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ceilidho · 9 months ago

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hound dog

prompt: You pick up Ghost from a bar for a one night stand. Too bad Ghost isn't interested in a casual hook up. (nsfw, 6.7k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

Rare is the day when a stupid girl doesn’t do stupid things.

This is just one of many such occurrences. Stepping into the dimly lit dive bar—the one miles from your place, reeking of tobacco and leather and motor oil, the noxious perfume of week old sweat and weed stinking up the joint, pardon the pun—with too much eyeliner and mascara on, and a skirt too short for you—and would you just stop fiddling with it? But you can’t because that would mean admitting that it barely fits over your ass, that putting on a skirt so short was a choice, an invite, a teasing little taunt to the men in the bar saying, what are you waiting for? I’m asking for it, aren’t I—

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

It’s why you’re planted at the bat some six weeks after being dumped, two weeks after being ghosted for the third time in a row, a smile on your face despite your crumbling self-esteem. Pride hanging in tatters. Grimacing when you find the bartop sticky with congealed liquor, the residue sticking to your skin when you quickly lift your elbows off. But there’s a time for self-pity and a time for getting it the fuck togther. This just happens to be one of the latter times.

“What’m I gettin’ you?” the bartender in front of you asks, barely impressed with your get-up. Not even attempting to conceal his distaste when he eyes you up and down, lingering on the way your tits are practically spilling out of your top.

“Do you have any cocktails?” you ask. Wrong question. The eye roll isn’t even suppressed for your benefit when he makes it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that it’s whatever he can pour straight from a bottle or the fancy bar for cityfolk down the road. He says it like that, the word practically sneered out. Cityfolk.

Nerves shaken, you sip at your red wine after he leaves you to your own devices, your glass poured straight from the box. It could function passably as lighter fluid if the circumstances called for it. Still, you swallow it with a positive attitude, emboldened by the knowledge that you’re here for one thing and one thing only:

to get fucked within an inch of your life by one of the greasy-haired, cut-wearing, cigarette-smoking men lining the bar.

Even the thought sends a thrill down your spine.

It’s an age old question, isn’t it? What’s a girl to do (when her love life’s falling apart / when her credit score just bottomed out because her ex-boyfriend ran up her credit cards behind her back / when her job’s steadily becoming unbearable but quitting would mean scrambling to find a job that’ll pay anywhere near to what this one’s paying her) to get a drink around here?

Evidently, the answer isn’t to use a dating app; you can say that confidently after waiting around in fancier bars than this for several no-show dates.

You’re feeling appropriately over the whole thing. Ready to call it quits. Uninstall all of the apps on your phone and hire a matchmaker or ask a friend to set you up with a coworker of theirs. But that’ll be later, down the line when you aren’t dealing with the issue at hand.

The issue being that—

you’re really fucking horny.

Embarrassingly so. Enough that you were willing to travel miles away from home to avoid accidentally hooking up with anyone you might run into later on while out getting groceries or on a morning run.

It’s just better to play things close to your chest. Keep your romantic life and your sexual exploits far apart (not that you’d know much about keeping things separate; you’ve never had much of a sex life to keep hidden) lest you get mired in a stickier situation than you’re comfortable being in.

Despite the rough start, the bar you chose seems promising. There’s a man at the other side of the bar that keeps drawing your eye. It’s the hulking size of him at first, then the grime clinging to the folds of his skin, worn in from years of hard labor. He looks like a man fresh off a fourteen-hour shift or a fortnight spent on an oil rig in the middle of the Baltic sea, freshly washed ashore, kelp and barnacles still fused to his skin, not yet pried off.

Rough is the only word you’d use to describe him. A face covered in nicks and old scars, his upper lip slightly puckered and scarred from cleft lip surgery. When he turns his head to say something to the bartender, you catch a glimpse of a cauliflower ear, the cartilage of his tragus and antihelix swollen and deformed.

He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. If you’d given it more thought, you think you could’ve conjured up an image of the man across the bar all by yourself. It’s like someone plucked him straight out of your head. Big and brawny, broad shoulders that you can imagine dangling your ankles off, and well-muscled arms that you can imagine digging your nails into. It would take both of your hands and extra to wrap around his bicep. The thought makes you shiver.

You try to catch his attention subtly. Looking over at him from under your lashes, quick, smoldering glances meant to draw his attention to you, so that he approaches you first. You keep waiting for the moment when he’ll notice your stare and hold your gaze, a question being asked and answered between your eyes before reeling him in with a coy little smile.

But when a half hour goes by without a single glance your way, your hope begins to wane.

He doesn’t look up no matter how many times you glance over at him. It’s frustrating; you know he feels the weight of your stare. His disregard is purposeful, deliberate; like he knows your attention is fixed on him but he can’t be bothered to so much as return your stare. You wonder if that means he’s got a lady at home, a little bird cooped up in his house that he’s more eager to get back to after he’s had a drink to take off the edge than flirt with some trussed up floozy at the bar.

That makes you squirm, self-consciousness rearing its ugly head again. Maybe you made a mistake coming here.

It’s not as though you’re being completely ignored, it’s just that the caliber of men that have approached you so far haven’t really inspired much, carnally speaking. You’ve sent the few braver ones away, a half-hearted thanks but no thanks when they offer to buy you a drink. Most leave without a word, though a few mutter obscenities under their breath before shoving their hands in their pockets and stalking away. Bitch. Dumb cunt.

Calling it a night feels like a natural next step. With the attitude you keep getting from the bartender and the way the only man you’re remotely attracted to refuses to so much as glance your way, it doesn’t feel right to stay out any longer. Embarrassment heats you like a low grade fever, warm in your belly. Wine sloshes around in your stomach when you slip off the stool, hunger now another pressing concern.

You’ll ask him on your way back from the bathroom. If he turns you down after that, you’ll slink off into the night with your tail tucked between your legs. There’ll always be next weekend to try again. You promise yourself that because the alternative is acknowledging how defeated this entire experience has left you, no less disappointing than going on the same boring first date with a guy from Tinder.

In the bathroom, you dab your face with water and stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years; finger smudges and white strains streaked across the glass. You wonder how many strangers have fucked in this bathroom over the years. The thought makes you grimace even more when you notice that the floor is slightly sticky, the ground sounding tacky beneath your shoes.

When you come out, the man from across the bar is waiting by the door, so close that you flinch, eyes widening. The narrow hallway means that he’s barely three feet from you when you stand in the doorframe.

“We leavin’ or what?” he growls, voice as deep as you thought it might be, gruff and husky.

He’s just as imposing in front of you as he was from across the bar. Maybe more so. You’re forced to crane your neck to look up at him this close, lips parting on an inaudible exhale. There’s something about a brutish man that’s always taken your breath away; everything from the blunt chin to the pronounced brow. His face is flecked with pale, keloidal skin; rubbery nodules from old injuries.

Dumbstruck, you can only nod, following behind him when he turns away from you, headed towards the parking lot out back where his truck is parked.

You’re really doing this. You’re really doing this. That’s the only thought in your head when he unlocks his truck and pops the door open for you, waiting until you’re buckled in before slamming the door shut.

He’s quiet on the car ride back to his place, unconcerned with getting to know you or defusing the tension in the truck. You can’t say you blame him. There’s a reason you chose a bar so far from home as a hunting ground. If you wanted to get to know someone, you would’ve met someone at a coffee shop.

When you ask his name, he grunts it out like it’s an inconvenience. Simon. He doesn’t give you more than that, even when you awkwardly ask him what he does for work. Blatantly ignores your questions. The rebuff smarts for some reason, makes you frown and duck your chin to your chest, shoulders hunched.

His demeanor is so off-putting that halfway through the drive, you wonder if you misunderstood him somehow, if he means to drive you home instead of taking you back to his place (but that can’t be right, otherwise wouldn’t he have asked for your address?). It’s just hard to reconcile his churlish attitude towards you with his ostensible invitation to fuck.

Maybe he doesn’t intend to fuck you at all. Maybe you managed to pick up the one serial killer in a twenty mile radius and stupidly followed him back to his truck without telling anyone who you planned to go home with. Your blood curdles at the thought, hackles raised when you imagine him sizing you up from across the bar, all prettied up and doe-eyed, easy prey.

Your breathing picks up. “I, um…actually, c-could you…could you just drop me off at my place?”

Simon rolls his eyes so hard that it’s almost audible. “Not gonna kill ya, bird.”

That doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you, but you don’t dig your heels in and demand he take you home either.

“Do you live nearby?” you ask, suddenly chatty. Why, oh why.

Simon looks over at you, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. He drives a manual, you notice. A few too many seconds go by in silence. You wish somebody would just staple your mouth shut already.

“Yeah,” he says finally, turning back to watch the road, taking a left turn up ahead without using his signal. So it’s that kind of drive.

You keep your mouth shut for the rest of it lest he decide you’re too much of a hassle and turn back. You’re poised right on the edge of something new and exciting, and the thought of that slipping through your fingers makes you feel a bit crazy. So many men before have shown you that same snap dislike. Like you’re tolerable over text or as a dimensionless photo, but not as a flesh and blood person, the real mechanics of you all wrong. It’s an intolerable thought—that people can only like you when you smile and keep your mouth shut.

Still, you’ll do it now, for a price.

Part of you expects him to pull you into his lap when he pulls into his driveway and puts the truck in park. It’s what you’ve seen in movies. The rest of the night plays out in your head in piecemeal flashes; ravenous passion, hands tearing clothes off each other’s bodies, a shoe left on the porch in your hurry to get inside. Hungry, devouring; slick mouths parting for barely long enough to breathe.

Then Simon cuts the engine and gets out of the truck without so much as a glance your way, like you aren’t even there.

He still comes around to open the door for you. You frown at him through the window, affronted. Baffled at his continued nonchalance. Like even keeping your mouth shut isn’t enough to keep a man’s interest. Where you expected passion and fervor, you’re met with cool indifference.

Simon pops the door open. “Get out.”

The house itself is nothing special. A two-story cookie-cutter house built in the seventies; weathered, beige-coloured vinyl siding and a neatly trimmed lawn, with a few patches of overgrown grass and weeds. There’s a trailer parked in front of the closed garage, a few planks of wood strapped down in the bed. When you follow him up the walkway, you notice how quiet the neighborhood is, and for some reason that makes you even more jittery.

You stop in the doorway, frustration breaking your timidity like snapping an ampoule. “Do you even want to—” fuck me, goes unsaid. Too humiliating to even ask. But you ask anyway, the question itself implicit even in so few words.

Dark eyes stare down at you, impenetrable. You’re struck by the sense of something primordial slithering under his skin. His expression is hard, his face carved from granite; when his expression shifts, it’s like watching tectonic plates create mountains, plates pushed upward by mantle plumes.

He fits a big paw under your chin, fingers pressing into the fat of your cheeks hard enough to make your lips purse. Your heart skips a beat when he angles your head from side to side, looking you over like a pet he’s considering bringing home. You almost go cross-eyed when he bends down, his forehead nearly brushing yours, so close that you can smell the scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, see the grease smudged on his face and the folds around his eyes.

A grin flickers across his lips, gone as it came. “Yeah. I do.”

And doesn’t that tie your stomach in a knot? Your nerves in a pretty bow?

Inside, his house is just as unremarkable. You’d know in a single glance that a single man lived here; a functional, no-frills living space. Nothing more than a worn couch, a TV, and a few pieces of obvious hand-me-down furniture. It’s hard to glean anything from the minimal decoration around his place, but he doesn’t give you much of a chance to look around. That’s not the point of why you’re in his house.

“Eat anything yet, bird?” Simon asks from the kitchen, opening the fridge without purpose. It looks like more of a reflex than anything, the first thing he does the second he gets home for the night and the last thing he does before going to bed. From the size of him, it makes sense; his body is muscle on muscle, covered by a healthy layer of fat, just a surface layer over the bulk beneath.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Have a bite, then.”

“I’m not, uh, hungry though,” you deflect rather than saying the obvious, which is, I came to your house to have sex, not make sandwiches at the kitchen counter together.

He shuts the fridge door, pinning you with his stare. “Your call. Could’ve used the energy though.”

You swallow.

The first thing you do after he herds you into the bedroom is try to pull him into a kiss, cupping his cheeks and standing up on your tiptoes. Before your eyelids flutter shut, you catch a glimpse of a cocked brow. Then you press your lips to a slack mouth that doesn’t move no matter how much passion you infuse in your kiss and feel embarrassment flare up in your guts.

Bastard. You should’ve expected that he wouldn’t kiss you back.

“Sorry,” you mutter, breaking the facsimile of a kiss and dropping back down onto your heels.

You flinch when he grabs you by the back of the neck and reels you back in, forcing you back onto your tiptoes, “Don’t be,” grunted against your mouth before fusing your lips together. A pathetic keen climbs up your throat, eyelids slipping shut.

His greed leaks from him like tar, his kiss so messy and violent that you’re almost too jarred to do anything apart from hang on. Teeth clack against yours, a horrid sensation, the lust in your belly abating long enough for the real world to slink back in and you get flashes of it: hands winding around a thick neck, a scratchy cheek against your lip when he twists his head to angle your noses better, a tongue shoving into your mouth unceremoniously, no finesse at all. Straight to the main point.

A shudder wracks you from head to toe when you try to break the kiss only to find the hand on your neck firm, holding you in place. The subtle reminder that he can do whatever he wants with you, that you willingly went home with a man big and strong enough to pin you down and fuck you however rough he wants.

“Simon,” you whine, squirming against him, gasping a breath and his name again when he wrestles you back into the kiss. “No—Simon—”

“Stay fuckin’ still,” he snarls against your lips, and you freeze, knees going weak when his fingers dig into your jaw to hold you in place.

The endorphin rush nearly makes your vision white out. A sudden winter storm, the blood rushing to your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your breath coming out quick and choppy. Lungs barely filling up with each inhale.

“Get this off,” Simon growls, tugging on your skirt when you don’t move fast enough. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, content to wrench your skirt off himself instead, your panties along with it.

It takes your breath away, how fast you go from clothed to partially nude. Trying to match his fervor is a losing game, so you just try to keep up. Your hands tug at his belt, desperately trying to undo it, and he chuckles when he notices; big hands paw at your ass while you shakily pop the buckle out of the first loop.

He takes over after that, popping the button on his jeans one-handed.

“Wanna handle the rest?” he prompts, an eyebrow jutting up, expectant. Lazy with his arrogance; oozing rugged masculinity. It’d infuriate you if it didn’t get you so hot.

Your fingers are numb by the time you pull his jeans down, kneeling at his feet and gazing up at him with wide eyed devotion as he kicks off his boots and shakes the pants off his legs, nothing under his jeans. His pale white thighs are dusted in fine blond hairs, mottled with burns and scars and old, faded cigarette marks, like someone used his legs as an ashtray. The thought makes your throat close up.

He shucks off his shirt while you stare at the shaft heavy with blood hanging between his legs, drooping with its own weight. Flushed red at the head and streaked with dark veins, leaking a steady drip of precum. The hair at the base of his dick is of a darker shade, gold like straw.

Your stomach swoops at the sight, dropping to the pits of you. You swallow. Maybe you’ve bit off a little more than you can chew. A lot more.

As if sensing your unease, a wide hand is suddenly firm on the back of your head, urging you closer. “Gonna give it a kiss?”

It’s not a question. You know that and you know that you’re way out of your league; that if you panic now you’ll flounder. So instead of fighting it, you lean forward and press a shy kiss to the weeping head of his dick.

You lick your lips instinctively when you draw back, lapping up the precum smeared across them. The taste makes you wrinkle your nose. It’s salty; bitter. Not altogether pleasant.

Simon wraps a hand around his dick and holds it to your lips. “Open your mouth, bird. Get me nice ‘n wet.”

A shudder rolls through you, but there’s little else you can do except part your lips and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a struggle to fit more than just the head in your mouth, his dick too wide to take more than that. Your eyes water at the stretch, the musky taste of his cum overwhelming.

Any experience you’ve had before this pales in comparison. It’s like the first time all over again. His cock is heavy on your tongue, instantly making your eyes water. The grip he still has on the base of his cock tells you that he doesn’t expect you to swallow the whole length (an impossible task; you go cold with dread at even the thought), but Simon doesn’t hesitate to grip your head firmer when he feels you falter, forcing you to take as much as you can.

When you gag, he shushes you. “Keep at it—you’re fine.”

You wonder if he thinks by saying it, it makes it true. You’re very much not fine, struggling to breathe through your nose and suck him off without scraping his cock with your teeth.

Your exhale when he pulls you off his cock by your hair is full of both relief and trepidation. Your lips feel swollen and tender when you touch them with your fingers.

“Can we please have sex now?” you ask, dazed enough to be bold.

Simon cracks a smile at that, endeared somehow. “Gotta get up for that, bird.”

You have to brace your hands against his chest when you get to your feet, the blood that rushes to your head making you wobbly. Even on your feet, he’s so much taller than you, a behemoth. Men like him have always been your type, but Simon is really in a league of his own.

Glancing up at him from under your lashes, you bite your lip. You’ve seen that in movies before, starlettes bringing men to their knees with just a look. Coquette; demure. It’s harder to replicate than you thought, but you’ve never rehearsed this before. This is a one-time, live performance. The culmination of everything you’ve ever read or watched or studied.

You keep up the ruse of being sexy by crawling onto his bed on your hands and knees, dropping down onto your elbows once situated in the middle of the mattress. The debauchery of wiggling your ass back at the man who took you home from the bar would overwhelm you if you weren’t playing a part right now. Role playing. This isn’t who you usually are, but if it’s only for one night, you can force out the self-scrutiny and timidity.

Silence hangs in the air like a bubble, waiting to be burst. You fight the urge to look over your shoulder at him.

Then Simon exhales, breaking the silence. Goosebumps ripple down your arms.

The mattress dips under his weight when he settles behind you, hands immediately sinking into the flesh of your ass and pulling your cheeks apart. No preamble. You open your mouth to say something, but thick, coarse fingers are already dipping between your thighs and playing with your hole, sinking a finger in up to the first knuckle.

You breathe out shakily, shoulders tensing. The sheets reek of him, musky and ripe; you concentrate on that instead of the fingers penetrating you, getting you ready for his dick. Your walls squeeze tight around his fingers when he forces another one in.

When he finally feeds his cock into you, the stretch is nearly unbearable. The sharp stab of pain that accompanies it almost makes you flinch away, but Simon drags you back by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere, bird,” he rumbles. “Relax. It’s going in.”

What can you say to something like that?

His whole frame presses you into the mattress, the breath forced from your lungs. Bigger now that he’s got you on your belly. Suddenly making two hundred pounds seem less abstract, more real. He bullies as much of his cock into you as he can, paying no mind to the way you squeal and kick your legs.

“Real tight cunt,” Simon grunts, humming with his pleasure when his hips punch forward and your pussy squelches around his length. So lewd.

His knees on either side of you keep you trapped in place, nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. All you can do is lie under him and let him rut between your thighs, gasping for breath with every thrust. The sweat is slick down your back, half yours and half his.

“Ya let other men fuck this cunt, bird?” he asks. It sounds hypothetical, like it’s said half to rile himself up, and though it prickles at your nerves, you don’t complain too much because he fucks you rougher after the words slip out of his mouth.

When you don’t answer him though, concentrating more on filling your lungs and not biting your tongue off, he grabs your face and twists your head until you’re looking over your shoulder at him, neck aching with the strain.

“Answer me,” he demands, sounding almost pissed off.

“N-no—”

“Good,” he grunts. Satisfied.

His words should piss you off. How dare he ask you about fucking other men as if he were your husband or boyfriend. You have half a mind to cuss him out, but then he pumps his hips forward and your face goes numb from pleasure. Electric impulses zip up and down your skin, sizzling your nerves.

Besides, maybe it’s hot that he’s acting like you belong to him. Like you’re his; his girl that he picked up from the bar after a long shift, eager to go home and lay her out on the bed so he could fuck his pretty girl into a tongue-tied stupor. It certainly does it for you, a thin filigree of pleasure winding its way down your spine.

It’s an intoxicating fantasy—being wanted by a man in a real, visceral way. It’s one you’ve never gotten close to before, never even grazed with the tips of your fingers, no matter how far you stretched out your arms. You don’t know what men see when they look at you, but it can’t be anything worth keeping.

He fucks you like he wants to pry you open and leave a piece of him inside. A big hand fits around your neck and tightens; a collar, a manacle.

Hard to feel anything but grateful though. It’s everything you wanted but never thought you’d get out of this experience. You expected to feel like a body on a butcher’s block, hacked limb from limb. Marble ribbing on the inside. Brought to a high only to be left out in the cold after.

You never expected apotheosis. You never expected the filth murmured into your ear, the lurid, coarse diatribe in surround sound, all perfect fuckin’ pussy, can’t wait to shove my tongue inside, gonna make you suck my cock while I eat that perfect cunt out—

All—

Perfect fuckin’ girl; you don’t give this to anyone else, do ya? Knew you were gaggin’ for it back in the bar, but wanted to wait ‘n see; turned the rest of ‘em down, didn’t ya? Not a fuckin’ slut. Jus’ for me—only hungry for my cock—

It’s too rough, too much. Overpowering. Musk and body heat and raw strength, his forearms planted on the mattress on either side of your head. The scent of him suffocating, smothering. Heady. In your pores, on the back of your tongue, in your belly. He’s everywhere.

If only you could put it into words. The fire in your belly growing so wild, so out of control, that it threatens to incinerate you. Thinking dangerous thoughts—that you could be his, that he wants you so bad he can’t stand the idea of anyone having you before him, that he’ll kill anyone that touched you before, rip them apart with his bare hands, cut out their hearts and slice it ‘em up real thin so he could feed you the strips with his hands—

“Fuck—” Simon pants in your ear, pulling his cock out of your cunt. You whine, clenching down on nothing, suddenly empty, until he turns you roughly over onto your back and grabs one of your flailing ankles, hooking it over a burly shoulder. “Cunt this good oughta be locked down. Should just chain your leg to the bed so I can wake up to this pussy every day. Would’ya like that, bird?”

Like it? You think wildly—

Keep me, keep me, keep me, pleasepleaseplease.

The leg not hooked over Simon’s shoulder gets pulled around his hip, spreading your legs wider to accommodate the width of him between them. The scour of his voice threatens to erode you, smash you to pieces. There won’t be anything left after he’s done with you.

He’s just so big. Built like an ox, broad and solid. When he braces his forearms on either side of you, his biceps bulge, skin pulling taut over the muscle. The dark hair of his pits is stark against pale flesh.

Blood roars in your ears and over you, he moves like a wave, filling you up again and again. You’re swimming in uncharted waters now; gazing out into an unfamiliar and dangerous sea. A swell this big might take you right under.

Too bad for you, the hazy adumbration of danger in his words is pitted against the maw in your soul, the deep, cavernous hole that yawns wider with each passing year.

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: overlooking a sea of evergreen peaks illuminated by a silky moonlight hue, winding a long, narrow road darkened on both sides by tightly clustered trees, your arms wrapped around your chest. Cold layered like a skin, sinking deep into your bones, cold wet like a damp hate; trees clustered around your wandering soul, spurned into wandering like a little undead ghost with teeth clattering in Morse code, saying: so many wrongs done, it is almost incomprehensible.

Is it too much to ask to be wanted?

You need it like air.

The issue is that—

more than horny, you’re really, really fucking lonely.

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: a dream of being a lighthouse keeper, skin saltwater slick, seafoam on the backs of your knuckles, slathering over frozen fingers clutching at the gallery railing. Beckoning something to you.

What it is, you do not know.

“Look at tha’,” Simon says wonderingly, grabbing your face and yanking it towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “Just needed to get turned out on a fat cock, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good, Simon, ohmygod—”

“Only this needy for me, right?” The glint in his eye is terrifying.

“Only you, only you—”

“That’s right,” he growls, bearing all of his weight down on you, forehead to forehead. His sweat-slick chest slides against yours, cock buried so deep that you can taste him at the back of your throat. Dark eyes stare down at you with an intensity that steals the breath from you, glossy like he’s rapidly losing the ability to be consciously present, but ever attentive to the pleasure rippling across your face.

When his cock grinds into the soft plug of your womb, his eyes narrow when yours bulge, and he batters that spot until you seize up and spasm around him. His buzz cut gives you nothing to hold onto, so you dig your nails into the bulky planes of his back instead.

“Fuck—hold on, Christ, fuck; here it comes,” he spits, the veins in his neck protruding when he grits his teeth.

Your blood goes red hot when he rams deep into you, each thrust deliberate. Hips losing their rhythm. You don’t notice the first spurt of cum, too preoccupied with the smell and weight of him blanketing you, infiltrating every crevice of your body, but the second is hot. Scorching. You ignore the screaming alarm at the back of your head, barely coherent enough to parse out its meaning. All you can focus on is the warmth spreading inside you and your own walls pulsing around his cock, milking his release out of him.

Time blurs. You lose some of it.

You don’t come back until Simon rolls over onto his back, taking you with him. His cock is still buried inside of you, his cum running out in rivulets, pooling at the base of his dick lodged at your entrance. You’re going to be messy when he finally pulls out.

Despite the ache already setting in, you feel reborn. Renewed. The old, dead skin flayed off. You can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got your energy back, when even tracing your eyes across the other side of his room doesn’t take tremendous effort. The traces of him littered around the room make you curious. A half empty glass. Steel-toed boots sticking out of a half-opened closet. A damp towel crumpled into a ball on the floor.

You squeeze your eyes shut. There’s no use trying to fill the gaps in. Whoever Simon is won’t matter in the light of day. You repeat this to yourself until it sticks.

When you try to get up, planting both hands on his chest, he pulls you back down, forcing your head onto the pillow of his chest. “Simon, the sheets are wet—”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Simon says, eyes already shut, on the verge of falling asleep. “Now shut up. You’re ruining the fucking afterglow.”

You wake up the next morning covered in bruises and bite marks and dried cum between your thighs and on your belly, so sore that even twitching your finger hurts.

It takes awhile for everything to come back to you. When it finally does, consciousness snaps back into you, discomfort giving way to quiet self-satisfaction. You managed to do it. Your first one-night stand. A real milestone. The tacky sheets beneath you are proof enough of your accomplishment.

The sadness slithers in when you realize that it’s over. One and done. In a half hour or so, the man plastered against your back and breathing heavily on the crown of your head will wake up, groggy and bleary eyed, and side-eye you until you put back on your clothes from the night before and slink out, tail tucked between your legs. A few hours delayed from when you were planning to throw in the towel at the bar, but still. In the end, it always comes around.

A gruff voice at your side tells you to quiet, bird—s'too early for your bitchin’ before manhandling you onto your stomach and shoving his raw cock into your cunt and it’s only now that it dawns on you that you were too horny last night to remember to ask him to use protection.

The thought is wiped from your head when he bucks his hips forward, impaling you on his swollen length. You lose track of time after that.

Breakfast is an informal affair. Cereal from a box and a bit too much milk, and a cup of instant coffee. You wince when you sit down across from Simon at the kitchen table, your inner thighs still tender and pussy sore from the battering it just took. If it strokes his ego to see how gingerly you sit down, he doesn’t show it.

It’s weird sitting across the table from him after last night. Hard to just leave it unaddressed, the truth simmering in the air. The red marks across his back make you wince, cheeks heating. Thin crescent marks and scored nails. It’s hard to reconcile yourself with the girl from last night.

He eats in silence for the most part though, ravenous after the night before. Doesn’t comment on the state of his shoulders or the way you shift on your chair. Not even bothering to make eye contact with you. Your appetite takes a bit of a hit watching him shovel food into his mouth, hardly even pausing long enough to breathe, but you’ve seen plenty of hungry men eat before.

Still though, silence has always had a way of getting under your skin. You’re not comfortable around it, prone to chattering. So you can’t help the way your mouth opens and the words come out involuntarily.

“Do you do this a lot?”

“I don’t shit where I eat,” Simon grunts dismissively.

The expression makes you grimace. “So do you usually pick up girls elsewhere or—”

The look he gives you could melt the flesh off your bones. You realize your misstep, interrogating the man you just fucked about his other hookups. Best not to ask questions. It’s not like you’ll see him again after this.

These last few moments are bittersweet. There won’t be many opportunities like this in the future, mainly because you don’t think you’re cut out for one-night stands. Last night proved that. As good as it was—and for as many times as you came, another time in the wee hours of the morning when Simon rolled over on top of you and shoved your legs apart to eat you out (a midnight snack)—in the light of day, you feel world weary. Like something monumental happened and passed you by.

You almost want to thank him for making it special, but the anxiety around finally pissing him off is more than you can bear. You want to leave on a good note. It’s better this way. You’ll never have confirmation about whether he’d eventually grow tired of you like everyone else. Never know if he’d one day manage to lose interest in the real you, not the made up sex kitten from the bar.

It’s better this way.

You tell yourself that when you push your chair out and stand up, hands fisting in the oversized shirt Simon made you wear before leaving the bedroom. “I should get going.”

He stops eating, staring up at you. His eyes are inscrutable, and the longer he stares, the less you understand his look.

You shift from foot to foot. “Thanks for… I had a good time.”

Simon doesn’t say anything, but when he drops his spoon into the bowl, the metal clang makes you flinch.

His silence leaves you off balance, like you’ve overstepped somehow. All motion stills under his scrutiny.

“Got somewhere ya need to be?” he asks, a vague, almost menacing undercurrent in his voice. It’s said like a warning. There shouldn’t be anywhere else you need to be.

“I…—don’t you want me to leave?”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “You gonna walk home like that?” His words make you tug at his shirt, pulling it down to cover your thighs.

Your whole life has been made up of misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Men who you thought loved you vanishing into thin air. You’re a poem often lost in translation. A long game of hide and seek; people run towards you then feign right, leaving you in the dust.

Whatever this is, you don’t recognize it.

You swallow on a dry throat. “…No?”

Simon searches your expression for something before he nods, satisfied. “Then sit the fuck back down. Finish your damn breakfast.”

You sit back down (wincing when you do) because the alternative is admitting that you don’t know what’s next. That you’re out of step again, but this time without that sinking feeling in your belly. A wild fluttering instead. That thought again that maybe you’ve bit off more than you can chew.

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you

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oh-no-its-bird · 4 months ago

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Celebrating my 21'st birthday by posting an obnoxious amount of

Warring States Hatake OC things !

Continuing the warring states era Hatake oc train as I try to fill up all 21 slots for the clan !!! I honestly don't know if I'll make all 21, but I'd like to at least give them all names, just to make the world feel lived in. I might ask someone else to donate an oc or two in the future to guest star in the cast, idk

But anyways !!!! In a clan who loves to adopt, it stands to reason that they ofc have people among them who weren't born Hatake.

With that said: Pyromaniac explosion enthusiast Hatake who was a failed bloodline theft anyone ???

Both Sora and Tsuki are pretty fucking horrendous towards Tetsuo, but in large part it's Tsuki leading the charge. Sora follows his lead, as he's the first friend she made in the clan. They're honestly pretty close

Meanwhile: Sora remains the biggest Haruka fan ever. Being saved from the bloodline thief camp by the woman really cemented her in her mind as her hero.

After Sora lost her arm at 12 when playing with an explosion seal she'd explicitly been told not to play with, Tsuki proposed they learn to do hand signs together.

Sora would eventually be able to figure out how to do pull off a jutsu with only one hand, but it takes a long time to get there— and even when she is there, it still takes longer than if she had 2 hands. Working with Tsuki, they can both pull off just about any jutsu as fast as any one person can. Faster, even

Top ten images taken 5 seconds before disaster...

I was gonna draw 2 more pages for this, of the actual drowning attempt, but I got tired and wanted to post this today so you get a summary of what comes next instead. (Maybe I'll finish drawing it and post it separately another day)

Tsuki and Sora bullied Tetsuo pretty relentlessly till the boys were about 13, when Tsuki took things a step too far and basically tried to drown Tetsuo. Tetsuo fought back, beating both Tsuki and Sora's asses pretty soundly— and catching Haruka's attention in the process.

Seeing Tetsuo fend off the other two made up Haruka's mind, and she declared he'd be her new heir. Which he... didn't actually want to be. Oops!

Sora was pretty effectively scared out of bullying Tetsuo any further, and Tsuki mellowed out a good amount— though he remained mischievous, but that was pretty standard for him.

The blue tint of Tetsuo's skin would fade only some months later as he grew out of his Hoshigaki traits and into his Hatake blood. This also helped to lessen teasing from the other kids, along with the whole "he's the new clan heir now" thing.

Good for him.

The next day Tetsuo is super pissy and sleep deprived while Tsuki is suspiciously smug and well rested. On the bright side, Tetsuo has officially learned his lesson and will now refuse to let Tsuki ever give anyone anything he's drawn ominous spirals on.

As adults, Tetsuo and Tsuki are... fine, honestly. They're friends, in a way. Might even be counted as close— or as close as you can be, with Tsuki.

The fact that Tsuki got himself permanantly posessed by an Uzu spiral demon on that mission gone wrong in Wave doesn't make things as complicated than you'd think. Tetsuo seems to often land himself in the position of acting as Tsuki (and often times Sora's) handler.

I had a few more things I wanted to draw, but ran out of time. I'll probably just try and draw and post it later. No Sora piercing lore, Daisuke introduction post or full Tetsuo drowning comic for you!!! (Yet)

Umm final thoughts:

Tetsuo is doomed to forever be surrounded by maniacs

Early Konoha oc art pt. [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]

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falmerbrook · 1 year ago

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Falmer appearance and attire headcanons

(click on drawings for more details and notes!)

Hair

In Skyrim, we pretty much only see two hair styles to go off of: completely bald and the hair the "shaman" have (which are also the only females we see (a post for another day)).

In concept art, particularly Adam Adamowicz's, we see more potential hairstyles. He draws it as wispy and messy, as well as containing braids and the ties we see in the shaman in the game. This art is largely what defines my own interpretation of their hair.

I picture the typical Falmer hair as wavy, thin, wispy, and looking frizzy. Given the high number of hairless Falmer we see, I imagine baldness is common, particularly among males, and sometimes among females. Their hair can be commonly styled into braids or knots to keep it under control.

The ability to grow long, thick hair is less common, but those who can tend to style it in other unique ways. Especially among females, long hair is commonly styled into large dense locs (akin to a Polish plait) and held into shapes using ropes or leather ties.

(While I think the intention with the way their hair is drawn and modelled in the game models and concept art was that it was braided and held up with those ties, before looking at it closely I always sorta interpreted it as too stiff to just be braided. As a result, I developed the locs headcanon and have become kinda attached to it even though I have 0 in game or lore support for it)

Materials

The material used in their clothing is obviously dependent on what is accessible to them, and given their unique situation that makes the materials they use and value unique as well. In Skyrim, we see that almost all of their armor (which is mostly what we see them wearing) and homes are made of chaurus chitin (and potentially shellbug chitin), so this is likely the most common resource available to them for non-combative coverings as well. Other materials from their arthropods companions could include their cocoons, unhatched eggs, etc.

Bones from other creatures (draugr, skeevers, trolls, adventurers, bandits, etc.) underground or from aboveground raids could also be used fairly often. These could also provide a source of leather or fur, albeit not a lot of it.

Falmer groups and subcultures inside or in close proximity to Dwemer ruins probably make regular use of the materials present in those ruins as well. With all the metal and machinery present in Dwemer ruins, metal probably makes regular appearances in their clothing (and general decorations) even if they can't manipulate it themselves. Falmer more separated from Dwemer ruins would make much lesser use of these materials, however. Additionally, We see implications of Falmer preparing, cooking, and potentially cultivating fungus in-game, but see nothing indicating they have any plants in their diet, and therefore it is unlikely they regularly make or use textiles or fabrics in their clothing, and if they do they likely come form Dwemer ruins or raided adventurers/bandits/settlements from the surface.

On that note, we know that there have supposedly been incidents of Falmer coming to the surface to attack its inhabitants and travelers, as well as instances of them killing bandits, adventurers, and researchers who venture below, so it's not far fetched to believe that they have access to some materials from the surface. This could give them some access to furs from surface animals, beads, glass, jewelry, textiles, metal objects, etc. they might not otherwise have access to. The rarity of these material among the Falmer would depend on the amount of access any given group of Falmer have to the surface, but among many of them these materials could be seen as more valuable for their rarity and the difficulty to gain them.

While gemstones and ore might be accessible from both natural deposits and underground ruins, unless they had some kind of auditory function or unique texture, they might not have much value to Falmer.

General Attire/Accessories

I like to imagine that the Snow Elves, and by extension the Falmer, have an innate cold resistance in the same way Nords do, and therefore don't require clothes for the purpose of warmth even in the chilly caves of Skyrim. Additionally, their blindness likely means that wouldn't dress for visual aesthetic either. My thoughts are that they are then left with the sense of sound and touch to communicate with each other, and their clothing and accessories could reflect that.

Falmer clothing, decoration, and society in general is very heavily based on touch and texture and little on appearances. They touch each other very often for both communication, movement, and just general day-to-day interactions, and their clothes isn’t very modest, but the tactile patterns and materials used can communicate certain things such as position in society, “wealth”/power, whether they are taken, single, pregnant, with a child, etc., their roles, their age, notable achievements/skills, who is who, etc. on both their clothes and buildings. The more noise one makes, the more attention they draw and the more they drown out other noises, and the more noise making things they can “afford” to have, so the amount of noise one makes in a Falmer settlement is a status symbol. Certain types of noises or noise makers are more coveted than others (chitin beads are common, while furs are less common, and materials only gained from raiding the surface are rare and coveted).

Some noise making accessories could include:

Dangling metal, bones, beads, chitin, etc. that hangs off of their clothing or ears and jingle/clank against each other (in my drawing I show them as pretty uniform in shape and size, but they would probably be much more irregular than I depicted them)

Bells (metal or other materials) that are affixed to or dangle off of their clothing or as earrings.

Hollow bracelets, anklets, necklaces, or other accessories that are filled with rocks or beads.

Rattles tied to the body (made of chitin, dried hollow chaurus eggs, dried chaurus cocoons, beads, etc.) with leather or rope.

Flute or whistle like tubes made of metal, chitin, or dried and treated tube-like fungus that makes a woodwind-esque noise when air passes through it in a certain way. They have been designed to make noise easily from even the slightest movements.

Dried grasses (more temporary) tied to the body that make a swishy noise. More permanently, a similar thing can be achieved with hair. The hair can be sourced from Falmer (either through just cutting hair or through taking it from fallen enemies) or killed humans/mer/draugr. That sort of thing can also act as a kind of trophy.

Necklaces with various materials dangling close together that jingle against each other.

Various materials can be tied into braids or the leather ties in their hair as well.

Some textural accessories could include:

Beads. Since they wouldn't have the ability to tell the color of the beads, the patterning of beadwork would be based on the roughness, material, size, or shape of the beads. (I'm sorry I suck as drawing beads)

Furs. This wouldn't be as common since the Falmer likely don't have too much interaction with furry mammals, but some they may have access to that are big enough to make clothing/accessories out of include skeevers or trolls (and potentially rarely animals from the surface). A potential meaning of wearing furs could be as hunting trophies, but it could have other meanings as well.

Chaurus chitin would like be the most common material in Falmer attire, and depending on the part of the chaurus body, the size of the chaurus, or the life stage of the chaurus it was sourced from it could have different textures. Some chitin parts could include large spikes and deep groves, while other parts could be smoother and less rough. The use of this chitin in clothing could take advantage of this contrast in textures. Additionally, chitin or shells from shell bugs might be a different texture from the chaurus chitin. (it's unclear to me whether shell bugs are exclusive to the caves around the Forgotten Vale or if we should consider them distributed throughout Skyrim's underground)

The placement of textured components on the body could have their own meaning to it alongside what accessories or textures are being used.

Specific Falmer Subcultures

While most Falmer settlements we see in Skyrim are just a small-ish collection of huts and chaurus corrals, there are two distinctive settlements that are larger, seemingly more organized, and I like to think have their own distinct subcultures worth mentioning: Blackreach and the Forgotten Vale. The unique scope and environment of these Falmer cities (as I like to think of them) could lend to unique clothing cultures as well.

The Falmer of Blackreach have access to a vast Dwemer settlement and have has the space to spread out throughout it more fully since it seems to be more in tact than other Dwemer ruins we see. These guys would likely have a clothing culture much more heavily based on what the can access from these Dwemer ruins (metal scraps, leftover fabrics, etc.)

The Falmer of the Forgotten Vale would also have access to unique resources, such as Vale deer, Vale sabre cats, and frost giants for fur and leather. Additionally, materials accessed from the Chantry of Auri-El such as textiles from clothing, bedding, tapestries, etc. could give them a greater access to fabrics than other Falmer groups. We don't see many close Dwemer settlements to the Vale, so they would have less Dwemeri influence in their clothing than other Falmer groups.

I like to think that the Falmer's evolution exclusively underground has made them poorly equipped to handle the outdoors during the day and has made them particularly susceptible to sunburn, necessitating the need for covering for those in the Forgotten Vale who have significant settlements outdoors. With greater access to textiles and leather, they could use them as coverings when outdoors.

Armor

I actually have very few notes on armor, for two reasons. 1) I hate designing and drawing armor. It is the bane of my existence. 2) I really like the armor they have in game! I think they look awesome aesthetically, and I like how clearly they are made from chaurus chitin. Per usual, Adam Adamowicz's designs seem to have been the major inspiration for the Falmer armor, and he did a great jobs (even if it isn't the most functional looking armor ever).

(off topic but I also just want to add that he draws them with little hairs and tufts on their ears and I love it. ok that is all)

I do have a few thoughts about armor though.

Even attire made of textiles make noise when someone moves in them, and I can imagine moving around in armor, especially armor made of hard, insect shells would make a lot of noise when someone moves around in it. When you're relying on sound to navigate your environment and pinpoint potential threats or targets, wearing something making a lot of noise would not be ideal. On the other hand, getting into a fight unarmored would be a problem.

So here's my solution: heavy armor (see below) would only be worm within the camps/settlements where noise was already high and space is more cramped (and therefore more risky in a fight) as a sort of guard in case they were attacked. Those guarding the settlements along the outside might still wear armor as well, but less of it. Those going out to scout or hunt (if they do hunt) would wear as little armor as possible, and try to wear it strategically so that it wouldn't rub against itself and make noise. This is why most Falmer we encounter in the game are wearing little except for loin cloths and kneepads.

One more idea I have for armor is a specific armor piece. On the note of guarding or protecting a camp or settlement, I imagine the noises of it all (especially with the noise based headcanons I've laid out here) would make it hard to actually catch any potential threats when you can't see. A large slightly concave piece of armor worn behind the head could block out noises from behind the wearer, as well as a help focus sounds ahead of them.

That is all! Thank you for reading! A lot of these concepts around the culture of sound I think could also be applied to their buildings and even a culture of music, but those are posts for another time.

All of the concept art I used was taken from here and all of the Skyrim screenshots are from UESP.

#skyrim #tes #the elder scrolls #falmer #skyrim headcanon #tes headcanons #headcanon #sorry this is long (but not really)#i just cant express my thoughts like a normal person. college conditioned me to format everything like an essay where i have to provide #sources and shit lol #also im kinda autistic about falmer #i appreciate those of you who read it all!#mine #adam's concept art makes me feel very validated in my echolocation headcanon because its very obvious he references bats in their face #which is another post idea i have for another day #my art

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niuttuc · 1 month ago

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Weird Magic: the Gathering effects: Fourth edition

Starting last year, and on three separate occasions, I've ran polling games listing weird magic the gathering card effects among which hid one fake one, to see how easy it was to figure out. It's time for another!

Like previous instances, this is intended for people who aren't experts at magic and would recognize all the cards instantly, more as entertainment for people outside the game, but I've been told it also works for plenty of actual magic players. There are certainly effects there I didn't know existed in specific before pulling this poll together.

As last time, only the current text of effects is used, not necessarily the one printed on the card. Limited to cards that exist in paper, and are legal to play in at least some tournament formats. Though I did expand in previous polls to text that's part of keyword rules or that's part of the current reminder text on at least one card, and that might apply here as well.

This time some of the cards are less obscure, but I wanted to include them because they're flavorful bits of text. Without further ado...

I will give one bit of context for people who don't play the game at all: your library is what your deck of cards is called while a game is going.

EDIT: the poll is over, time to add the solution under the cut on this message! It is also available in a reblog here, if you prefer that.

First, the Correct answer, and then the rest by order of voting percentage.

Whenever this creature becomes goaded, it fights up to one target creature (35.4%)

This first answer was the correct one, as was recognized by the majority (most of which, I assume, are Magic players who recognized the rest.) It was written as something that makes flavorful sense, and inspired by both Goad and the old mechanic of Provoke using similar meanings. Provoke later evolved into Fighting.

As mentioned, I like this effect, I ended up making a custom card with that mechanic while waiting for the poll to be over, though the wording is slightly different and that won't be in this post.

This creature isn't a creature (17.5%)

This text doesn't appear printed on any card, but it is the current text of Weeping Angel from the Doctor Who set following a templating update of cards to avoid using their own name to refer to themselves, except for legends. Of course, within larger context. I've seen some people guess Gods from Theros as the source of this text, but since they're all legendary, they use their own names still, or a shortened version rather.

This is such a nonsensical line to be on a card that I knew it needed an inclusion here.

Put a +1/+2 counter on target creature. (10.7%)

In the early days of magic, stats-buffing (or stats-reducing) counters weren't relegated to mere +1/+1 and -1/-1 counters. There were some +2/+2, -0/-1, +0/+1 counters and more, and when they mixed it made tracking the size of a creature with them a nightmare, so they stopped doing that. During that time, exactly ONE card, Armor Thrull, was created that put a +1/+2 counters on a creature. Neat and also weird!

Redistribute any number of players’ life totals. (9.1%)

A very unique effect, Reverse the Sands is rarely worth the inclusion in any deck, but it is quite impactful. Printed in a game before commander hit big, expecting two players most of the time, it wasn't that different from other life swapping effects, but with Multiplayer becoming such a big part of the game nowadays, it's fun to have around.

Your devotion to each color and each combination of colors is increased by one. (7.5%)

Devotion is a mechanic found in the ancient greek mythology setting of Theros within magic, caring how deeply you commit yourself to any given colors by encouraging you to play harder-to-cast permanents of that color. In the latest return to Theros, there is one card, Altar of the Pantheon, that has a weird effect of artificially altering your devotion without any cost shenanigans.

If this creature would be destroyed, regenerate it. (5.8%)

Mossbridge Troll has a unique effect of just ALWAYS regenerating for free whenever it would be destroyed, be it by damage or destroy effects. In practice, it's mostly a fancy version of indestructible.

It also allows me to mention Mossbridge Troll from Shadowmoor is the creature associated with Mosswort Bridge from Lorwyn. Each of the five original Hideaway lands in Lorwyn had an associated "awakened" creature in Shadowmoor! Not the most obscure fact, but neat to know about.

Other creatures are Food (3.9%)

A delightfully flavorful (well, except for all the salt) piece of rules text from Ygra here. Everything is Food for the Eater of All.

1/1 named Legitimate Businessperson. (2.9%)

Witness Protection is a pretty normal design, but changing the name of the creature is a really neat touch that just adds a bit of flavor and makes it a card dear to many. It's funny how a small change like that can make a boring common into a card many remember for years to come. It even made its way into the "core" experience of the game through the Foundations expansion later on!

You draw cards from the bottom of your library rather than the top. (2.6%)

Another appearance from Doctor Who, this time with River Song, who has an ability that is pretty flavorful, but in practice doesn't do much, since the cards at the bottom of your library are just as random as the ones on the top. Or are they? It's marginally easier to set up the bottom of your deck than the top of it, and to create loops with that and cards that put stuff back onto the bottom of your deck from your graveyard.

Unfortunately, that easily devolves back into infinite extra turns, which is very flavorful for a time traveler, but generally frowned upon in more social environments.

Whenever another creature you control dies, investigate. (1.9%)

This one isn't that weird, but I wanted to include it for just how flavorful it is to investigate the murder of your creatures. Except of course you're likely the one to be doing the murdering for all those sweet clues. Oops?

This effect does not specify nontoken creatures, which means it's actually quite easy to make bucketloads of clues with it. Or an infinity, if you turn your clues into creatures themselves, so be wary of that because it's easy to end up in an infinite loop you can't stop, which causes the game to end in a draw, drowned in clues.

Protection from everything (1.6%)

Protection from everything has appeared on a few cards, but the most iconic (though not the most played, that'd be Teferi's Protection), is Progenitus, the first to feature it. A giant creature that's almost impossible to cast and can't be cheated into play from the graveyard, Progenitus has impressed many a player!

Unfortunately, it's both clunky to actually use and not immune to everything. While EVERYTHING does mean everything, Protection has a relatively narrow definition in the game rules, and Magic is a game where very specific rules matter. Getting rid of a Progenitus is difficult, but far from impossible. Any effect that blankets destroys or exiles all creatures will remove it just as easily as everything else.

Venture into the dungeon. (1%)

Venture into the Dungeon was one of the main mechanics for the first D&D set Magic has done, Adventures in the Forgotten Realms. They revisited it later on in the second with a slight variation. While flavorful, the mechanic involved a lot of extra baggage involving having three extra Dungeon cards to pick from each with several abilities and to plan a trip through them and... It ended up seeing just a little bit of play, and not being the designers' best work, even if it had a LOT of flavor.

Thank you for participating and reading through all this! See you in the fifth edition if I ever put it together!

#mtg #magic #the gathering #polls #tcg #game design #not really #a few iconic cards in there #but it's also for non-magic players to see some of the weird stuff #Honestly I kinda want to make a custom card out of the fake one #Maybe once the poll is over #someone remind me

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elaine19day · 7 months ago

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Alright guys, I'm here today to address the pictures of the alleged 'new merch' that had been circling around in the English fandom for a few days. See how I said 'English fandom'? Because nobody really addressed it on weibo and XHS yet… at least not to that extent. (Sorry, I have seen these screencaps on tumblr, insta, X and discord, and I have no idea who originally took them, I don't claim to have taken those screenshots, merely providing them here so you know what I'm talking about.)

So what happened? A few days ago a random shop on taobao created new listings that offered a new series of badges and prints/acrylics - not just featuring the 4 main boys, but also He Cheng, Qiu, She Li and… Cun Tou…..?! Now let's take a moment and sit back and think about this for a while. First of all: Why would a random shop that's NOT affiliated with mosspaca in any way post new 'official' merchandise? (Because we can see there's the mosspaca copyright writing on the badges and acrylics, just like it used to be on the previous badge series) Why would this random shop post these things while neither OldXian herself nor her boss, moss, have posted or announced anything via weibo/XHS? Don't you think this is sort of fishy? You don't find this strange, you don't question that at all? Sure, some people said: It's leaked and it will be available on the upcoming signing event on the 29th which OX announced on her weibo. Sure. There is a possibility, of course. They could have a leak in mosspaca studio and some person got their hands on some undisclosed merch and decided to make bank by making a new shop and listing the items for pre-order, hoping they could cash in. NOT a smart choice if you wanna keep your job because such incidents get investigated thoroughly and we all know by now that moss himself is very strict about these things and already has taken legal action against shops before when they sell fake merch as official merch. The other possibility? Old Xian's apple account has been hacked by an outsider and then the same scenario as before applies - that person wanted to cash in before it officially releases.

Now. How has OX handled merchandise before? It was always announced before an event and sometimes even months(!) in advance when they were pre-order items. Also. Have you ever seen Old Xian making merch for Cheng, Qiu, She Li and Buzzcut? Sure, the first 3 have been on some old postcards way back in the day, plus they are depicted in some of the artbooks, okay. But actual merch with them separately? The last badge series had a very limited special edition button with He Cheng. That was super rare. And now OX suddenly makes merch of the 2 adults, plus She Li AND Buzzcut, who's a minor character which barely makes an appearance? (Sorry, Buzzcut fans, not trying to be mean, just wanting to drive home the point that OX creating merch of him is highly unlikely - unfortunately.)

So what can we take home from all the stuff I just pointed out? Yep, there is a high chance that this is not official. It might be fake merch, sold by a random person who used generative AI tools and editing skills to create these things. I mean, sure, some of the pictures look highly convincing, I give you that. But then again, there are fanartists out there who can perfectly mimic Old Xian's style and edit/draw the boys in new poses that make it seem 'real' and official. But then there's THIS. Please take a close look at the way the faces are 'drawn', the way that the eyes are sort of smudged, same as some of the abs, the way Mo's face is contorted in a weird angle, the way the hands look chunky and unreal, and so on. (click on image to enlarge it and see it in more detail)

Weird, right? Well, it's a very common, typical thing for pictures that are generated with free AI tools. Everyone who has tried one or the other and has fcked around with one of those tools out of curiosity will notice.

Also - have you noticed the sheer AMOUNT of things posted from this one random seller? 10 different badges, 12 different long bookmarks (acrylic boards?), 4 couple cards, plus a LOT of other random new things which all feature very old panels from the manhua… When has Old Xian ever released SO MUCH merch at once? Yep. Never. Plus the re-using of old pictures for new merch? Also doesn't make much sense. And there's a lot of the older illustrations being used for these supposed new things here.

So if you take all of this into account, you might conclude that someone is tryna pull your leg here, selling fake merch disguised as official by even slapping the logo onto it to make it more convincing and mimicking how it looked the last time around. Of course - there might be the odd chance that mosspaca suddenly took a 180° turn and completely changed their modus operandi and decided to do things completely different compared to before and that it was leaked after all and meant as a surprise for the new autograph event etc etc etc. Yep. There's a chance that all this is true after all. But there's also a chance that I step out of my house tomorrow and an airplane crashes onto my head. Of course, that chance is *extremely* small. But the chance is there… So there you have it. All I'm asking you here, is to take a moment to think it through logically when you see these things online. And that you don't instantly believe everything that other people post who are always so eager to spread false information just for the sake of stirring up the fandom without ever taking the time to verify their sources. (No, I'm NOT taking a jab at anyone here who posted/reposted these pictures and was confused and/or asked about it. I was just as puzzled as you guys. But I am criticizing those who post it and announce that it's definitely new, official merchandise…) In conclusion: Might be true, but chances are very slim, all things considered. Let's wait until Tuesday when the event takes place and keep an eye on weibo and XHS - let's see which pictures the CN fandom will post when showing their autographs. Then you can check if there's new merch present. If not - well, then it's pretty safe to say that this was definitely fake. (And if this turns out to be real after all, I will make a follow-up post, regarding the AI-looking faces. But you might not like that 'lore' so I will not mention it for now, to prevent possible drama.)

#19 days #old xian #mosspaca #tianshan #mo guan shan #he tian #zhanyi #zhan zheng xi #jian yi #he cheng #brother qiu #buzzcut #cun tou #she li #merchandise

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writer-fennec · 2 months ago

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The 141 and stationery:

Ghost:

Has a skeleton themed notebook that has clearly seen better days, but it has many tiny stylized mini colored skulls and it was gifted from Soap

Has a bic pen, the orange ones and lost the cap. Is somehow able to finish his pens before losing them and has a box of like 50 bic pens, all arange with blue caps and all in a drawer in his desk

Uses the most basic looking normal black and yellow HB pencils, those in a box oflike 10 at a time you find for half the price in september and almost always finishes his pencils when they are almost still big enough to be used but unusable for his comfort (big hands problems)

To organize his notes he just puts paper scotch over the thing and writes with a pencil what it is. Then when he needs to hand it out he carefully removes it and heands it to Price (sometimes there are slightly ruined edges, but nothing like a paper shredded in half)

Soap

Has at least four notebooks, one for actual work, one for quick sketches, one with which he can go on OPs because its really small and easy to hide in a tac vest and on for journaling or just stupid ideas and reminders

Has some spring pens and some normal ones, has a fountain pen he mainly uses for inking his drawings when he actually puts effort in them, sometimes he just steals some of those he finds on the ground (usually Kyle's), when he goes into an art supply sho he has to stop himself from buying the whole inking section because some of those inkingpens have such small tips that he could draw such small details that he would need a magnifying glass to see them

Has a couple of old but still functioning mecanichal pencils that he loves to this day (neat and precise lines and lineart with no ink) and a whole set of varying hardness (4B to 4H) so he knows how to do his shading pretty well

To organise his notes he uses coloured metal clips, sometimes post-its, usually he categorizes his work by colour of the metal clip+ position of the metal clip (let him ADHD without judging, he is a little undiagnosed baby) and sometimes makes little butterfly origami to pit on the edges in case something is really important or he needs extra instructions on that paper

Gaz:

Has a couple of notebooks, one for work one for personal reminders and stuff like that, usually they are monochrome and colours that are similar (ex turquoise and teal) so he can go around with one or the other and nobody will ask a thing since those colours in different lighting's look similar

Spring pens, normal pens (usually bic) and also some fountain pens are his most used, uses them in different contexts and usually one of the most organised people you can find with his stationary

Has one (1) mechanical pencil that is cheap plastic but surprisingly it matches his notebooks and uses normal HB pencils (sometimes you might find him use IKEA pens and he will deny even knowing that IKEA gives out free pencils) probably has some variability in hardness but just and F and and H1 for the sake of having a different feeling on the paper every once in a while

To organise his notes he uses post it's and coloured semi-trasperent small sticky notes, he is one of the best organised ones and also one of the few actually able to find what he searching for

Price:

Has one BIG notebook where he keeps everything all at once, he can't bother buying the smaller ones (because their surface you can write/£ per surface ratio is not as good) but sometimes he gets a small one to take notes while on an OP

Has one fountain pen for important documents and the rest are plastic transparent bic or other types of normal ink pen, surprisingly has also some water resistant pens

Doesn't even bother with mechanical pencils, good old wood (may or may not have stolen some lf Ghost's pencils), has 2 hardnesses (HB and 2B) he uses them regularly and knows when to use each

Organizer? Price? Yeah, he keeps everything separed in folders in his office and classified inside his mind, that man knows everything in his office by heart

What would you add?

@bone-trash what would you add?

Ghost's notebook for those wondering:)

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gamerbot-22 · 3 months ago

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Spending Valentine's Day with the Trigang!

GIF by the-princess-cinnamon

TW/CW: Written with a combination of traits from across Trigun versions, written with the idea that they and reader are in a relationship (separately), lots of pet names!!! (Mayfly, Angel, Honey, Sweetheart), I am aiming to make y'all's teeth rot on how sweet these are, barely proofread and I appreciate spellchecks!

Characters Included: Vash the Stampede, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Meryl Stryfe, Milly Thompson, Millions Knives/Nai

Recommended Listening: my love, mine all mine . a short playlist

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I hope you all are having a wonderful day, whether you have a partner to spend it with, a friend, or just your lovely self <3

Likes and Reblogs appreciated (reblogs > likes) and Requests are Open! It’s all under the cut!

Dividers in this post were made by @/strangergraphics ☆

🥀 Vash the Stampede

GIF by kvroko

He is the most lovesick man in the world on this day, let me tell you.

You wake up and see him in bed next to you just absolutely whipped. He wraps an arm around your waist and nuzzles in close and his first words are "Happy Valentine's, Mayfly..." before just drowning you in kisses.

Originally the plan was he would get up and make you breakfast in bed but he got all caught up in being close to you. So you're making breakfast together! It turns out nice, even if you two struggle to get it right.

There's not really flowers on Gunsmoke, but he knows what they look like. So you get a drawing of all sorts of flowers, with meanings only half-remembered from books he used to pour over as a kid.

If you got him anything it takes all of his effort not to fall apart on you. (Please get him something sweet, he deserves it!!)

He wants to take you dancing so baaaad. Like serious bad. There is nothing he loves more than getting to just be close to you and spin you around.

Vash spends all day trying to find a place to take you dancing, but it's a little hard to do that when you're an outlaw and an outlaw's partner. The effort is there but it just doesn't pan out.

But you know? There's something special about slow dancing with Vash by the fire out in the desert while he hums a song to you under the stars <333

🍭 Nicholas D. Wolfwood

GIF by mine-loves

I don't think Valentine's Day had been on his radar in a very very long time, so it's probably either day of or immediately upon waking up where he realizes "Oh shit, I need to do something--"

You're about halfway through the morning thinking that you're not getting anything from him when he nearly goes ass over teakettle rushing over to you. He has a half-crushed box of sweets in one hand and a bottle of something bubbly in the other and the most embarrassed look on his face.

He mumbles out a "Sorry, Angel, I almost forgot--" and holds both gifts out to you with his head bowed, like a shy kid or a nervous dog. But you take them in your hands and give him a kiss on the cheek and he doesn't feel as bad.

You two end up sharing, and while the sweets and drinks might be cheap, the time isn't. Hell, maybe you two even end up feeding each other like those sappy couples in those newspaper ads.

He's not a man of flowery words, but he did learn a lot about the saints as a kid. I don't think Wolfwood would frame it as a gift or anything, but when there's a quiet moment he tells you the story of St. Valentine if you're willing to listen.

"He used to perform weddin's for people 'n secret," he tells you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders. "People weren't too big on the Man Upstairs back in the day, so what he was doin' was pretty dangerous. Didn't stop him, though. Or the people he married."

Then he turns his head away from you to save some face. He doesn't want to put too many ideas in either of your heads, but... the idea is kinda nice. For the future.

Once he gets past the nerves though, you get all the kisses you could want. From the crown of your head to your eyelids to your cheeks to your lips. He has a new favorite holiday <333

📸 Meryl Stryfe

GIF by mine-loves

"Ah, honey! My birthday was yesterday! You already got me a gift; you didn't have to get me anything, really!"

She says that, but honestly she's really happy that you would go out of her way to give her a gift a second day in a row. Like! You didn't have to!! But you did!!!

So she takes it and gives you a kiss and when she pulls away her face is so pink. It's precious, and with her soft cheeks she looks a bit like a sweet all on her own.

And you get such a nice gift in turn. I think she's the type to get you something to wear or decorate yourself with, so she gives you this really beautiful pendant on a chain to wear either around your neck or wrapped tight around your wrist.

She also does her damndest to have a nice dinner reservation lined up, if you're in a part of Gunsmoke that allows. She wants to get all dolled up with you and just have a nice evening in whatever luxury an insurance agent/newspaper reporter's salary can get you.

And after dinner, if you still have energy, maybe you can go to a show together! Surely somebody has to be doing something on a stage nearby, right? And if they serve food too, you can share a dessert while you listen.

I think you two end up at a comedy show and have a great time, either laughing until your sides get sore or sharing some amused-if-sympathetic if the person on stage is floundering.

By the end of the night, Meryl's pretty beat and ready to just prop herself up in bed with you. I don't think she even makes it out of her clothes, she just lays her head on your chest and drifts off on the spot <333

💼 Milly Thompson

Breakfast! In! Bed! For! Her! Sweetheart!!!

You get the absolute gentlest wake-up call. She puts her hand on your shoulder, kisses your temple, and chimes "Good morning, sweetheart! Happy Valentine's!"

While you eat she gives you her big plan for the day: Nothing! She just wants to stay in with you and relax all day. And she seems so genuinely excited for that it's nigh impossible to tell her no, especially when she assures you that she still has special things to do in mind.

Once you're both ready to be up and out of bed, she gets the radio tuned to you guys' favorite music station so there's a nice backdrop to all your activities.

Then you spend the whole day just. Making things together. Poetry, stories, silly songs for just the two of you, and all the while there's that lovely music playing and a batch of cookies in the oven for later.

And once the cookies are done and cooled, it's time to ice them! You have so much fun mixing colours and making all these pretty patterns that look absolutely nothing like the book you're using for reference.

At first, Milly is a little upset she's not as good as the pictures, but you help her realized two very important things: no one else could make patterns exactly like she is, and they'll taste delicious either way!

Your evening is spent feeding each other cookies and going over all the things you've made together, and when you kiss each other goodnight you both taste like icing <333

🔪 Millions Knives/Nai

WE'RE PLAYING IN THE SPACE HE'S HERE TOO!! Nai lovers I see you and I love you!!! /p You deserve some time with your man on the holiday, too!

I don't think he would really mention the holiday or observe it in any special way, but like...

If he's playing his piano and you come in and be quiet, he won't stop. Even when he sees you sitting on the floor or leaning against the piano out of the corner of his eyes.

He has that one piece he plays all of the time, Visitation of a Calamity/Memory of a Piano, but it's not the only one he knows. After he's finished with that one for this bout of practice, he shifts into another one.

It's calming by some definition. It's still very powerful, and it reverberates off the ceiling and in your ribs, but it doesn't feel like the usual posturing that the other piece evokes.

It's sweeping still, but less a torrent and more a breeze that catches the folds of your clothes and the air from your lungs. It feels a little like flying, you think.

He doesn't say a word to you until he finishes the suite, then without even looking at you, he asks "Is there something you needed me for?"

And I mean... is there? <333

#Rosie Writes #Vash the Stampede #Nicholas D. Wolfwood #Meryl Stryfe #Milly Thompson #Millions Knives #Nai #Trigun #Trigun Fluff #Trigun headcanons #Trigun x Reader #Vash x Reader #Wolfwood x Reader #Meryl x Reader #Milly x Reader #Millions Knives x Reader #Nai x Reader #Gender Neutral Reader #Valentine's Day Headcanons

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fluff-n-cookies · 4 months ago

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DABI Warmup

Note: I haven't written in a hot minute, just a warm up to get back into the flow of things. This post is a platonic x reader.

Dabi is Reader's father, Reader has blue eyes like his. No use of Y/N

For those who don’t know, this post is related to these

Pt 1, Pt 2

---

Civiliains are silly, fickle little things.

They're ignorant, that's what they are. those were Dabi's, well, Touya's, exact thoughts as he smoked on the balcony. the cool night air stung at his bare arms and seeped into the fabric of his pajama shirt. it didn't matter much though, not when the bustling streets of Yokohama are still wide awake.

He chuckled at his own thoughts, a chuckle then turned into a strangled cough. Damn lungs.

He couldn't be the one to think of such things though, it wasn't right for him to belittle others for remaining ignorant when he himself had his own little civilian daughter who he had been keeping in ignorant bliss for her whole life.

He cannot be the one to talk when he had intentionally refused to talk about heroes with her, or even speak of his day at work with the league. he would immediately change the topic of conversation the moment it turned to heroes and villains.

Dabi flicked his cigarette over the side of the balcony, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweat pants to see what his daughter was doing.

she had fallen asleep on the couch, elephant stuffie in hand, curled up under her favorite blanket. the My Neighbor Totoro one that was only 2 USD at their regular thrift shop.

she was a toddler by now, she had been watching him smoke on the balcony to give into his nicotine addiction since birth at this point. he would always set her down on the couch with a cartoon on and a bunch of stolen toys so she wouldn't get bored. he would then watch her from the other side of the glass sliding door that separated the balcony and living room.

it always felt a tad bit wrong though, to leave her alone like that, but addiction calls, it's hard to resist, I guess.

You know what's sillier than civilians? being a father.

it means having to wake up at the butt crack of dawn to get your daughter dressed and ready. I means having to help her choose the dress she wants to wear today and then consoling her when she can't choose, gets to overwhelmed, and cries until you bribe her with ice cream.

it means stashing her school pictures and drawings in a little shoe box under the sink because you don't have the heart to throw them away and you can't afford anyone suspecting you have a daughter if they see her picture in your stolen wallet.

it means downloading Disney and Studio Ghibli movies from a pirating website for movie night the next day. despite knowing full damn well that she'll probably fall asleep half way through and never bother to finish the movie.

Silly, so silly.

so silly and so fun to be able to ignore the pain and suffering in this world and just focus on helping her finish math homework. (the first question was 2 + 3) and then making her favorite food for dinner because she got an A+ on her spelling test.

Maybe being a civilian isn't all that bad.

---

Tags ; @red4-0 @likethegardenyk @suktoru @blurryperrtymoonlight @harkenizalone @lostiolite @rllytriedrn @mellyxqz @cupkiki @xxnessinessiellexx @dehlieee @mossysoup @ijwsbdinp @byul9158 @suksatoru @ssetsuka @savatar-de-mordor @justanotherweeb666 @frog-fans-unite

figured you guys might like some updates.

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mrs-delaney · 1 month ago

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Hide | Vegas Rules | Chapter Eight. One

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

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

A Few Quick Notes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poll Link

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

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

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

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

Most, but not all.

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

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

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

Joe hesitated, then typed simply-

Joe: Miss you too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Joe gave him a sidelong glance. "And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," Mark admitted. "Not yet. But—"

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

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

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

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

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

Joe: Definite upgrade. Those actually look edible.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The observation hung in the air, uncomfortably perceptive.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riley frowned slightly. "Because of me?"

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

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

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

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

"Sounds technical," Joe observed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

His phone chimed with a text from Riley.

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

Joe responded immediately.

Joe: I'll be here.

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

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

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

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

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

"The album's coming along, though?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll send it back."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somewhere along the way, the conversation stopped being careful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

"Shoot."

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

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

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

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

"It's complicated," he finally said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

So why did it still sting?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he say that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It never is, but come on—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ja’Marr sighed. “Then go fix it.”

Joe didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

Riley stood in the hallway, one shoulder leaning casually against the doorframe. She wore an oversized Iron Maiden tee, soft and faded with age, the kind of shirt that had clearly lived a few lives before ending up in her closet. It hung loosely over black leggings, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and her scuffed white sneakers looked like they’d carried her through more than one impulsive night. A fuzzy leopard-print tote hung off one shoulder, absurdly cozy against the rest of her edge. Her hair was pulled into a loose, effortless bun, a few strands falling around her face in the kind of way that looked accidental but perfect. She smelled like vanilla and something warm—maybe sandalwood, maybe just her—and it hit Joe like muscle memory, yanking him straight back to Cincinnati.

"Hey," she said, her voice neutral but her blue eyes sharp, assessing.

"Hey," Joe replied, stepping back to let her in. "Thanks for coming."

“Nice place,” she said quietly, eyes moving across the room. “Kind of cold. But you make it feel less like that.”

There was an edge to her tone that hadn't been there in Cincinnati or New Orleans, a careful distance that felt foreign after the easy intimacy they'd shared.

"How was your flight?" Joe asked, moving toward the minibar. "Water? Or something stronger?"

"Water's fine," Riley replied, setting her bag on a side table. She didn't sit, instead moving to the window to look out at the view. “Flight was good. Andy spent most of it critiquing the liquor selection, but what else is new.”

Joe filled two glasses with water and brought one to her, careful to maintain some space between them as he handed it over. Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, and he felt the familiar spark of connection despite the tension hanging in the air.

"So," Riley said after taking a sip, her eyes meeting his over the rim of the glass, "Vegas."

"Vegas," Joe agreed, unsure how to navigate this new, careful version of them. He set his untouched water down on a nearby table. "This feels weird."

Riley's lips curved in a small, sad smile. "What does?"

"This," Joe gestured between them. "Us being so... formal with each other. It's not us."

"And what is 'us', exactly?" Riley asked, setting her glass down with deliberate care. "Because I've been trying to figure that out for a week, and I'm still coming up empty."

The directness of the question was pure Riley, cutting through his careful defenses with unsettling accuracy. Joe ran a hand through his hair, buying time.

"I didn't handle the Vegas thing well," he admitted finally. "When you mentioned being here the same weekend. I was focusing on all the ways it could go wrong instead of just... being glad to see you."

Riley's expression softened slightly. "And how do you feel now? About me being here?"

"Glad," Joe said without hesitation. "Relieved, actually. The distance this past week—the texts that felt like we were strangers, the phone calls where we both pretended everything was fine—I hated it."

"Me too," Riley admitted, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "But it wasn't just about Vegas, Joe. It was about what it revealed."

Joe knew she was right, but hearing it spoken aloud made his chest tighten. "Which was?"

"That you want me in your life, but only on your terms. In controlled environments where you don't have to worry about what anyone else might think or say." Riley's voice was even, not accusatory but matter-of-fact. "And I'm not sure I can be that for you—this separate, hidden piece of your life that doesn't touch anything else."

Joe took a step toward her, unable to maintain the physical distance between them any longer. "That's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?" Riley challenged, her blue eyes intense. "Because I've been trying to figure it out, and I still don't know."

The question hung between them, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex. Joe looked at her—really looked at her—and felt the familiar constriction in his chest. She'd somehow worked her way into parts of his life he'd always kept carefully separate, and that terrified him as much as it exhilarated him.

Joe took a step toward her, unable to maintain the physical distance between them any longer. The space between them felt charged, dangerous—like the moment before a blitz, when everything slows down and speeds up simultaneously.

"I want you," he said, the words rough with honesty. "But I don't know how to do this, Riley. How to balance what's happening between us with everything else."

She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, like the words needed somewhere to land.

“That’s the thing, Joe, there is no perfect balance. Life is messy. Relationships are messy." She gestured between them. "This is messy. And you can't control it, no matter how hard you try."

Her words hit uncomfortably close to the truth. Control had always been Joe's foundation—in football, in his public image, in his private life. Riley represented a disruption to that control, a beautiful chaos he both craved and feared.

"I know," he admitted quietly. "And that scares me."

Riley took a step closer, close enough that he could see the flecks of darker blue in her irises. “It scares me too. After Ethan, I swore I wouldn’t let anyone close enough to hurt me again.” She glanced down for a second, her voice quieter now. “But then you happened.”

Joe reached for her hand, relieved when she didn't pull away. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "That's the last thing I want."

"I know," Riley said, her fingers finally curling around his. "But you might. And I might hurt you too. That's the risk."

Joe nodded slowly, understanding what she wasn't saying. There were no guarantees, no perfect game plans for this. Just two people trying to navigate something neither had expected.

"So what happens now?" he asked. "We're both here in Vegas. Do we just... figure it out as we go?"

Riley studied him, something unreadable in her expression. "Maybe. But I need to know that you're actually trying, Joe. That you're not just going to pretend you don't know me if we run into each other at the fight tomorrow."

"I would never do that," Joe said firmly.

"Wouldn't you?" Riley challenged, though her tone held more sadness than anger. "Because it feels like that's exactly what you've been doing—keeping me separate, compartmentalized, away from your real life."

Joe wanted to argue, to defend himself, but the truth in her words stopped him. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hand, drawing her slightly closer. "I'm trying," he said, offering what he could. "I know that's not enough, but it's the truth."

Riley nodded slowly, a mix of emotions crossing her face. "At least that's honest." She gently extracted her hand from his. "I should go. Pete and Andy are waiting for me. We have dinner plans."

Joe felt a flicker of panic at the thought of her leaving with so much still unresolved between them. "When will I see you again?"

"I don't know," Riley said, retrieving her bag from the side table. "Maybe at the fight tomorrow. Maybe after."

The uncertainty in her voice twisted something in Joe's chest. This wasn't how he'd imagined their conversation would go.

"This isn't what I wanted," he said quietly as she moved toward the door.

Riley turned back to him, her expression softening slightly. "What did you want?"

Joe closed the distance between them, unable to maintain the space any longer. "I wanted to fix this. Whatever's been off between us since that call."

"Some things can't be fixed with one conversation, Joe," Riley said gently. "Some things take time. And maybe more than we've been willing to give."

She reached for the door, but Joe caught her arm, turning her back to face him. The tension between them had shifted, electric in a different way now. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the air heavy with everything still unsaid.

Then Riley made a small sound—something between frustration and surrender—and closed the remaining distance between them. Her hands came up to frame his face, and before Joe could process what was happening, she was kissing him.

Unlike their previous kisses, this one wasn't tentative or sweet. It was hungry, almost desperate, as if Riley was trying to convey through touch what words had failed to express. Joe responded instantly, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her closer, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair.

The kiss deepened, months of tension and connection pouring into a single moment that felt both like a reunion and a goodbye. Riley pressed herself against him, her body familiar yet somehow new in the intensity of this embrace.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Riley's eyes were dark, her lips slightly swollen. She took a step back, her hand coming up to touch her mouth briefly.

"Just so you don't forget what you're risking," she said softly, her voice a little unsteady. "While you're trying to figure out what this is."

Before Joe could respond, she was out the door, leaving him alone with the lingering taste of her on his lips and the unsettling awareness that for the first time in his life, he had no playbook for what came next.

* * *

The hostess led Joe, Ja'Marr, and two of their friends through the crowded restaurant at the Cosmopolitan. The place was buzzing with fight weekend energy, exactly the Vegas atmosphere they'd come for.

"This spot is perfect," Ja'Marr said, scanning the crowd. "Good call coming here."

Joe nodded, but his attention had already locked onto a booth across the restaurant. Riley sat there, surrounded by friends, laughing at something the wild-haired guy next to her had said. She wore a simple black dress that left her shoulders bare, her hair swept up elegantly. The sight of her – vibrant, relaxed, in her element – made his chest tighten.

What caught his attention more was how close she sat to the lanky guy with black hair. He had his arm draped casually behind her on the booth, leaning in to speak directly into her ear. The familiarity in their body language was unmistakable.

"Mr. Burrow, your table is right—" The hostess stopped when she realized Joe wasn't listening.

"Joe?" Ja'Marr followed his line of sight. "Oh, your girl's here."

Joe nodded, still watching as Riley playfully shoved the guy away from her, laughing at whatever he'd said.

"Let's go say hi," Joe decided, looking at Ja'Marr and their friends.

"I'm down," Ja'Marr agreed immediately, always ready to be social. "Might as well see what's got you so distracted."

Their other friends, Mike and Derrick, nodded in agreement, curious about the woman who'd caught Joe's attention.

As they made their way across the restaurant toward Riley's table, Joe felt a flutter of nervousness that had nothing to do with approaching strangers and everything to do with seeing Riley after their tense conversation earlier.

"Don't look now, but Joe is heading this way," Pete said under his breath, reaching for his drink.

Riley had already spotted Joe coming toward them with Ja'Marr and two other guys. Despite everything, her pulse quickened. She hadn't expected him to approach them – not after how they'd left things in his suite.

"This should be interesting," Haley murmured, subtly adjusting her position to better observe the approaching quarterback.

"Who's Joe?" Dom asked, arm still casually draped behind Riley on the booth.

"The guy I told you about," Riley answered quickly. "The quarterback."

"Right, the American football one," Dom nodded, though his expression suggested this meant little to him. "The serious bloke."

Before Riley could respond, Joe reached their table with his friends. Up close, the contrast between him and her crew was even sharper—Joe in a crisp t-shirt and black jacket, dark jeans that fit just right. Composed, understated. Dom beside her was all colorful chaos in a patterned suit and platform boots.

"Hey," Joe said, his eyes finding hers before briefly scanning the table.

"Hey yourself," Riley replied, surprised by how naturally her smile came. "Didn't know you'd be here tonight."

“Didn’t know you’d be here either,” he said. “Good timing, I guess.” He gestured to his companions. "This is Ja'Marr, Mike, and Derrick."

Ja'Marr stepped forward with an easy smile, extending his hand to Riley. "Nice to finally meet you. Joe's been completely useless at conversation since we landed in Vegas."

Riley laughed, immediately warming to his straightforward charm. "Glad to know I'm not the only one he's been distracted around."

"I just wanted to come say hi," Joe said, his eyes returning to Riley. "Didn't mean to interrupt your dinner."

"You're not interrupting," Riley assured him. "Joe, these are my friends," she said, gesturing around the table. "Pete and Andy from the band, my friend Haley, and this is Dominic and Colson."

Dom extended his hand, flashing his characteristic wide smile. "Dominic Harrison. Pleasure."

Joe shook his hand with a nod. "Joe Burrow."

"Burrow?" Colson leaned forward with sudden interest. "The Cincinnati quarterback? Man, that Super Bowl game was insane."

Joe nodded, clearly used to being recognized. "That's me."

"Impressive," Colson said, studying Joe with new respect.

Riley noticed Joe's eyes flick briefly to Dom's arm, still draped casually behind her on the booth. She shifted slightly, creating a small but deliberate space between herself and Dom.

"You here for the fight tomorrow?" Pete asked, addressing Joe and his friends.

"Yeah, can't wait," Ja'Marr answered enthusiastically. "Should be epic."

"We'll be there too," Riley said. "Ringside seats."

"No way," Ja'Marr responded with genuine enthusiasm. "We're ringside too. First row."

"Same." Andy added. "Perks of the job, I guess."

"Sounds like we'll be seeing each other tomorrow then," Joe said with a small smile.

The prospect hung between them, tentative but hopeful. Riley found herself nodding. "Looking forward to it."

With a final nod to the group, Joe and his friends returned to their table. Riley felt everyone's eyes on her as she took a long sip of her drink.

"So that's the quarterback," Haley said, a hint of approval in her voice. "He's got that whole strong, silent thing going on."

"His friends seem cool," Pete offered.

"That Ja'Marr guy is definitely cool," Haley agreed. "Very charming."

Dom leaned in, his voice low enough that only Riley could hear. "He didn't much like me having my arm around you."

Riley gave him a warning look. "Don't start."

"I'm just saying," Dom continued with a mischievous grin, "man definitely has feelings for you. The way he looked at me—if looks could kill..."

Riley rolled her eyes, though she'd noticed it too – that flash of something possessive in Joe's eyes when he'd first approached.

"Ancient history, you and me," Dom said, reading her expression. "But he doesn't know that, does he?"

"It's not relevant," Riley said firmly.

Dom raised his hands in surrender, but his grin remained. "Whatever you say, love."

The conversation moved on, but Riley found her attention repeatedly drawn to Joe's table across the restaurant. Once or twice, she caught him looking back at her, their eyes meeting briefly before both looked away.

After their third round of drinks, Riley stood up. "I'm going to the restroom," she announced, needing a moment away from the group's scrutiny and her own conflicted thoughts.

"Want company?" Haley offered.

"I'm good," Riley replied, grabbing her small purse. "Be right back."

As she wound her way through the crowded restaurant, Riley felt a strange mix of emotions. Joe's gesture tonight had surprised her – it was a small step, but an important one. Yet their fundamental issue remained unresolved. The question of whether they could bridge their different worlds, different needs, still hung between them.

She pushed open the door to the restroom, grateful to find it relatively empty. Leaning against the counter, Riley took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. But all she could think about was Joe – the guarded hope in his eyes when he'd mentioned seeing her at the fight, the unmistakable tension when he'd seen her with Dom.

* * *

From his table, Joe watched as Riley disappeared down the hallway to the restrooms, the sway of her hips drawing more than just his attention. The colorful-haired musician—Dom—watched her go with a familiarity that made Joe's jaw clench.

"You gonna sit there staring after her all night?" Ja'Marr's voice cut through his thoughts.

"What? No," Joe replied, turning back to their conversation, though his focus remained elsewhere.

“Man, you know you want to,” Ja’Marr said with a knowing grin. “Just go already.”

Joe hesitated only briefly before standing, surprising himself with the decision. The Joe Burrow the world knew—disciplined, methodical, controlled—didn't follow women to bathrooms in Vegas restaurants. But the Joe Burrow sitting here, watching another man touch Riley with casual intimacy, wasn't feeling particularly disciplined or controlled.

Joe hesitated only briefly before standing up. "I'll be back."

As he walked toward the hallway where Riley had disappeared, Joe wasn't entirely sure what he planned to say. Their earlier conversation in his suite had ended with more questions than answers. But seeing her tonight, surrounded by her friends, so vibrant and alive, had crystalized something for him.

He wasn't ready to let her go. Not without at least trying to figure out what this was between them.

With that thought in mind, Joe rounded the corner into the hallway, determined to find some resolution – or at least a path forward – before the night was over.

Riley stood at the marble sink, letting the cold water run over her wrists, a trick she'd learned years ago to cool down when her mind was racing. The bathroom was mercifully empty—one of those ridiculously opulent Vegas restrooms with plush seating areas and soft lighting.

The door opened behind her. She glanced up at the mirror, expecting another patron, but instead saw Joe's reflection. Their eyes locked in the glass, and something in his expression made her pulse quicken.

Without a word, Joe reached behind him and turned the lock.

"Women's bathroom," Riley said, turning to face him. Not a question, not a protest—just a statement of fact.

"I don't care," Joe replied, his voice low and intent as he crossed the space between them.

There was something different about him—a rawness she'd never seen before, the carefully maintained composure completely gone. Joe Burrow looked like a man who'd made a decision and was done overthinking it.

“Looked like you were real close with that guy." Joe said, stopping just inches from her.

"With Dom?" Riley raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"

Joe stopped just in front of her, close but not touching. His voice was low.

“You and him. What’s the deal?”

Riley tilted her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He glanced toward the lounge behind them, jaw tight. “He had his hands on you like it wasn’t the first time.”

She let out a quiet breath. “You jealous?”

“I’m asking.” His eyes didn’t move from hers. “How well does he know you?”

Riley blinked, her mouth tightening just slightly. “Why does it matter?”

Joe’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look away.

“Because I fucked up this week,” he said, the words quieter than she expected. “And you’ve put space between us ever since.” He shook his head, almost like he was tired of himself. “You barely text back. You dodge calls. And now you’re here, looking at someone else like it’s easier.”

She didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait.

“Because I feel like I’m already losing you,” Joe said, low and unguarded. “And I haven’t even had the chance to call you mine.”

The honesty in his voice struck her more powerfully than any practiced words could have. This wasn't careful, controlled Joe. This was something raw and real—jealousy and desire and frustration all mingled together.

Before Riley could respond, Joe closed the final distance between them. One hand curved around the back of her neck while the other gripped her waist, pulling her against him as his mouth found hers. There was nothing careful about this kiss—it was hungry, possessive, demanding.

Riley responded instantly, her fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. This wasn't the controlled, measured Joe she'd known in Cincinnati. This was something else entirely—raw and unfiltered, all restraint abandoned.

She felt herself being lifted onto the counter, cool marble shocking against her heated skin as Joe's hands gripped her thighs. The contrast between the cold surface and his burning touch made her gasp. Riley wrapped her legs around him, drawing him against her as the kiss deepened. She could taste the faint bitterness of whiskey on his tongue, feel the controlled strength in his hands as they moved beneath her dress—always measured, always deliberate, even now.

Joe’s mouth traveled down her neck, beard scraping lightly against her sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” he murmured, his voice lower than she’d ever heard it, vibrating against her collarbone.

Riley tipped her head back, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Then let’s lose it together.”

He laughed against her collarbone, a low rumble she felt more than heard. His hands found the edge of her underwear, fingers hooking around the delicate fabric. "Can I?" he asked, voice rough with desire.

"Yes," Riley breathed, lifting slightly to help him.

Joe knelt, drawing the fabric down her legs with agonizing slowness, his eyes never leaving hers. The sight of Joe Burrow on his knees before her, looking up with undisguised want, sent heat coursing through her body.

"Fuck, look at you." he said, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh that made her breath catch.

Joe’s lips skimmed the inside of her thigh, warm breath ghosting over her skin as he dragged his mouth higher—soft, open-mouthed kisses that made her tremble. He didn’t rush. Didn’t tease. Just took his time, like he was mapping her. Like he was making sure she’d feel this later, when they weren’t touching anymore.

Riley bit her lip, her hand slipping behind her to grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white against the marble. Her other hand threaded into his hair, tugging gently—half to anchor herself, half to ground him there.

“Joe,” she whispered, not as a plea, but a reminder. That she was here. That this was real. That she wanted him as wrecked as she was.

Her voice made him groan, low and guttural, against the inside of her thigh. She felt it reverberate straight through her core. His grip tightened. Not rough, not yet—but urgent. Like if he didn’t hold her steady, he might lose the thread of himself completely.

And then—he gave in.

Joe pressed his mouth to her with a hunger that didn’t ask for permission. No hesitation. No tease. Just the full weight of everything he’d been holding back—weeks of restraint undone in a single, claiming sweep of his tongue.

Riley gasped, her spine arching off the mirror-backed wall. The cool air met her skin where her dress had bunched around her hips, but all she could feel was him. The heat of his mouth. The grip of his hands. The sharp edge of his stubble scraping in places that made her thighs tremble.

He licked into her like he was angry about it—like he hated that anyone else had touched her, seen her, heard the sounds she was making now. He was careful, yes—but not gentle. There was nothing soft about the way his mouth moved. Nothing patient in the way his tongue circled and pressed and devoured.

“Jesus,” she breathed, one hand flying to his shoulder, the other threading into his hair. He made a sound at that—something low and possessive—and doubled down, tongue flicking hard against her clit until she whimpered.

The kind of sound that sounded like surrender. And maybe it was. But not to him—not entirely. She was giving herself to this, to them. And fuck, he felt it.

Joe’s fingers flexed against her thighs, thumbs digging in just enough to mark. She felt him adjust slightly, then suck—hard—and her hips jerked in his hands.

“Joe,” she gasped again, shakier now. “Fuck—please—”

That did something to him. She felt it in the way his tongue dragged lower, slower, thicker—like he wanted to wreck her. Like he needed to be the one who took her apart first, before anyone else could try.

He groaned again—louder this time, almost a curse—burying himself deeper, eating like he was trying to erase whatever version of her had existed before this.

And when she cried out—louder than she meant to, thighs shaking, back bowed—then he looked up at her.

Eyes wild.

Breath ragged.

Mouth wet.

He didn’t say it out loud, but she could feel it in the heat of his stare.

Mine.

“This is so fucked,” he muttered, voice gutted. His forehead dropped to her thigh, eyes squeezed shut, hands still gripping her like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

She looked down at him, eyes glassy. “Then show me how fucked it is.”

“You’re shaking,” he rasped, dark and satisfied.

“Because you won’t fuck me,” she panted, half-laugh, half-plea.

He lifted his head at that. His mouth was swollen, his eyes wrecked—pure heat and hunger and a little bit of madness. His jaw clenched as he took her in.

“Jesus, Bird,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can’t handle you like this.” It slipped out, unguarded. “Not tonight.”

She slid her fingers into his hair, tugging gently but firm—until his gaze snapped back to hers.

“I’m not trying to break you, Joe,” she said softly. “I just want to be close.”

Joe didn’t move at first. Just stared at her—like he was trying to memorize this version of her, flushed and reckless, daring him to lose control.

Then he rose.

Not fast. Not slow. Just with purpose. Like he’d finally given in.

The second he was standing, Riley reached for him—no hesitation, no nerves. Her fingers found the button of his jeans, popping it open with a sharp flick. The zipper followed, slow and deliberate. Then her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around him with shaky, unflinching precision.

The sound Joe made when she touched him was raw—broken open at the seams, like it had been waiting to escape all night.

He kissed her hard, deep, his hands bracketing her thighs like he needed her pulse to anchor him.

And then—

A knock. Sharp. Too real.

“Riley?” Haley’s voice called from outside the door. “You still in there?”

Riley froze, her hand still inside Joe’s jeans, his fingers digging into her thighs. They stared at each other, breath shallow and ragged, the air between them thick with heat and hesitation.

“Yeah,” she called back, remarkably steady, like her heart wasn’t slamming against her ribs. “Just fixing my makeup. Be out in a minute.”

“Dom’s looking for you,” Haley replied. “Getting kind of pushy about it, actually.”

Joe’s expression darkened at the mention of Dom’s name. His grip tightened, possessive and unthinking, like some part of him couldn’t help it. Something flickered in his eyes—jealousy, raw and unfiltered.

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Riley said, not looking away from Joe.

“You want me to wait?”

“No, I’m good. Go ahead.”

Haley’s footsteps faded. Neither of them moved. Joe stayed pressed against her, pulse hammering under her hands, both of them strung out and teetering.

“Dom’s looking for you,” he repeated, voice low, controlled—but barely.

Riley didn’t flinch. “I’m not with Dom.”

“But you were.” He wasn’t accusing—just stating it. Like it had been living under his skin for too long.

��A long time ago,” she said quietly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Joe’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t look that way tonight.”

“Well, I’m not the one in here with him, am I?” she said, her voice sharpening just slightly. Her hand flexed where it still held him, and Joe’s breath hitched, involuntary and wrecked. “I’m here with you.”

That seemed to crack something open in him. He kissed her hard—no pretense, no restraint, just full possession. His hands slid under her thighs again, lifting her slightly, pressing in like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

Riley rocked her hips into him, body still trembling from earlier, still open and aching for more. Joe’s hand moved between them, fingers slipping over her, slow and sure, drawing another soft gasp from her lips.

The door was still locked.

But the night had already come undone.

Joe dragged her closer, his grip firm at her waist, every line of his body tense with barely restrained frustration.

“He was touching you like he doesn’t know it’s over,” Joe said low, mouth brushing her skin. “Like I wasn't standing right there.”

“He doesn’t get to touch me,” Riley whispered, nails digging into his back. “Not anymore.”

Joe’s jaw flexed. “But he has.”

Riley nodded once, breathing uneven. “Yeah. He has.”

Joe stilled—just for a beat. “I fucking hate that.”

She tilted her head, met his gaze. “Then make me forget him.”

That did it.

He shoved her dress up with both hands, guiding himself with a roughness that bordered on desperate, but never careless. He pushed into her in one long, devastating stroke, the stretch so sharp and full it knocked the breath from her lungs.

"Christ, Bird," he rasped, forehead pressed to hers, his voice breaking open. "He ever get you like this?"

Riley gasped, hips rolling into him, her body already trembling. "No. Never like this."

Joe growled low in his throat, hips snapping forward again, harder this time. "Say it again."

"Never like this," she moaned, gripping his shoulders, holding onto him like the truth. "No one but you."

His mouth crushed hers, tongue sweeping in with a heat that stole what little breath she had left. He fucked her like it mattered. Like every thrust was a statement. A claim. Like jealousy had burned a hole through his restraint and all that was left was this—raw, unfiltered need.

Riley’s head fell back, hands tangled in his hair as her body clenched around him, already spiraling again. “Joe—fuck—don’t stop.”

“I’m not fucking stopping,” he growled. “Not when you’re saying my name like that.”

Her legs tightened around his hips, dragging him deeper. Their bodies were slick with heat, the rhythm a little brutal now, like he was trying to bury every trace of Dom beneath her skin and replace it with him.

“Say it again,” he gritted.

“Joe,” she sobbed, “It’s only you.”

His hands were everywhere—her waist, her thigh, her jaw. His breath hot at her ear as he ground into her with every ounce of want he’d held back until now.

And somewhere between the bite of jealousy and the softness of her saying his name like that, he unraveled.

Riley clung to him, nails scoring down his back, her cries muffled against his mouth as her orgasm surged through her—sudden, fierce, overwhelming.

She shattered around him, her body trembling with it, breath catching in a sharp, helpless gasp. Joe groaned against her throat, his rhythm faltering as she clenched tight around him.

“Fuck, Riley—” His voice cracked, ragged. “God, I—”

He followed with a broken sound, burying himself deep one last time as he came hard, his whole body tensing, jaw locked, breath ripped out of him.

For a long moment, they didn’t move.

Their foreheads pressed together. Chest to chest. Breathing hard. The bathroom quiet except for the sound of the air conditioning humming faintly through the vents and their harsh, stuttering breaths.

Joe was still inside her, his grip firm but not desperate now—like he didn’t know whether to let go or hold on tighter.

Riley’s body shook against his, still pulsing with aftershocks. Her head dropped to his shoulder, breath warm and uneven against his neck. Joe didn’t move. Couldn’t. His jeans were shoved halfway down his thighs, her dress still bunched up around her waist, their bodies tangled and pressed tight against the bathroom door.

His hands stayed where they were—one gripping her hip, the other braced against the door like he needed it to stay upright.

His forehead pressed to hers, lips brushing her cheek as he caught his breath.

And then, quietly—like it scraped something raw on the way out:

“This doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

Riley’s eyes fluttered open. She didn’t pull back, didn’t move. Just stayed wrapped around him, cheek to his jaw, heartbeat loud in her ears.

“No,” she said, soft. Honest. “But I'm not sorry it happened.”

Joe exhaled, rough. His hands curled a little tighter around her.

“We saw you with him.”

A breath.

“It fucked with me.”

“I wasn’t trying to mess with you.”

She held his gaze. “But I get why it did.”

“I hate that he’s touched you,” he said, voice low, like he hated saying it out loud even more. “And that you let him.” Riley pulled back enough to look at him, flushed and wrecked and wide open.

“It didn’t.”

She held his gaze.

“It didn’t mean what this does.”

That seemed to steady him, just barely. His jaw twitched. His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then he rested his forehead against hers again.

For a beat, neither of them spoke. Her dress still hiked up. His jeans still undone. Breath still shallow, skin still flushed, everything still echoing

Joe didn’t move.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

But for a moment—just one—they stood there, forehead to forehead, hearts still pounding, tangled up in the mess they’d made together.

“I don’t know what to do with this, Riley,” he murmured finally, voice barely above a whisper. “How to be the man I’ve built myself to be… and still be what you need.”

Riley’s fingers curled around the fabric of his t-shirt, soft and rumpled between them.

“Maybe it’s not one or the other,” she said quietly. “Maybe you don’t have to choose. Maybe you just need to be you. The real you.”

Joe let out a rough exhale. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

She leaned in, brushed her lips to his cheek—gentle and grounding.

“You’re still you,” she said quietly. “Even like this.”

His eyes closed for a beat, like that idea scared him and settled him all at once.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, really look at her, flushed and messy and still radiant under the flickering bathroom light.

“Tomorrow,” he said, more certain this time. “After the fight. Let’s talk. Really talk.”

Riley nodded once. “Okay.”

They stood there a moment longer, then quietly started to pull themselves back together—straightening clothes, wiping smeared lipstick, running shaking fingers through tangled hair. The heat of what had just happened still clung to the walls, but something else sat underneath now. Not regret. Not exactly clarity either. But maybe a beginning.

Joe reached for the lock.

And just as he twisted it and pulled the door open—

Haley stood there, hand raised, mid-knock, eyes wide like she’d just caught them mid-crime.

Riley blinked.

"Oh," Haley said, her expression shifting from concern to delight. "Well, this explains a lot."

Riley felt her face heat up, but couldn't quite manage to feel embarrassed. "Haley—"

“Don’t even try,” Haley said, grinning. Her eyes flicked to Joe. “We technically met, but now I feel like I've got a better read on you.”

“Hope it’s not a bad one,” Joe said, a small smile pulling at his mouth. There was the faintest hint of color in his cheeks, but he held her gaze.

“Didn’t say it was bad. Just clearer.”

"I should get back," he said to Riley, his hand briefly squeezing hers. "Ja'Marr's probably wondering where I disappeared to."

"Though probably not wondering very hard," Haley muttered, eyes twinkling.

As Joe slipped past them into the hallway, Haley watched him go with undisguised amusement. The moment he was out of earshot, she turned to Riley, eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.

"A bathroom? Really?" she whispered, her voice a mixture of scandal and admiration. "How very rock star of you."

Riley couldn’t help but laugh. “Shut up.”

Haley raised a brow, delight dancing in her eyes. “Please. Like this is the first time you’ve pulled some chaotic shit in a public bathroom. If anything, I’m disappointed it took this long.”

As they made their way back toward the table, the buzz of the restaurant filtering back in, Haley leaned in close. “So, for the record? I think I’m Team Quarterback now.”

Riley didn’t answer right away. Her heart was still thudding in her chest, her lips swollen, her body thrumming with the echoes of everything Joe had made her feel. Want. Fear. Hope. A dangerous, heady cocktail she hadn’t quite figured out how to hold yet.

She exhaled a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-confession. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Haley glanced sideways at her, reading more than Riley had meant to give away, but didn’t push.

“Okay,” she said lightly. “But I’m still ordering us a celebration drink. For, you know—bravery. Or reckless sex. Whichever.”

Riley snorted. “Same thing, really.”

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * *

Riley slid back into her seat like nothing had happened, smoothing her dress with the grace of someone who had absolutely just had sex in a bathroom and was committed to pretending otherwise.

Haley followed a second later, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she might bleed.

When they got back to the table, Haley plopped down in her seat with exaggerated satisfaction, took one long look at her, and said cheerfully, “Wow. You look incredible. Honestly, great call taking twenty minutes in the bathroom to fix your face. So natural. So radiant. So… freshly rearranged.”

Riley arched a brow, sliding into the empty chair next to her. “You done?”

“Oh, not even close,” Haley whispered, sipping her drink like it was her job.

Pete nodded, eyes narrowing like he was analyzing her under a ring light. “Yeah, real radiant. Freshly flushed. Like you just discovered the perfect highlighter.”

Across the table, Dom blinked. “Wait. That was a makeup fix?”

“You guys are hilarious,” Riley said flatly, reaching for her drink like she hadn’t just committed a felony against public decency.

Dom looked at her. Then at Joe—just settling back into his seat, hair clearly mussed, trying so hard to look normal.

“No,” Dom said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Nooooo.”

Haley sipped her wine like it was piping hot tea. “Say it with me, Dom. Bathroom. Bang.”

Dom let out a dramatic groan, flopping against the back of his chair like he’d just been stabbed. “You left me. To get fucked in a bathroom. With a fuckin’ jock. I feel personally victimised.”

“I didn’t leave you,” Riley said dryly. “I excused myself.”

“To go get railed by the quarterback in the ladies’ room!” Dom cried, scandalized. “Have some respect. At least sneak off to the service hallway like a proper slut.”

Pete raised his glass solemnly. “Honestly, we support you. But also, I’d like to file a formal complaint on behalf of the rest of us who now have to sit here and pretend Joe Burrow didn’t just raw dog our singer in a public restroom.”

Haley grinned into her wine. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

* * *

Joe slid back into his seat like nothing had happened.

Ja’Marr raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Joe reached for his water, nodding once. “Yep.”

A beat of silence.

Mike looked him up and down. “You come back looking like that and expect us not to ask questions?”

Derrick blinked at him. “Your curls are fucked up.”

Ja’Marr didn’t even try to hide the grin. “Bro. Did you just hit a bathroom quickie? Like… you?”

Joe didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Ja’Marr let out a low whistle. “Duuuude.”

Derrick leaned back in his chair, grinning. “In the bathroom, my guy?”

Mike just shook his head, half impressed, half horrified. “That’s not even your style. You good?

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look unbothered. “What do you think?”

That sent Derrick into full wheeze-laugh mode. “I think you’re fucked, is what I think.”

Joe gave them all a look, the kind that was supposed to say drop it—but with his hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, and mouth still red around the edges, it didn’t land the way he wanted it to.

“Man,” Mike said, shaking his head slowly, “I thought we were the bad influences on you.”

“She’s got him moving reckless,” Derrick said, grinning. “Whole vibe changed. That’s rockstar influence, bro.

Ja’Marr pointed his fork at Joe, eyes gleaming. “You’ve known her for what, two months? And you’re already out here throwin’ away your whole brand in a damn bathroom stall?”

Derrick nearly choked on his drink.

Joe shook his head, making no effort to fix his hair or straighten his shirt. "We done talking about this?"

"Oh, we're just getting started," Ja'Marr said, his grin widening. "Joe Burrow throwing caution to the wind? This is historical."

"Man's out here living," Derrick added, raising his glass in mock salute. "One minute he's worried about someone taking his picture, next he's—"

"Next round's on me if we change the subject," Joe cut in, his expression deadpan but eyes betraying a hint of amusement.

Mike leaned back, studying Joe. "Never thought I'd see the day. Miss Riley's got you breaking your own rules."

Joe's phone lit up with a text. He glanced down, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"There she is," Ja'Marr said, nodding toward the message. "What's she saying? 'Thanks for the quickie'?"

Joe pocketed his phone without responding, but the slight flush creeping up his neck told them everything.

"Y'all finished?" Joe asked, picking up his fork and knife to return to his barely-touched steak.

"Not by a long shot," Mike said, "but I'll save the rest for when you've had a few more drinks."

As the conversation reluctantly shifted to tomorrow's fight predictions, Joe found himself glancing across the restaurant, catching Riley's eye just as she returned to her table. She shot him a tiny, secret smile that made his heart slam against his ribs.

Derrick noticed the exchange and shook his head. "Man, you are so far gone."

This time, Joe didn't bother denying it.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind them with a thud, and Riley immediately kicked off her heels, one landing under the credenza and the other bouncing off the edge of the sofa. Haley followed suit, letting out a dramatic sigh as she tugged off her lashes and stuck them to the edge of a lamp.

“Water,” Riley groaned, stumbling toward the minibar. “Where the fuck is the water.”

“There was some in here earlier, I swear,” Haley muttered, yanking open drawers like she was disarming a bomb. “I will drink out of a flower vase if I have to.”

Riley finally pulled out two half-warm bottles and held them up in triumph. “Not cold, but we’ll survive.”

They collapsed onto the bed, chugging like they’d just crossed a desert, legs tangled, dresses wrinkled, adrenaline still humming low beneath the exhaustion.

For a beat, they just sat there, catching their breath in the quiet.

Then Haley glanced sideways, a slow grin spreading. “So… bathroom bang?”

They lay there like that for a minute, chests rising and falling, the city glittering behind the curtains. The quiet wrapped around them like an old song, familiar and warm.

Then Riley exhaled. “You know me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Haley turned her head. “Yeah. I do.”

“I mean—like, I’m not new to… bathrooms and making questionable decisions in semi-public places.”

Riley. You once left Ethan with a hickey and a black eye in the same weekend and called it foreplay.”

Riley cracked a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. And then he left me on read for three days and told Rolling Stone we were ‘exploring different energies.’”

Haley’s expression softened. “This isn’t that.”

“I know,” Riley said quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

“I really like this guy,” Riley said quietly, staring up at the ceiling like the truth might sting less if she didn’t look at anyone. “More than I’ve ever let myself like anyone. Not even Ethan—not like this.”

Haley didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Just let Riley keep going.

“When it’s just us, it’s… different. He’s present. Soft. Like he’s in it with me. Like he wants it just as much as I do.” She exhaled slowly. “But then we step out into the world, or I try to talk about how we actually do this, how we share space between his life and mine—and it’s like he disappears behind some wall. He pulls back. And I don’t know why.”

She paused. The words felt like they were unspooling from somewhere deep.

“I spent so long after Ethan reclaiming everything he chipped away at. My voice. My name. My fucking agency. I told myself I’d never let anyone make me feel small or invisible again.”

Her throat tightened.

“But this is starting to feel like I’m getting jerked around in a different way. With Ethan, everything was public. All the chaos, the performance—it was always for show. With Joe, it’s the opposite. He wants me in private. Quietly. Like he’s afraid to want me out loud.”

She turned her head, finally meeting Haley’s eyes.

“And I don’t know what that means. Or what I’m supposed to do with it.”

Haley didn’t speak right away. She just looked at Riley for a long moment, the kind of look that came from knowing someone too well to bullshit them.

Then she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. “Okay, first of all? You’re not crazy.”

Riley let out a shaky breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

Haley continued, steady and sure. “What you’re describing? That dissonance—that whiplash between how he is with you alone versus how he is out there? That matters. It’s real. And it doesn’t make you needy or dramatic for noticing it.”

She paused, her voice softening. “I watched Ethan mess with your head in front of a million people. I watched you claw your way out of that, step by fucking step. So yeah, maybe Joe’s not doing the same thing—but it still feels like you’re being asked to live in the shadows. And that’s not nothing.”

Riley’s eyes stung, but she didn’t blink.

“I think he cares about you,” Haley said gently. “Like—really cares about you. But that doesn’t mean he knows how to carry all of it. The public part. The risk. The letting go of the version of himself he’s spent years curating.

She reached out, tugging lightly at the sleeve of Riley’s sweatshirt. “But the thing is, you already know who you are. You’ve done the work. You’re not the girl who bends to fit anymore.”

She tilted her head. “So the question isn’t whether he wants to be seen with you. The question is whether you are willing to disappear again.”

Riley swallowed hard, her throat thick. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Just stared up at the ceiling, eyes glassy, chest rising slow and uneven beneath the hoodie she’d stolen from Joe days ago.

“No,” she said finally. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just certain. “I’m not.”

Haley didn’t press her—just waited.

“I worked too fucking hard to get here,” Riley said, voice gaining shape now, steadier with every word. “To be proud of who I am. To take up space without apologizing. To sing what I want. Wear what I want. Love how I want.”

She paused, pressing her knuckles to her lips like the truth might fall out too fast.

“I want him. God, I do. But I’m not going back to hiding just because it makes someone else more comfortable. I can’t be the secret. I won't be.”

She turned her head toward Haley, eyes still burning. “I want all of it. I want to feel like I can stand next to him and not wonder if I’m too much or too loud or too visible.”

Haley reached over, linking their pinkies without looking. “Then he’s either gonna meet you there… or he’s gonna miss out.”

Riley exhaled slowly, her chest loosening just enough to breathe.

“But,” Haley added, voice softer now, “give him a little time, okay? Not forever. Not enough to make yourself small. Just enough to see if he figures out what’s right in front of him.”

Riley nodded, barely. “Yeah.”

“‘Cause I like this one,” Haley said, tugging their pinkies. “But I like you more.”

Riley smiled at that—wobbly but real. “Thanks, YeaYea.”

“Anytime, slut.”

Riley huffed a laugh and let her eyes drift shut, Haley’s hand still looped through hers. The hotel room was quiet now, the chaos of the night behind them. But the clarity lingered, sharp and necessary.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. Joe stepped into his suite, the hush of the hallway replaced by the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled thump of bass still lingering in his chest. His jacket was already off, shirt untucked, the top two buttons undone. His fingers ran through his hair—restless, aimless—before he dropped the keycard on the table and stood there for a beat too long.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The bathroom mirror caught his reflection—hair mussed, collar wrinkled, lips still faintly swollen from kissing her like he’d never get another chance.

He exhaled through his nose and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. He could still taste her. Still feel her under his hands. Still hear her saying “Then make me forget him.”

And that look in her eyes when she said it—like she saw all the cracks he’d tried to hide and wanted him anyway.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Took a long sip from the bottle of water someone had left beside the bed. It didn’t help much.

Everything he’d worked to build—every careful, quiet, calculated piece of his life—felt suddenly unstable. Like it couldn’t hold her. Like it couldn’t hold this.

She made him reckless. But she also made him honest. And that was scarier.

Joe picked up his phone. Opened their thread. Paused.

Then began typing.

Joe stared at his phone. The quiet in the suite was heavy—too heavy. He ran a hand through his hair, opened their thread, and started typing.

Draft 1:

You know I didn’t mean to be like that tonight. I just—

[Backspace. All of it.]

Draft 2:

Sorry if I made things worse.

[Delete.]

Draft 3:

I shouldn’t have lost it like that. Dom isn’t the problem. I am.

[Still wrong. Too clinical.]

Draft 4:

I want you. That’s all I know. I want you and I don’t know how to do this right but I’m trying.

[He stared. Shook his head. Deleted it.]

He tossed the phone down. Paced. Picked it back up.

Deep breath. This time, he didn’t overthink.

Joe (sent): I know I was outta line tonight. I was jealous and I took it out on you. That’s not who I want to be, and you didn’t deserve that. I know the bathroom didn’t fix anything. And I don’t have the right to ask you to be patient with me. But I’m asking anyway. I’ve never felt like this before. Never wanted something like this before. I want to talk tomorrow. Really talk. After the fight. He stared at the screen.

Sent.

Then tossed the phone on the nightstand like it burned.

Riley’s phone buzzed on the comforter between them.

She reached for it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen. Her brows lifted as she read, and she didn’t say anything at first—just blinked, like she wasn’t expecting to hear from him. Not tonight.

Haley clocked the shift immediately. “What?”

Riley handed her the phone without a word.

Haley read it once. Then again. Her mouth opened, then closed. “Okay… damn. That’s…” She blinked. “That’s actually kind of hot. In a ‘men and their damage’ kind of way.”

Riley didn’t smile. Not yet. Her eyes were still on the screen. “He’s never texted me like this.”

“Do you want to respond?”

Riley took the phone back, staring at the message. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. For a second, her face was unreadable.

Then she texted.

Riley: You were outta line. But don’t twist it—I wanted you. That wasn’t a mistake. You got me all messed up too, Joe.

She set the phone down on her chest and exhaled slow, like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

Haley didn’t press. She just sank deeper into the pillows beside her, nudging a bottle of water into Riley’s hand.

“Get some sleep,” she said softly. “You’ll need it.”

Riley didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes and let herself hope.

Riley set her phone down on the duvet and stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths that didn’t feel entirely steady.

Haley watched her for a beat, then nudged her gently with her elbow. “Hey.”

Riley turned her head. “What?”

Haley offered a small smile—softer than before, stripped of all the teasing. “I know it’s messy. But a guy doesn’t send something like that if he doesn’t care.”

Riley didn’t say anything.

Haley reached over and plucked the bottle of water from the nightstand, handing it over. “You don’t gotta know how it ends tonight. But that text? That was a man trying. And that matters.”

Riley took the water but didn’t drink it. Just nodded once, slow. Like she was filing it away somewhere private.

“Sleep,” Haley added, curling back into the pillows. “Tomorrow’s gonna be long.”

Riley whispered, almost to herself, “Yeah. But maybe good, too.”

Neither of them said anything after that.

The room went quiet, lit only by the glow of the city outside, and for the first time in days—Riley let herself believe it might not all fall apart.

youtube

#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fanfiction #jiley #hide fanfic #joe burrow fluff #nfl fan fic #nfl fanfic #nfl fanfiction #nfl series #Youtube

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stitchau · 11 months ago

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————————《《FAQ》》————————

This post will be updated over time.

Main artist account: @centfornothing (both tumblr, twitter and soon bluesky)

Currently, i am very busy with university, and I'm not gonna be free any time soon...(except holidays, obviously) BUT I am really trying to put at least SOME time into what I've created here, so there's that. (Hopefully I'll survive all that)

— Usage of Stitch/Fanart

1. Q: Can I create fanart of Stitch?

A: Yes, I'd be more than happy if you do! ^^

Also, do not be shy to tag me! I will, from time to time, check if i was tagged somewhere.

2. Q: Can I use your character in my comic/animation/fanfiction?

A: Yep! I don't see why not.

3. Q: Can I ship *insert character name here* with Stitch?

A: Sure, have fun! But I sure do hope that the character in question is not a child. I am strongly against it.

4. Q: Can I create NSFW🔞 content of Stitch?

A: Yes, unless it involves children/incest. Do not draw stuff like that.

5. Q: Can I voice act your comics?

A: Any day!! Just don't forget to put credits, everything else is up to you! ^^

— NOT ALLOWED

I'm being repetitive here, but whatever. These are the only things I don't want people to do with my character, and I hope you understand why.

DO NOT create content depicting Stitch engaging with children in sexual manner.

DO NOT create content depicting Stitch endorsing incest/racism/f*scism/n*zism or anything similar to that.

As advice, I'd kindly ask you not to create stuff like this at all. Please be a better person and be responsible with what you create and put out there on the internet.

— About asks/questions

Questions that I have already answered won't get a reply.

Not all the questions will get their answers. Either because it's not the time for the answer yet or because it's irrelevant/not a question at all.

If there's too many questions, yours might be missed/might get a late reply(currently i have 70+ questions, no joke, and i just cant answer all of them, especially when there's more of them every day). But don't be shy asking questions anyway!

Other reasons for your questions not getting an answer:

I might be busy because I also have to live a life.

If your question is something like "I love your au sm," then thank you. I really appreciate your kind words, you are making my day💞

I might not want to answer your question for reasons. (Provocative questions, personal questions, etc)

If you are asking something related to YOUR OWN mental health. Please, PLEASE, if you have real problems, do not try to find a solution for them from internet strangers, go and talk to a real, qualified professional.

Please do not vent to me, I am not qualified to offer you help. I wish you the best, please stay safe.

And just a separate point about roleplays. Sorry, but I don't really do them. I can play along to something unserious and small, but whole roleplays are not for me.

— About Stitch

Stitch uses any pronouns, but they/them is a preferred one.

They are aroace.

The place they live in is called "Treatment space"(the info on what it is will be elaborated on sometime later). It is accessible for anyone in Omega Timeline at any given point through a door. But it can also be accessed from anywhere if you have one of 2 special keys: small red key that will create a door for 1 person leading to the Treatment Space or the bigger dark red key that will create a much bigger door, also leading to the Treatment Space(backyard). Keys can be mostly found in Omega Timeline, but some are scattered throughout the Multiverse.

They mimic the voice according to the form they have at the moment. So Sans' voice for a form of Sans, etc.

For all the different parts of plush bodies and clothes, there is a separate big room in Treatment Space.

Stitch doesn't need to sleep, eat, or drink.

Their most preferred forms are Toriel(convenience) and Sans(frequency of use).

The forms they don't like to use the most are the ones that are small(like Temmie, annoying dog, Flowey, etc.)

— The Lore(WIP)

Prologue

Chapter 1: Lucky streak — part 1

— Stitch's forms

I have some forms drawn separately, and some that I drew with some other sketches. I MIGHT be a bit too lazy to draw every from individually for now, so here's what I have:

Papyrus

Muffet

Mettaton

Alphys

Gaster

Monster kid (MK)

Grillby

Frisk and Chara(want to change them)

Toriel(if you can't tell, I like this one a lot)

Asgore, Flowey, Sans, Undyne, some stuff

More info will be added later

#faq #faq post #stitch #stitch au #undertale au #undertale oc

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mosneakers · 5 months ago

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Reaper's Wardrobe Collection- Information Packet 📝

I didn't want to bloat the original post up with all of this(it's a lot) and it took way longer than I expected! Sorry I've been so strapped for time recently, balancing life (and ironically—death, unfortunately) but I've finally found some time to include some additional information about the newly released (December- Friday the 13th!!) Reaper's Wardrobe Collection, which by the way, you've all been SO sweet and kind and receptive to, thank you eternally 🥺💗 Below is some additional information if you're interested, just because one, I'm a certified yapper, but also I like to include that with my cc when I can <3 Please, if you use these items for your sims, TAG ME!! I would seriously be so happy to see how you use them 😍

Lamplight Dress (+Glowy Version) and Final Layer Accessory Lingerie

A sensual little number that will draw them in like a moth to the lamplight. This versatile dress comes in a variety of swatches, including even sheerer options for when you really want to turn up the warmth. You can pair it with the Final Layer Lingerie—a maxis match accessory lingerie set found in the glove category—or any other accessory underwear to layer and customize your look.

Lamplight Dress: 44 Swatches Final Layer Lingerie: 26 Swatches

And for those special sims who are the light of your life, or maybe just get lost often, try the bonus glowy version that actually glows up!

Both dresses are standalone, so neither rely on the other to work. You can freely have both in your game at the same time or just one, whichever you prefer.

Lamplight Dress-Glowy Version: 11 Swatches

Deathflower Pendant

Yes, it's the one and only deathflower, now wearable! Meshing this as a beginner almost sent me over to the other side, but I'm happy to say that with the help and support of my lovely husband, I got through it. Which I'm grateful for, because I needed this in my game. Available for ages kids and up, and comes in 9 swatches.

Death Grip Ear Cuff/Eternal Whispers Earrings

Embrace the whispers of the beyond with the Death Grip Ear Cuff and Eternal Whispers Earrings. This one can be a little finicky. So because of how the UV_1 maps work, there doesn't seem to be a reasonable way to make the ear cuff move along with the ear slider, at least that I'm aware of. So the best we can do is to remove the ear cuff entirely or shape your sims ear to work with the cuff. I know, not ideal, sorry :( It was created with ear preset 1 in mind, but you might be able to mold your own ears with some sliding around.

The set is designed to be worn either together, or separated. The cuff (a metal skeleton hand) can technically be worn with other earrings, but due to texture constraints, most textures conflict. Although not all results look bad so definitely feel free to play around and make some happy mistakes!

Whimsical Wings Knit Sweater

A little flutter of quaint, a little flutter of spooky— What started out as an attempt to convert the Life and Death one for toddlers into a kids version, but ended up basically recreating it. However, there are a few more cute swatches special for kids that fit the theme. 16 swatches in total.

First Grimpressions Zip Up Onesie

For the little reapers in training— This cozy zip up onesie is perfect for jammies, costumes, or playtime, and is available for both toddlers and children. Although children get a few extra bonus dingy social bunny swatches reminiscent of the social bunny from ts2. The rest are reaper and "freezer-boney" themed.

Grimborn Onesie

My pride and joy :’) this is one of the first ones I started working on, a little hooded onesie subtly shaped like death himself. Many of the swatches feature an embroidered crow with the daintiest little heart, but throughout the rest of the 8 swatches you'll also find little wings, a skull, and and a freezer-boney.

Reaper Sleepers

How could your days ever be grim when you have these adorable little reapers bouncing around with you each step you take? These were what started this whole project, honestly. I was making a few things for Norvis, and obviously he needed a pair of house slippers, being a middle-aged son of the Grim Reaper, obviously. That's when I decided it might be fun to not only share them, but make this into a whole collection— then it snowballed from there. They're not the most perfectly meshed items, but I think that gives them some character ^̮^

Robes Of Respite

Just the Life and Death Employee Reaper Robes, but with no hood, because sometimes we all need a breather. I did tighten the rope around the waist a bit so your sims can show off that figure when they're reaping someone's soul and dragging them away to the unknown. I also enhanced the textures a bit and added a bonus dark swatch. One for Male frames and one Female.

Prep Me Pumps

Just a cute pair of soft goth pumps to make a statement, complete with the most darling little bow placed right under your achilles heel so you can prepped for anything, anytime. 13 swatches in total.

Spirit Sprinter Athleisure Set

Even though all 4 of these cozy swatches are adorned with a zip up ribbon corset, there's no need to sacrifice your comfort to look snatched. Whether you're bumming out at home handing candy out to trick-or treaters, or training hard to be the best reaper the company has ever seen, this outfit has you covered.

Reaper Scythe Accessory

This is just the regular Reaper's Scythe from the game, made into an accessory by leo_morg on MTS. Link here They don't seem to be active anymore or have a TOU. It is just an EA item from the game but I wanted to properly cover my bases when it comes to crediting, since they were the ones who did most of the work. I just made some edits to the mesh and textures. At first I was just using it for screenshots and previews but since its a fine piece of cc I figured someone might find it useful so why let it go to waste?

Eclipse Cloak-Illuminated, Eclipse Cloak-Veiled, and Halfway Hair

For the adventurous souls daring enough to tread that liminal bridge between the afterlife and the mortal world, shroud yourself in mystery with these deluxe reapers cloaks- This is the first hair I've ever created with the sole purpose of making it specifically for a hat, although I'm happy with how it looks with no hood too! As for the cloaks, I just wanted some separated dramatic cloaks/hoods for storytelling, both a version that is up, and down. Goes in the hat category. They're a lot of material in a small space so the textures aren't the the most beautiful up close—but at the very least they're not going to conflict with pretty much any clothing (unless that clothing item doesn't obey the allotted space, of course) The veiled version is kinda neat because it functions/chops as a hat, so it works with a select handful of hairs. The hair has your standard 24 EA swatches, and the cloaks have 8 matching swatches.

Morgue Moth Vintage Romper

If you're one of my readers, you may have noticed that I occasionally like to use moth motifs from time to time. They go hand in hand with the death theme and they're also just really pretty ♥‿♥ You'll see them a lot throughout this project, and this item is no exception. I especially love this romper because it's super versatile— all 11 moth adorned swatches make for an easy go-to outfit for those hot days, but also work as adorable pajamas or vintage swimwear, and have that whimsical-macabre twist that is so mothsneakers ✨

Plaid To The Bone Shirt

11 swatches featuring a grungy patchwork of button down flannels stitched together, layered with a haphazardly placed tee with grim but colorful graphics for that effortlessly unkempt look. Wanted to make sure we got something for the men too, but of course our girls can throw it on as well, if they want!

Cadaver-demia Coat Set

Fight the biting chill of the morgue freezers, or stay warm on your haunting moonlit walks in the cemetery, and look hot doing it! Lately this has been my irl go to look when I want to look put-together but don't want to think too much about what to wear. simply mini-skirt+shirt+coat, pair it with your favorite tights and boots and you're good to go 😊 Keeping that same kind of idea with this piece, I really love full-body outfits so I don't have to think too much about putting an outfit together, I always feel like the cc-world needs more full-body outfits (that aren't just dresses, but complete looks you feel me?) I digress, this set has 8 swatches.

Thanatolo-dress Outfit

Give off Thanatologist's day off vibes in this studious casual full-body set. 18 swatches; featuring a fitted turtleneck sweater, (some with grim graphics, some plain) layered under a cropped plaid button down top, and paired with a high-waisted corduroy mini skirt.

Once again, huge thank you to every single one of you who have reblogged and shared, or had such kind things to say about this collection. It's been so much fun to make, and I'm so glad y'all encourage my outlet and more importantly, that you're encouraging ALWAYS FREE CC 🥰 because there is no space for greed in this community let's just have fun ok? Please enjoy, please tag me if you use it (because I'm dying to what you do with it) and you can find the collection here 🖤

#ts4 #ts4 cc #information packet #Reaper's Wardrobe Collection #more info #always free cc #GIF

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endless-elysium · 1 month ago

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Tips for worshipping in a strict household (by someone with the same struggles)

This is not a fully comprehensive list, nor am I by any means an expert on the matter, this is just a few things I do to help me avoid suspicion while I pray/do offerings.

1. Altars

I wanna preface this by saying that you absolutely do NOT need an altar to work with any deity, but in case it is possible for you to have one, here's a few ways you can make it fly under the radar:

If you have your own room, using a part of your desk would probably be the easiest option. Stack a few books relating to any subject connected to the deity(ies) you worship, or organise your jewellery in that specific spot, maybe leave out little trinkets or pictures as 'decoration' there; boom, you have yourself an innocent looking altar!

In case you share a room with a family member who is unaware of your religion, or other such circumstances, you can always use a shelf! Leave whatever reminds you of your deities on it, and add to it on occasion!

These can be great spots for leaving offerings!

2. Offerings

They don't have to be anything extravagant, nor do they have to be frequent. 'Accidentally' leaving a glass of water out, a 'forgotten' piece of chocolate, that accessory that you very rarely/never wear but that always sits on that specific spot... that poem that's been left sitting on your desk? It's history homework.

You can also say silent prayers in your head before eating any meals (Although, do remember to leave the first and last bite for Lady Hestia!) And offer a piece of it to any God(s) you'd like!

Be careful though! You shouldn't eat or drink offerings meant for Chthonic (underworld) Gods!

3. Journaling

Writing in a journal or a diary is a great and sneaky offering for the Gods! You can pick any notebook you like, and write something for or about the Gods in it whenever you get the chance/want to.

Sometimes, I'd write things in forms of letters addressed to the Gods. Just telling them about my day, or anything particular that has happened.

This both feels good, and is a great way to connect to your deities!

4. Prayers

These can be pretty tough, especially if you never really get any privacy. They are a great way to build Kharis with your Gods, but they are also not a requirement.

Saying prayers in a language that your family doesn't speak can work, and there's plenty of excuses you can use if they question you about it. (Practicing said language, talking to a friend on the phone, just reading something aloud, and so on).

Whispering prayers while they aren't close enough to hear is another way you could manage. Write your own, shorter ones, if the need calls for it.

If none of the above are possible for you, saying prayers in your head, or simply muttering 'Good morning' or 'Goodnight' to your deities are a good substitute!

5. Devotional acts

There's plenty you could do here! Whatever domain your God(s) reside over, you can use that as a devotional act towards them. (Weaving for Lady Athena, self-care for Lady Aphrodite, language learning for Lord Hermes, playing instruments for Lord Apollon, and such).

Wearing accessories/jewellery that reminds you of them is a great one as well! If you don't have any, you could possibly buy some, and if you're questioned about it later on, you could say a friend bought it for you and you like wearing it because of them.

Reading myths, or any literature, regarding your deities is probably your best bet! Just learning more about the deities you worship and/or their family members is a way to build Kharis with them!

6. Digital offerings

This might be amongst the easier solutions, if you are a revivalist.

Collages, writing prayers, drawings, posting stuff about the deities, joining online communities; and anything of the sort can be an offering to Them.

If you're scared of getting noticed, for whatever reason, having a separate account/email address meant "for school stuff" could help you manage it.

Just remember that the Gods understand your struggle and don't hold it against you in the slightest.

As I mentioned, this is not a comprehensive list. If anybody has anything to add, I'd be happy to include it! My asks are always open if anybody has a particular situation that they need suggestions for!

I'm always open to feedback and criticism; if I had spread any misinformation or incomplete/confusing information, please do let me know!

#hellenic polytheism #helpol #hellenic gods #hellenic worship #hellenic deities #hellenic pagan #greek deities

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yarameijer · 2 months ago

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Raimon GO Trio: Growth

So I was busy answering an ask for AR, and then realized I got super carried away with it and didn’t really answer the ask anymore. Yet I’m also having too much fun with this particular analysis, so I decided to make it a separate post!

The ask was originally about Raimon GO Trio headcanons, and moments in which Original Raimon Trio saw themselves in the GO Trio. Anyway, things happened, and… oops?

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The relationship of the GO trio is one based on growth, I think.

To start, I need to talk about the original trio. Endou, Kidou and Gouenji have always had a friendship based on equality and mutual respect. They were equals from very early on in the anime, if not the start, I think (it’s been a long time since I watched it so I’m a little skewed on the details). Kidou and Gouenji were both established as phenomenal soccer players from the start. Endou was not, but he was the captain and that gave him a certain, status, I suppose might be the word, as well. The three of them have always had this sense of equality to me that the GO trio lacked for a very long time.

As for mutual respect; Kidou started on a different side, but he has very clearly been impressed by Gouenji’s skills since before the first episode even started, specifically challenging Raimon to draw him out and face him in a match, and he was relatively neutral to Endou but eventually started to respect him even while they were rivals. With the exception of the first two, three, episodes, Gouenji has always had a friendly relationship with Endou and (as far as I can remember) never fought his authority as captain, and he’s had a friendly relationship with Kidou basically from the moment he joined the team. Despite some hostility at the start, Kidou and Gouenji have always deferred to Endou’s position as captain. And I think we all know Endou’s opinion. There were some bumps in the road but the three of them have always held mutual respect for one another, and their friendship has always had that respect and equality as its basis.

Shindou, Tsurugi and Tenma are very different.

From day one they were hostile to one another and that lasted for a very long time, and unlike the original trio they didn't even respect each other to balance it out. Shindou and Tsurugi considered each other enemies and just had a general bad opinion of the other; Tsurugi was cruel and sort of crazy, to be honest, and saw both Shindou and Tenma as an enemy, although Shindou was probably the bigger threat in his eyes (now I'm thinking, despite the Gouenji-Tsurugi parallels, it's also possible to compare Tsurugi and Kidou as they were both originally antagonists, but Kidou never seemed as bitter as Tsurugi to me (it's been a long time since I watched the originals, so I could be wrong)). Shindou seemed very self-absorbed in the sense that he took all the weight on his own shoulders, like he thought that he was responsible for everything and needed to solve all problems primarily alone. Tsurugi was a Seed and his enemy and Tenma a troublemaker and distraction.

Tenma here would be the exception, but that didn't matter because originally Tenma held the weakest position. New to a team, good at dribbling but horrible at everything else, younger than Shindou (which, especially with Japan's focus on age differences, really doesn't help the equality thing) and generally discarded by both Tsurugi and Shindou. Sure, he respected Shindou and he didn’t have the same hostility towards Tsurugi as many others, but it didn’t matter because he barely had a voice on the team. Sure, he talked a lot, and I mean a lot, but people didn’t listen.

The three of them were a mess no matter how you look at it. You couldn’t even refer to them as ‘the three of them’ because they had nothing in common, no relationship to speak of.

As we all know that eventually changed, and it kept changing. Tenma got through to Shindou, Shindou started treating Tenma, if not as a friend, at least as an underclassman - as someone he had a responsibility towards to care for. Tsurugi became a tentative ally to Raimon, and they had to put up with him, and eventually he switched sides completely (still kept to himself a lot though). Tenma gained more confidence in his place on the team. They struggled, they fought together, they had to encourage each other and that builds bonds. To be honest, I don't know when these three became friends, I'd have to rewatch the anime for that, but I think it took a while even after they initially set aside their differences. Even during the last match of season 1, Tsurugi still refers to Tenma as ‘’Matsukaze’’ in his head.

(Another fun thing that makes them less compatible compared to the original trio - their positions. Endou, goalkeeper; Kidou, midfielder; Gouenji, forward. Defense, bridge, offense. They’re spread out equally over the field. The GO trio, though, consists of one forward and two midfielders; mismatched.)

Anyway, their relationship is constantly evolving. From enemies, to (tentative) allies, to sort of friends. I mean, there’s an obstacle simply in the fact that Shindou is older and therefore put in the ‘senpai’ role (seriously, don’t underestimate how important age differences are in Japan). Then there’s Tsurugi being a pretty quiet individual. They might be on friendly terms, even call one another friends, but they wouldn’t be good friends.

Tenma’s and Shindou’s relationship in season 1, to me, never really seemed like friendship. Tenma very obviously respects Shindou and depends on him and thinks he’s great, but he also sort of puts Shindou on a pedestal. Shindou seems, eventually, very fond of Tenma, and to be honest I think Shindou is actually the one to call him a friend first; less of an age barrier for him, and Tenma is a bit too shy to declare his captain a friend first (seriously, it’s easy to forget but especially at the start of the anime, Tenma is very shy). But especially as long as the barrier of Tenma putting Shindou on a pedestal exists, they can’t really be friends in the deeper sense of the word.

Tsurugi and Tenma, on the other hand, have learnt to work together and depend on one another by the end of season 1. It’s not very pronounced but it’s obvious (especially when they use Fire Tornado Double Drive) how much Tsurugi really depends on Tenma (and accepts that!), while Tenma is just super friendly and nice towards Tsurugi. At some point these two became friends, but gosh don’t ask me when. (I want to add here: we see clearly in season 1 how much Tsurugi depends on Tenma, and while we don’t see that sentiment returned, I do believe it already exists at that point; at the very least, Tenma’s reaction to Tsurugi’s kidnapping in season 3 speaks volumes.)

I haven’t mentioned the friendship between Shindou and Tsurugi much before, but that’s because they’re really hard to pin down. The one thing that stands out to me is how great of a team they are together, even, or maybe especially, without Tenma. We don’t see the two of them interacting as much as we see either of them interacting with Tenma, but what interactions they do have often occur during matches - I can’t really pinpoint any examples but to me it’s always felt like there was no real need for them to talk so much. Tsurugi goes along with Shindou’s strategies always without ever asking for explanation; he’s got a healthy respect for Shindou’s mind, I think, and seems very good at picking up clues from him. Which, to Shindou, probably makes him the perfect ‘’pawn’’ in his strategies, since Tsurugi is 1) a real ace of the team and 2) really good at responding to him instinctively. They’re very quiet together, and a very good team. They didn’t respect each other at the start, but once they saw eye-to-eye? Hell yeah, and I think that defines them for the entire series. Shindou never treats Tsurugi like an underclassmen, not like he does Tenma. When did these two become friends? I don’t think even they know - actually, I think they might not have been friends if Tenma hadn’t been there to be the bridge between them, but when it actually happened? No clue.

Anyway! Then there’s the next big change: Tenma becomes captain.

It always stood out to me that Tenma didn’t stop calling Shindou ‘captain’ until Chrono Stone. I always wondered why Tenma was still captain in Chrono Stone, since Shindou was out of the hospital at that point and they never discussed the - what initially seemed like a temporary - captain switch in the anime. I mentioned in an earlier post that I headcanon that this switch happened because Shindou insisted on it, because Shindou didn't want to be captain and felt Tenma was better suited to the role. This conversation would've taken place somewhere between season 1 and 2, or potentially somewhere in the first episodes of season 2. That's also why Tenma switches from calling him ‘captain’ to ‘Shindou-senpai’, and that's the start of the newest change in their relationship. It quite literally forces Tenma into being on more equal footing as Shindou, as captain to former captain. Obviously this switch is gradual, as we see him doubting himself quite a lot in Chrono Stone and growing into the position as the season goes on.

Now I have to wonder how Tenma and Tsurugi's dynamic would've changed in response to Tenma becoming captain. I actually imagine that Tsurugi had a very easy time with it; he’d been following Tenma’s lead quite a lot in season 1 already.

Finally, season 3. It starts out pretty great, actually - their teamwork is great. One thing of note is that Tenma, at least, switched to calling Shindou ‘Shindou-san’ somewhere between season 2 and 3, I'm not certain about Tsurugi - he doesn't often call Shindou by name but I think he already called him that? Or switches multiple times? - but it shows that Tenma is much more comfortable with Shindou than before. At least, until the start of their disagreement over the Inazuma Japan team.

Season 3. Damn, what a ride.

I mean, I’m sure everyone remembers Shindou and Tenma in this. Pretty hard to forget, really. Shindou’s angry, frustrated, incredibly emotional and basically seems to revert back to how he was at the start of season 1. He seems to be taking it all out on Tenma and Ibuki; which while not fair is at least understandable. Tenma’s constantly disagreeing with him, someone Shindou believes should have the same opinion as him, whereas Ibuki keeps on challenging him.

The funny thing is, this doesn’t affect their teamwork at all.

In the first episodes, it’s Tsurugi, Shindou and Tenma basically doing all the work during the matches, and it is their incredible teamwork that gets the team through the first stages of an intergalactic championship, which, damn, is pretty impressive if you ask me. They’re arguing but still in sync, and I love that. The three of them have always been a great combo when playing soccer, whereas outside of that they definitely weren’t - they’re perfectly balanced yet horridly incompatible. The contradiction is incredible with those three.

Something else I noticed is that, even after Tenma’s been captain for quite a while, he still follows Shindou’s orders without question, and Shindou still orders him around without hesitation. And yet Shindou doesn’t overstep; he’s very clearly not trying to be captain anymore, and in the instances Tenma thinks he’s wrong, Tenma is not afraid to disagree.

Tsurugi, during the early episodes of season 3, is really the eye of the storm. While Shindou seems to have a pretty short temper around Tenma, that’s not the case when he’s around Tsurugi, and there’s multiple instances where he asks for Tsurugi’s opinion. At the same time, Tsurugi doesn’t make it any harder for Tenma, either; he really stays out of it. Lmao he basically saw Tenma and Shindou fighting and went ‘’oh hell no I don’t want any part of this’’, so he’s really the neutral ground between them (and then he gets kidnapped pretty quickly, sooo…).

Of course everything gets turned upside down when they find out about the whole alien thing, and though Shindou doesn’t argue with Tenma anymore, he does put a lot on his shoulders.

He’s not wrong, per se, but way to put pressure on the kid! Which, fair, he is the captain, but Shindou, honey, c’mon. You know Tenma. You know how he’s gonna take this.

So yeah, I don’t think that Tenma at any moment in Galaxy beyond the first and last episode is actually happy. Even when he’s cheerful, he’s constantly trying to keep a team that’s falling apart at the seams together - do you see the parallels here with Shindou in season 1? - or gauging their mood, or dealing with internal conflicts, or arguing with Shindou (and to some degree Tsurugi), or dealing with the stress of being the captain that has to save the entirety of humankind. Even when he's laughing, there's no way he's able to let go of that fully, no way he can be carefree. Despite outward appearances, Tenma in season 3 is so fundamentally different from Tenma in season 1. There’s no freedom, no fun, no ‘wind of the revolution’ when that is exactly what his character has been about all along. He's restrained. He's pushed into a mold he doesn't fit into, by everything and everyone around him, and the ones who know him, who could've put a stop to this - they don't see it happening. An extra interesting detail is, Tenma rarely reaches out to his friends when it's about himself or his issues, it's only when they notice that something's wrong and confront him that he actually opens up. And Tenma, in season 3, has become a lot better at keeping up appearances - understandable, since the whole spiel is that he has to be the captain, has to keep everyone's spirits high, and he cannot allow them to see him hesitating and worrying. It's actually probably not a good thing that he learns that lesson, because it means it'll be even easier for him to smile and say he's fine and divert people away from the fact that he's struggling. And then to add to that, Tsurugi and Shindou, people he would usually depend on and let down the mask for, aren't there.

Y'see, in season 1, Tenma is never really alone - despite the rocky start, he’s got Shinsuke and Aoi. In season 2, he’s alone for a while before Fei comes and by the time Fei betrays him, he’s got Raimon with him again. In season 3, Tenma is cut off from Raimon, pushed away by Shindou and Tsurugi, not opening up to Aoi, surrounded by a team that expects things of him as captain that no one has before, and Tenma is alone. And he has to deal with that. Learn from it. Grow with it. Find himself again, and he does. And that is the growth Tenma goes through in season 3.

To be honest, all three of them have their own stories in Galaxy, kinda like in season 1 but whereas in season 1 it converges from separate places to the same path, in season 3 it’s the opposite - they come from the same story and then split up. Tenma with his learning how to stand alone; Shindou with letting go of his steadfast opinion; Tsurugi with, uh, getting kidnapped by aliens?

Not gonna lie, one of those three doesn’t quite feel the same as the others…

Seriously though, Tsurugi’s arc in Galaxy is a little less introspective than the others, I think. Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it’s about stepping up more? Previously he just went along with Raimon a lot. He’s a relatively quiet character and happy to leave the decisions and speeches to Shindou and Tenma - to be honest, in Chrono Stone when he was acting captain for one of the El Dorado/Raimon teams against the Second Stage Children, I was a bit startled before remembering that canonically, Tsurugi was captain previously. He never seemed to care much for the position. Like I said, he’s always followed along with Tenma, and he’s always been easy with following Shindou’s commands as well. But in season 3 that switches - he’s left alone, but it’s very different from Tenma’s situation. He’s becoming much more proactive in trying to convince Lalaya that her planet sucks, that she doesn’t need no man to be Queen, and most interestingly to me - the whole development with him becoming captain of Faram Dite. He steps up in a way he doesn’t really do in the rest of the anime.

To be honest, Tsurugi’s a hard character to pin down because he’s so quiet and composed most of the time. One thing about him, though, is that he’s got a major guilt complex. Just look at the whole situation with his brother, the fact that he blames himself has driven him for years before the anime even starts. It’s the reason he’s with Fifth Sector. After Tenma and Yuuichi give him that much needed reality check, Tsurugi backs down a lot and stays quiet. I think, and mind you this is all speculation - I think Tsurugi is afraid. Afraid of making choices, afraid of speaking up, of speaking his mind out loud. He follows Tenma, and Raimon’s, lead a lot, and while I think he does agree with them and doesn’t hesitate speak up after they already did so, I also think for a long while he would not be the first one to openly speak his mind. He’s been through a lot. He’s made mistakes, big mistakes (coughcough-joining Fifth Sector-coughcough) that you can’t blame him for considering the situation and the fact he was a literal kid when he joined Fifth Sector, but with what we’ve seen with his guilt complex with Yuuichi, who’s to say Tsurugi doesn’t blame himself? It’s like he needs the confirmation from Raimon that yes, this is the right choice, before he decides to speak up.

And in Galaxy, that changes. He’s left alone, no example to follow, dealing with a girl who’s even more afraid of making mistakes than he is, and for good reason. Lalaya has the lives of an entire planet on her shoulders, and she reaches out to Tsurugi because she has no faith in herself at all. Kind of like Tsurugi has no faith in himself either unless an outside source - Tenma, Yuuichi, Raimon - confirms it. Suddenly this girl is looking towards him for his approval on her decisions, same way he’s always done, and she doesn’t see what he does - that she doesn’t need it, that she can stand on her own. And Tsurugi committing to helping her, making that his priority rather than getting back to the Earth Eleven - and then, of course, switching sides and joining Faram Dite, knowing Earth Eleven won’t understand, Tenma won’t understand, won’t approve, and doing it anyway. For the first time in a long while, Tsurugi makes a choice because he believes it’s right, regardless of what anyone else thinks. That’s his character growth.

This already is eight pages, but now I’m committed, lol. Two down, one more to go!

Shindou Takuto. Honey, what a mess you are.

I could talk for ages about the impact that his rich kid life and likely demanding family would have on him. He’d be one of those ‘’piano lessons, Chinese lessons, fencing lessons’’ kids that get so much pressure put on his shoulders at a young age, to be perfect, to be worthy of the family name. I don’t think his family’s necessary neglectful or bad or anything! He gets to play soccer a lot, and it’s clearly because he likes it. But I do think that Shindou is an incredibly intelligent kid, and he’s always been pushed to perform the absolute best in whatever he does. It’s why he cracks under the pressure in season 1, when everything is falling apart around him, when the one thing he’s got for fun, because he loves it - soccer - becomes just as stressful, or even more so, as everything else in his life.

Season 3’s interesting, because from every damn side, Shindou is told he’s wrong.

A team of amateurs, when from basically his first appearance in season 1 it’s so damn obvious how much the Raimon team means to him. It’s a disgrace, not to him but to his friends, and Tenma - who should by all means agree with him completely - doesn’t seem to care. His plans are denied, his ideas are denied, except during matches. And these amateurs are just trampling over everything he believes in, everything his friends have worked so hard for, everything he holds so dear and hurt for and cried for and they don’t even have the grace to care. No wonder he hates them. No wonder he hates Ibuki, because Ibuki doesn’t understand a single thing about it but still has the gall to pretend he’s worthy of the position of keeper. Ibuki tries but not because he gives a damn about what Shindou believes in, but because of spite (I don’t actually think this about Ibuki lol, but I think Shindou would, I’m writing this from his perspective). The Inazuma Japan team spits on everything Shindou and his friends have fought and cried and bled for and he’s told to suck it up. No wonder he’s angry.

But, of course, things get a little better when they do start trying, for real, and keep trying. And then the whole hahaha-hey-you’re-actually-fighting-aliens thing gets revealed, and, well, new priorities and all that.

But still, Shindou’s stuck in his own head. Still dealing with a team he may or may not even like (don’t recall tbh). And at this point, Tenma’s retreated into his shell again (which, fair enough! Shindou hasn’t exactly been supportive and Tenma’s insecurities are acting up! There’s no way he’ll be the first to reach out again if he’s not sure it’s welcome - but Shindou, at this point, has missed all of Tenma’s angst because he’s keeping it quiet, so Shindou doesn’t know to reach out either! Which is also fair!! But they’re just in a continuous spiral at this point, rip) and Tsurugi is kidnapped by an alien queen like five episodes into the whole space adventure, which I’m gonna say is a fair reason not to have great communication at the moment. Also, honestly, both Tenma and Shindou not realizing something’s wrong with Tsurugi is a bit questionable but they both have so much going on in their own heads, plus the pressure of, y’know, trying not to get the earth destroyed, so I’m gonna give them a pass for this one.

Anyway. Shindou is put in a situation where things are, to him, completely spiraling out of control. He never wanted any of this - in fact, he probably was super excited for the international tournament, to just have fun for once and now the whole Grand Celesta Galaxy mess happens, poor kid. He has an idea of how things should be, within the team, at least, and he has such a hard time letting that go. He’s bad at adjusting. He’s not like Tenma. He doesn’t see the good in people as easily as Tenma does, he doesn’t adapt as easily as Tenma does (the wind is adaptable, haha) to this situation, doesn’t go, ‘’okay, I’ll make the best of this’’. He’s prideful, and used to, while not everything going his way, at least knowing his place, about having a certain image of the world around him, good or bad, and for once it doesn’t match up to his expectations at all, and he can’t change it, can only get through it. I’m very tired right now so I don’t think I can explain it very well, my words aren’t working (I’ll probably make a separate character analysis for Shindou at some point where I touch upon this again), but I think that Shindou is a person who needs some sort of control. His whole theme is music, being a music conductor, the strategist, calling the shots, and in Galaxy that’s taken away and he doesn’t know the stage, or the players and that might be similar in a way to Chrono Stone - but in Chrono Stone he still has the majority of his team, his support system, and in Galaxy he only has Tenma and Tsurugi and I just discussed why that whole thing isn’t working out. All he can do is get through it... alone.

Isn't it funny how that's a reoccurring theme with all of them?

Y’know, now I’m reminded of his Kami no Takuto hissatsu. How he directs the entire team like it’s a play or an orchestra. They do exactly what he wants them to and maybe that’s lulled him into a false sense of security. It might even go beyond that - his family demands perfectionism, tells him that if you just work hard enough, you can get everything, be everything, you want. That life will work how you want it to. But it doesn’t. He can’t strategize the entire world to his liking, and that’s okay.

And the fun part about all this? By the end of Galaxy, these three haven’t reconnected.

Oh, it certainly seems like it, because they concluded their own respective arcs. Tenma learns how to be captain and how to be true to himself. Tsurugi learns how to make his own choices and stop being afraid. Shindou learns to be patient and let go of his preconceived notions. They learn their lessons but they never talk about this. They grow, again, as they always do throughout the entire series, and rarely if ever do they talk about it, but why should they? They were together for the entire journey, right next to one another, so why should they tell each other what happened when they’ve all witnessed it?

Except in Galaxy they don’t. They weren’t on the same path. They’ve missed things, and now they’re, sort of, still assuming that the others will just understand because it always worked that way, right? So they don’t talk. And by the end of the season, they haven’t talked, despite the misunderstandings and the hurts. And oh, that’s an opportunity for angst I’m having so much fun exploring in my stories😈

Okay, I got like, so carried away with this. How did this turn into a character analysis for the Raimon GO Trio?? How did it get so long?? This was never the intention. To quote AR!Tenma…

Oops?

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