, a space where you could escape the world and just exist together.

Satoru was sprawled out on his back, one arm shielding his eyes from the sun, while Suguru sat cross-legged, his usual calm and collected demeanor on full display. You were sandwiched between them, leaning back on your hands, the breeze tugging gently at your hair.

“I don’t get it,” Satoru grumbled, sitting up abruptly and running a hand through his messy white hair. “Why does he always get the compliments?” He jabbed a finger at Suguru, who raised an eyebrow in mock amusement.

“Maybe because I’m more charming,” Suguru replied, his voice smooth and teasing.

“Charming, my ass,” Satoru scoffed. “You’re just taller. People fall for that whole ‘mysterious guy’ thing you’ve got going on.”

“Ah, so you’re admitting they don’t fall for you?” Suguru quipped, smirking.

You couldn’t help but laugh at their bickering. It was always like this—playful jabs, exaggerated arguments, and you caught somewhere in the middle. But today, there was an ease in the air that made it all feel special, like the world had melted away, leaving just the three of you.

“Okay, okay,” you interrupted, raising your hands to placate them. “Let’s not start a war over who’s more likable.”

“Too late,” Satoru said, his blue eyes gleaming mischievously as he nudged you with his shoulder. “You’re the tiebreaker. Who’s better—me or Suguru?”

Suguru chuckled softly, leaning back on his elbows. “Careful, Y/N. Your answer might just end a friendship.”

You rolled your eyes, used to their antics by now. “I’m not picking between you two,” you said firmly, though the smile on your face betrayed your amusement. “You’re both equally annoying.”

Satoru gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Annoying? Me? Impossible.”

Suguru shook his head, his grin widening. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Before Satoru could retort, you added, “But you’re also my favorite people in the world. So stop fishing for compliments.”

The sincerity in your voice seemed to catch them both off guard. Satoru’s teasing expression softened, and Suguru gave you a small, genuine smile.

“Careful,” Suguru said after a moment, his tone light but his gaze warm. “You’re going to make us emotional.”

“Too late,” Satoru said, leaning over to sling an arm around your shoulders. “Y/N’s stuck with us for life, whether she likes it or not.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t shrug him off. “Like I could get rid of you two even if I tried.”

The three of you sat there for a while longer, the teasing giving way to a comfortable silence. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the park, and you found yourself wishing that moments like this could last forever.

Because no matter how chaotic or complicated life got, being with Suguru and Satoru always felt like home.

[brainddeadd]

hughes sister x oscar and maybe she works something in f1 that’s how they met and they have been dating for a little while now and they finally found time for her to meet her family and she takes him to his first nhl game

Meeting the Family

The weekend had been carefully planned, squeezed between Oscar’s racing calendar and her brothers’ grueling NHL schedules. It was the perfect opportunity for Oscar to finally meet the Hughes family—and for her to take him to his first hockey game.

As they drove toward the Hughes family home, she could feel her nerves creeping in. She glanced over at Oscar, who seemed calm as ever, one hand loosely resting on the steering wheel.

“You know,” she began, fiddling with the hem of her hoodie, “Quinn, Jack, and Luke might come off a little... intense at first.”

Oscar smirked. “Intense like Turn 1 at Monza or...?”

She rolled her eyes but laughed. “More like three defensemen deciding whether you’re a threat to their baby sister.”

Oscar reached over and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll survive. I’ve met team principals scarier than your brothers.”

When they arrived, the Hughes house was buzzing with energy. Jack was the first to open the door, taking one long look at Oscar before pulling his sister into a tight hug.

“So,” Jack said, stepping back and folding his arms. “This is Oscar, huh? The guy you’re always FaceTiming?”

Oscar extended a hand with an easy smile. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Quinn and Luke appeared in the hallway, both sporting curious expressions. Their little sister could feel the weight of their stares as the introductions unfolded.

“Alright,” Luke said after a beat, “he seems normal. But we’ll see after tonight’s game.”

That evening, they piled into the arena, the excitement in the air almost tangible. It was Oscar’s first NHL game, and she couldn’t help but notice how fascinated he looked as the players skated out for warmups.

“They’re fast,” he said, leaning close so she could hear him over the roar of the crowd.

“You’re fast,” she teased. “This is... different.”

As the game began, Oscar quickly picked up on the intensity of the sport, asking questions about the rules and commenting on the sheer athleticism of her brothers.

When Quinn executed a flawless poke check to stop a breakaway, she nudged Oscar’s arm. “That’s Quinn. Pretty good, huh?”

Oscar grinned. “Not bad. But I’d like to see him take Eau Rouge at full speed.”

By the end of the game, the Devils had won, and Oscar was fully converted into a hockey fan.

Back at the house, the family was more relaxed. Jack and Luke took turns grilling Oscar about racing—his craziest moments, the rivalries, and the mechanics of the car. Oscar, to his credit, answered everything with patience and charm, even cracking a few jokes that made Quinn chuckle.

As the evening wound down, she leaned against Oscar’s shoulder, watching her brothers laugh at one of his stories. He fit into her world better than she could have imagined.

Later that night, as they left, Jack pulled her aside.

“He’s alright,” Jack said begrudgingly, but she could see the small smile tugging at his lips. “But if he ever hurts you...”

“I know,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes. “You’ll destroy him.”

As they drove away, Oscar glanced over with a playful smile. “So, did I pass the test?”

She laughed, leaning her head against the window. “Barely. But they like you.”

“And you?”

She smiled softly. “I love you.”

Oscar’s hand found hers again, and with a quiet grin, he said, “Good. Because I love you too.”