#they did their best with the localization. they did their best

[highdramas]

in terms of your recent post, maybe abbot x professional athlete! reader — (volleyball/gymnastics/swim/soccer etc.) she comes in for a devastating ACL tear or something of the like and he’s the one who treats her? maybe jack recognizes her because robby & him would catch your teams games every now and he’s caught off guard seeing you up close, and afterwards reader stops by a couple days later to drop by some tickets to the next match and perhaps her phone number…

spinning out | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!figure skater!reader warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), almost certain medical inaccuracies because i have no idea what i'm talking about but i researched and did my best <3 word count: 3.4k summary: you are pittsburgh's sweetheart, the ice princess, the hometown hero. when you come into the emergency room on the worst day of your life, jack is the one who meets his match. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. i once again took some liberties with this request, but i hope that you enjoy it! i decided to make reader a figure skater! one of my many favorite fixations! not proofread so apologies for errors <3

the screaming that comes from chairs is enough to get the attention of any tuned-in physician or nurse. but it especially gets jack’s attention– because it’s not just screams that indicate pain, or fear. there’s just… general commotion. and that can be a lot more dangerous than anything else.

everyone in the chairs is on their feet– if they can be. jack and dana barrel out, trying to parse out what exactly it is that’s happening. but the second that he lays his eyes on you, he knows why.

you’re the face known all around pittsburgh. your face is on many billboards, definitely in the newspaper, and regularly on the local news. and it’s been this way since jack moved to pittsburgh, back in 2015. at the time, he remembers you looking so fresh faced– only twenty, and you were on track to be one of the best figure skaters in the world. call it morbid curiosity, but jack had kept up with your career, loosely, in the way that most people who lived in pittsburgh is. that's what he told himself, anyway.

“alright, alright, everyone sit the fuck down and stop crowding around her,” jack calls, approaching you and the gaggle of people who surround you. you still wear a dazzling outfit, catching every single light and refracting it back out. your feet are socked but there are no skates to be found, and two people on either side of you helping hold you up right-- barely. you look abysmal, when you finally make eye contact with him– mascara trails down your cheeks, hairs are out of place, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen an expression so… hardened. “come on, we’ll help you. dana– get a wheelchair.”

jack helps the people he learns are your coaches transfer you to the wheelchair. you still haven’t uttered a word– you just look down at your hands, pick the skin around your cuticles. “we think it’s an acl tear,” your coach says to jack. “happened during a competition. a smaller one, thankfully. we don’t need that kind of scrutiny.” this makes jack’s face screw up slightly, but he continues to listen. “we just– we’ve gotta have her back on the ice next week.”

“dana, go ahead and wheel her back to south-9, i’ll be right in.” jack turns his attention to your coach. a stark woman, small eyes, full lips, very obviously tanned. “alright,” he claps his hands together. “you all are going to have to stay out here. we’re very packed in the er, so i can’t have you back. we’ll come out and grab you when we have an update. okay?”

he can tell that this doesn’t please her, but he doesn’t really care. because while she’s bemoaning the possibility of more people bearing witness to what is likely one of the worst moments of your life– not for your sake, but for the sake of image… jack knows himself. he won’t be able to work effectively with that type of squawking in his ear.

when he goes to central, he points at dana. “don’t let coach and company in. feel me?”

“i feel you, boss,” she says without looking up from her computer. “donnie’s in there right now, but she’s ready for you.” she looks up at jack, plucking her readers off. “never a dull moment, huh? we got celebrities now!”

he tries to find it amusing, but then he remembers the look on your face, and he can’t find the humor within the situation. he simply squeezes dana’s shoulder, turns around, and takes a deep breath before he enters south-9.

–

the door opens. click shuts. you hardly hear it– all you hear is the blood in your ears. all you feel is the throbbing in your knee. all you know is that it’s over.

you took pride in what you do. you love ice skating– as an art form, as a way that you have honed your body over many, many years. you’re proud of all of the regional, national, world competitions you’ve won– you’re proud of all of that. and really, you only wanted one more thing. you knew it was a stretch, you knew it was a strain on your body, you knew, at 30, some think you’re too old for your sport… but it didn’t matter.

you just wanted to win gold. once in your life.

you’ve had silver, and bronze, you’ve gotten close to gold the last two olympics– neck and neck with your competitor, who ultimately, worked harder. was better than you. that’s what you tell yourself. that’s what your coaches have told you, to push you. your family doesn’t say it, but you feel it radiating off of them.

you don’t need the doctor to tell you that it’s over. you felt it the second that you landed wrong and crumpled to the ice, a glittering pile of dreams that will never be realized. you cried, not from the pain– you know pain intimately, have walked side by side with pain your entire life. you cried because it was all for nothing.

“hi. i’m dr. abbot.”

you don’t respond.

he sits in one of those spinny stools that all doctors use. you finally glance at him. “you don’t have to say it,” you wipe at your cheeks. “6-8 weeks until i can get back on the ice after an ACL tear. this isn’t my first tear, so i’ll likely need grafting surgery. so who knows how much further that would set me back.”

“wow. you want my job?” he tries to crack the tension but it’s no use. not really.

you’re approaching catatonic.

but it’s like a nail pops a balloon, and suddenly, all that you are is a heaving, sobbing mess.

the doctor– dr. abbot– sits with you. at one point, he offers you a tissue. then, the trash bin to throw it. and then, his hand.

you don’t think twice before you take it. you take it and you squeeze and you use it to tether yourself because everything feels like it’s floating away from you– a career, a dream, a desire.

but other things, too.

pain. being talked down upon. only being useful for one thing.

he doesn’t leave. he doesn’t even move a muscle. others try to come in and swap out and at one point you swear he says, “shen, fuck off, i’m busy.”

you don’t know how long you cry. you’re exhausted after. and itchy, because this stupid outfit clings in every spot that hurts and it feels like a humiliation ritual more than anything else, at this point.

“can i–” your throat is scratchy, and jack hands you a water bottle. you chug at it, greedy. “can i get a gown? and–” you look around, as if scared that they might be there behind you. “tell my coaches to fuck off and go home?”

a small smile creeps onto jack’s features. “yes, i can do that.” he hesitates before he stands up. “we’re gonna get you all checked out. see what we can do for you, and what orthopedic surgery is going to need to do. and we’ll be able to determine how long until you can skate again. alright?”

you nod your head. he finds your eyes. “we got you. alright?” tears are still brimming, hanging off your eyelashes like the saddest dew drops known to man.

–

it doesn’t look good. your assessment of your injury was largely accurate, jack found, when he began his examination of your knee with a delicate touch– being as intune with your body as you are, jack isn’t surprised. he comes back with x-rays and brings in ellis to observe. “you’re smart, i’ll give you that,” he says as he enters the room, and he’s proud of himself when you smile. you’re changed, and he thinks that someone must have given you a makeup wipe, because your face is fresh and beautiful and he has to clear his throat before he continues with his diagnosis and what he’d recommend for treatment.

“you’re looking at, maybe 16 weeks before you can get back out. and that’s entirely dependent on how you heal after the surgery. and even if you do start skating, you’re going to need to take it slow.” he finds your eyes. this is the kind of news that he hates delivering, and he thinks if he has to do it, he can at least look someone in the eye while doing it. they’re beautiful– and they have a depth to them that he doesn’t find in most. you’re not scared off by his eye contact. you maintain it with little effort. “i’m sorry.”

the chuckle that you let out causes a shiver to run down his spine. it’s so humorless, that it creates a chasm inside of him that wants nothing more than to make it better. “yeah, of course it is.” you lean your head back. “the press will be here soon.”

jack and ellis share a glance. “your team is talking to them outside, we believe,” ellis says with a wince.

you smirk. “ah. of course.” you look back to abbot. “thank you for your help. i’m sorry i’m wretched. just…” you shrug. “what a shitty fucking day.”

“yeah, i don’t doubt it.” he chews on his lip. “can we arrange to have someone else pick you up once you’re cleared?”

“there’s no one else,” you say seamlessly. “i’ll call an uber.”

it’s odd, he thinks to himself. seeing you up close and personal, real. he would’ve thought you were entirely delicate, a beautiful flower kept in a box, plucked out, and put onto the ice to entrance everyone who watches you. but you’re so human and alive and he can sense this way that you’ve been treated, and when you say there’s no one else except these people who look at you as a product, a brand, a liability… something snaps.

“we’ll arrange to have someone take you home. it’s a risk to have you take any sort of public transportation where someone can’t assist you into your home.”

you look between the two physicians. your eyes land on jack and he thinks that you might fight it– but then, you concede, and give a meek nod of your head, and he feels that tightening in his chest that he keeps experiencing. he wants to wrap you up and hide you away– far away from those people taking advantage of you.

he’s just starstruck. that's what he decides to chalk it up to.

–

dr. jack abbot does ensure you’re driven home by someone. he is very professional, and polite, as he instructs you on when to return to the hospital for a pre-op appointment, and how to manage your pain in the meantime.

eventually, you do have surgery. eventually, you’re back in PTMC, and your eyes trail on the emergency department as you go past it, wondering if you might be able to sneak a glimpse of him.

you fire your coaches. you tell your team to fuck off. your publicist can hardly get ahold of you, and, naturally, everyone wants a statement. it makes you laugh to think about it. yeah, you’d like a statement too, you think. bitter. always so bitter in those first weeks after.

once you start recovering from surgery, the bitterness dissipates, but you certainly don’t sweeten to what has happened to you. you watch with bloodshot eyes, the footage of it happening. you’re rapt with it, and it’s a little sadistic, you think to yourself– but you can see the exact moment of the tear. the exact moment everything shifts.

that night, you write find a therapist down on a to-do list.

your first session, as you recount the story to her, you get hung up on the portion in the emergency room. you explain it in great detail, and when it gets to your doctor… “i broke,” you admit with a shrug. “i broke in the emergency room. and the doctor, he stayed. you know– sonja, and marci, they were both out there. yes, he asked them to stay back, but it was because even the doctor could see it. that they didn’t care about me. they didn’t care if i was okay. they cared that i wasn’t functional anymore.” you stop yourself. steel yourself. “but he stayed with me. he held my hand when he cried. and i can’t…” you look down at your hands, pick at already raw cuticles. “i couldn’t remember the last time someone was so nice to me, just for the sake of being nice.”

your therapist suggests you go back, and thank dr. abbot. you think this is a good idea, but you’ve spent so much time being an ice skater, you don’t know if you really know how to be a human being anymore. how do you talk about anything that’s not a diet, choreography plans, workout regimine, or regional scores? do you know how to be earnest, and real, and honest?

you hobble towards the emergency room, the brace you wear restricting your mobility, but you’d finally gotten off the crutches, thank god. you hold a box of cookies that you had baked yourself– with all this newfound free time, and with the fact that you could actually eat, freely, in a way that was almost certainly healthier than whatever restrictive nonsense you were doing before, you’d picked up baking as a hobby. you weren’t great. but you weren’t horrible, either.

it felt so good to just be mediocre at something. to not care. to just enjoy it for the sake of enjoying it.

you approach the registration desk. she– lupe, her nametag says– recognizes you instantly, you can tell. you say hello, and introduce yourself by name anyway. “um– dr. abbot treated me here, about five weeks ago. i was wanting to say…” you attempt to slow you breathing, your nervousness. “i was wanting to see if i could say thank you.”

lupe gives you a warm smile. “oh, that’s sweet, honey. we all heard about what happened– i am so sorry.” your lips press into a line. the sentiment is kind– but it strikes you, anyway. “let me go see what i can do.”

–

it’s never good when lupe is coming back.

jack snatches the sterile gown, soaked in blood from a woman that he was unable to save, and shoves it into the proper disposal. he rubs sanitizer into his hands and he eyes lupe, trying to muster up a smile. “can i hold onto hope and a prayer that you’re about to tell me something good, and not bad?”

“yes, actually. for once, right?” lupe laughs and she begins to explain to him that you’re outside. when she says that, jack’s eyes go wide. “she wants to thank you. can i bring her to the family room?”

“uh– yeah. yes, please do.”

you go to central to finish up on a chart when robby approaches jack at his side. “i hear ice princess is back,” he says with a small smile, crossing his arms over his chest.

somehow, a rumor got around that you had cried in jack’s arms in south-9. that he had cradled you and held you and stroked your hair– he’s fairly certain it was princess and perlah. no, he knows it was princess and perlah. all good ER rumors start and end with him.

“don’t call her that,” jack says without looking up from the screen. “not cool.”

“oh, my apologies.” robby’s eyes trail to the family room, where you’re limping in. “she’s walking on that knee.”

jack snorts. “that’s the least surprising thing i’ve ever heard.” after an interaction with you that barely went over an hour, he felt like he understood you. he understood that, of course you were walking. you were determined, and you were used to your body bending to your will– not the other way around. he looks over at the family room as the door shuts with a faint thwick.

“go get ‘em, tiger,” robby says and it makes jack scowl.

he’s a good, professional physician. he doesn’t have crushes on patients.

he opens the door. and you’re sitting there, beautiful, clear eyed– there’s still a storm cloud or two burrowed within you, he knows, but not the same as when he met you the first time.

you go to stand up, but he instantly shakes his head. “oh– no. in fact…” he looks at the couch and grabs a pillow. “elevate.”

you look at him incredulously. “my surgeon said i only needed to elevate for 3-7 days post-op.”

“it’s always good to elevate when resting. especially since you’re walking on it.”

you roll your eyes. “the crutches slowed me down,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

“that’s kinda the point, sweetheart.”

–

sweetheart.

your lips curl into a smile and you raise your eyebrows at him. he looks at you like he would like to crawl under this couch, and die, probably. he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “i don’t know why i said that.”

“i do,” your smile is saccharine. “because i’m a sweetheart. obviously.”

“they called you pittsburgh’s sweetheart in the paper, once.”

“oh– so you knew who i was?”

“you can’t go anywhere in this city without seeing your face!” you’ve gotten him exasperated now, riled up, and you’re thoroughly happy with yourself. this is the most fun you’ve had in you don’t even know how long, to be perfectly honest. you’ve begun to recline on the arm of the small loveseat, and jack maneuvers the pillow beneath your knee. his hands are confident, his words are not. it’s a combination that you think you could watch all day.

he takes a seat across from you, once he’s gotten you settled to his liking. and there’s that stare, again– people always said that you had a staring problem, but they must not have met jack abbot before. that man had a staring problem.

you take it almost as a challenge. you maintain the eye contact and slowly slide the box of cookies to him.

he glances down. “what’s this?”

“cookies. i made them.” you run your tongue over your teeth. “to say thank you.”

he hangs his head. looks up just enough to peer at you through eyelashes– long, pretty eyelashes. “you don’t need to thank me. i just–”

“oh, no. i do.” you clear your throat. think over the little script that you had written in your journal, all of the vulnerable and real things that you wanted to say. “i don’t know what i needed, exactly, in that moment. and in don’t know if it would be possible for one person to be exactly what i needed. it was–” you feel that swell of emotion start to rise like a tide in your abdomen, but you push through. “it was the single worst night of my life. but not because of the injury. because i just… i realized how sad my life is. i don’t have friends. my family situation is dysfunctional in a way that is not healthy. my coaches and team and everyone around me just looked at me like a thing. an item. and you looked at me and cared for me like a human being. so.” you have to clear your throat again. “thank you.”

jack’s eyes didn’t leave you, one single time. and he only looks away not to close them, rub at them. when he opens them, they’re misty, and he chuckles. “fuck,” he drags the word out, and you feel it run through the center of you. you move to stand up but he stops you. “you are a human being,” he blurts out. “and fuck anyone who has ever treated you like anything else, or less– fuck. them. seriously.”

“yeah, i fired my team.”

“good.”

“yeah.”

a comfortable quiet takes over and you go back and forth in your mind as you stand up, for real this time. “i know you’re working. and i know this is probably unprofessional, but…” you take a piece of paper from your coat pocket and you hand it to him. “when i get back on the ice, i’d like to do it for myself. but, you know, could be good to have a medical professional there to make sure i’m not fucking myself up even more, so…” you suck in a breath. “that’s my phone number.”

he opens the piece of paper and stares at the string of numbers. looks back to you. “i’ll be there.”

“great.”

“great.”

you sling your purse across your body. “that won’t be for awhile, but…” you brush past him, towards the door. “you know, i can still go out to dinner with a torn acl.”

jack smiles, dimples out. holds the door for you. “sounds like we’ve got a date.”

[verdancy-hime]

What is this bullshit where thinking about your actions and trying to examine your own behavior is not only fucking

"Overthinking"

But you guys keep trying to invent new varieties of fucking ocd and did and mental illnesses I never heard of to describe things every fucking teenager and 20 year old does?

Everything on this list except the slur thing is something you should do periodically on purpose so you don't become a calcified unthinking pod person who jumps to conclusions that reinforce your biases constantly.

There is no version of trying to improve yourself or being a moral human being that is OCD.

If I see one more goddamn post that implies that trying to be a good person is a goddamn mental disorder I am going to come to your house and give you real compulsions while you sleep to do things so you can understand what they feel like.

Trying to see your own behavior from someone else's point of view is not ocd

Trying to make sure you practice what you preach is not ocd

Feeling like you don't have a good choice available to you and deciding that you will abstain from making a bad choice so that you don't give legitimacy to a broken system that tries to force you to believe in a false dichotomy is not OCD

Reasoning out your own actions and examining your biases is not ocd

Processing new ideas, especially when you are in your teens and 20s or when something big happens like a strange political time or a new situation you aren't sure how you want to act in, like a big crazy unprecedented political time? That takes as long as it takes. If you discover new information that contradicts or challenges your worldview it should take time for you to figure out what it means to you. It's okay to process that out loud. To talk it over online with groups. To talk to chat gpt. To journal. You should not be taking other people's word on morality without processing it. You should be considering information and what it means for you. Having an ironclad belief system that never changes based on the situation or new information is not mentally healthy. There is not a "wrong way" to process your emotions or decide on your opinions and feelings or design your own lifestyle. Taking your time with it is not OCD.

Depending on your world, it may be that fear of losing a social support network or losing a job is a valid fear. But pathologizing your fear, even irrational fear, is just going to beget more fear. Human beings are pack animals and we live in a society that forces people to beg others for money in increasingly ridiculous jobs that are more vibes based and parasocial every day. In that environment fear of social ostracism, even if you would survive, is not ocd.

It is not ocd to want to be clear and precise in your language.

It is not OCD to struggle to do so sometimes.

It's not going to make you speak more succinctly to pathologize your speaking habits.

Taking actions like donating to charity, abstaining from eating meat for a while, volunteering, reading, etc. Are not ocd. Even if you feel that you sometimes maintain balance in your life morally by doing things like deciding you can eat meat or drive a car daily but you don't want to do both because of your carbon footprint or deciding to purchase items for a local shelter when you feel like you are struggling in life on a moral level in some other way and want to see yourself as a good person overall is not ocd. If it is, every corporation has ocd. Carbon offsets are ocd. Harm reduction is OCD.

If acts of service to your community make you feel better- if anything makes you feel better and it isn't hurting anyone, no one has your best interest at heart if they are attempting to pathologize that for you.

I promise you even if it is OCD that the people at your warming center don't care why you bought them canned heat.

I promise you that if it's ocd that makes you decide that when you get to a certain income level you will donate money each month to a no kill shelter or a strike fund, the world needs more people with ocd.

All human beings worry that they are a bad person sometimes.

All human beings can do is try to do more good than bad in this world.

Anyone who pathologizes that is literally a demon.

Go read the screwtape letters you're literally just doing the screwtape letters we did this already it's 2025.

I DESPERATELY needed someone to tell me this as I grew up in leftist online spaces. So now I am going to tell YOU:

If you

Check what you sent over and over to make sure you didn’t say a slur instead of “hello how are you”

Fear that someone will find you thinking not-leftist-enough thoughts and will call you out and ruin you

Feel you have to make your intentions clear and over-explain your actions

Find yourself consistently resisting the urge to engage in reassurance-seeking WRT being a good enough ally to marginalized people

Stay up late endlessly debating political ethics in your head

Have a set of actions that you take after discovering you made a morally wrong decision so that you can atone, which you rely on for reassurance that you are not a bad person

Would rather not make a decision at all than make a decision that is the lesser of two evils, but is not morally pure

then I am gently, but firmly, requesting that you look into moral scrupulosity OCD.

[norrisainz33]

photograph pt2. || op81

summary: after losing touch with your childhood best friend, oscar piastri, you finally find your way back to each other.

pairing: oscar piastri x best friend!reader

warnings: slightly angsty to start but happy ending YAY!

word count: 2,165

masterlist

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

the envelope sat unopened on your kitchen counter for exactly 2 days and 14 hours and 15 minutes. not that you had been counting just how long that letter had been mocking you from its place on your marble counter.

the letter had arrived in the usual pile of bills and junk mail and at first thats what you had thought it was but with the sleek white envelope with the mclaren logo printed in the corner and your name handwritten on the back... you figured it was anything but junk mail. and you couldn't quite shake the feeling that you recognized the sharp messy handwriting on the envelope from all those birthday cards you had gotten from oscar as a kid.

you shouldn’t have been totally surprised. melbourne was hosting the grand prix again and oscar was racing in it again. of course they were doing some kind of nostalgia campaign, pulling at local connections and grassroots beginnings sorta deal. you just hadn’t expected you to be one of the local connections. though one of your friends had warned you that some pictures of you and oscar karting as kids had been going viral and you were sure the mclaren social media team had seen it.

even with that said, the envelope stayed sealed and you couldn't bring yourself to open it.

you weren’t totally sure why. maybe because part of you didn’t want to believe he remembered and wanted to believe that you were just another name on a list, another childhood tie to help pad a story for the cameras by the social media team. or maybe you were just scared... really scared of seeing him again and realizing too much had changed. scared of realizing that he hadn’t missed you at all.

it’s four days before the race when your phone buzzes with a number you didn't have saved.

you almost don’t answer but seeing the monaco country code in front of the cell number caused curiosity to win.

“hello?”

there was a pause that caused you to almost hang up the phone and then: “so… you’re ignoring mclaren and me now?”

your heart nearly stopped and you momentarily forget how to breath. you know that voice. you’d know it in your sleep.

“oscar?”

he chuckles awkwardly. “right, yeah, hi.”

you don’t say anything right away. too many memories come rushing back all at once - karting tracks and late-night talks, sunburned grins and tear-stained goodbyes.

“i didn’t think you’d call,” you finally manage to get out after entirely too long.

“yeah, well,” he says, his voice quieter now. “mclaren told me you hadn’t responded back to our invite and i just… well.. i just wanted to make sure you got it and that my mom had your address right.”

“I got it, yeah. nicole does have my address right.” you say. “i don't know - i wasn’t sure if I should go.”

another pause. this time from his end. “why wouldn’t you come?”

you laugh bitterly. “because we haven’t talked in years, oscar. and now, out of nowhere, you send me an invite like nothing ever changed and theres nothing a little weird about it?”

“I didn’t send it to pretend nothing changed,” he counters. “I sent it because everything did change and I never stopped wishing it hadn’t. and i'm sorry that it took the mclaren pr team shoving an old photo of us in my face, that has apparently gone viral, for me to grow a pair and reach back out but here i am.”

oscar had stunned you into silence.

“i’m not asking for anything,” he almost whispered. “but it just... it would mean a lot to see you there.”

you don’t promise anything but you don’t hang up either and that’s how you know you’ve already made your decision.

the australian grand prix weekend arrives faster than you’re ready for.

you don’t remember the last time you felt this anxious. the city is buzzing with that unique energy only a race weekend can bring - the sound of cars testing engines in the distance, the people walking in and out of pit garages, the rush of adrenaline that clings to the air. you’re surrounded by it all but none of it feels as real as the invitation sitting in your pocket the one you’d finally decided to accept. the one from oscar.

you’re not sure what you expected when you finally set foot in the mclaren hospitality suite after the whirlwind of mclaren team members ushering you through various levels of the paddock. you had thought you might feel out of place. maybe even invisible. but the second you step inside, a voice you haven’t heard in forever slices through the noise of the crowd.

“y/n/n!”

it’s him. there’s no mistaking that voice.

you turn and there he is, oscar piastri, standing in the flesh like he’s never left. he's a bit taller now and his hair a little more styled but those eyes — the same familiar brown ones that always seemed to see right through you — still hold that quiet intensity you remember so well.

he’s staring at you, mouth open like he can’t quite believe you’re standing there in front of him. you can’t help but smile. for a moment, you forget about the space and time that’s stretched between you, and you’re just here. here with him. here with oscar - your oscar.

oscar takes a reluctant step forward, and then another.

“you came, y/n.” his voice is a little breathless like he’s just caught up with his own surprise.

“yeah, I did,” you reply trying to hide the nervous excitement bubbling inside you. it’s so familiar to hear him say your name yet it feels different now like you’re both stepping into an unfamiliar place, even though everything around you is the same.

you take in his face again, the way his smile is both shy and relieved. it’s still that goofy grin you remember but now it’s edged with years of experiences you’ve only seen through a screen or in photos.

“guess you’re doing well, huh?” you say gesturing to the mclaren garage around you. the fact that he’s here, that he’s made it this far, makes something in your chest swell with pride even though you’ve been away from it all for so long, you’re reminded of why you always believed in him.

“yeah, I guess so,” oscar chuckled rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s... still weird though.. coming back here - you know? it feels like everything’s changed but also like nothing’s changed at all.” he shrugged clearly feeling a little awkward. “so what’s it been? four years?” he asked, looking at you sheepishly. “I mean, I think I’ve sent you like... what, two messages in all that time?”

“something like that,” you say with a laugh but it’s a hollow one. it’s easy to brush off but underneath it all, you both know. the distance between you is far more than the years on paper.

oscar shifts on his feet and adjusts his team shirt. he’s no longer that wide-eyed kid who left melbourne chasing a dream. he’s the man who made it.

“listen,” he starts, running a hand through his hair. “I owe you an apology. for... everything. for not keeping in touch. for letting things drift between us. I was an idiot and I’m really genuinely sorry.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you, y/n/n. I didn’t mean for things to end up like this. when i left i got so caught up in everything and I never stopped to think about you. about us.“

you take a slow breath. “It’s not all your fault,” you say quietly. “I should’ve said something too. the phone definitely goes both ways osc.”

oscar let out a heavy sigh. “maybe but I should’ve been the one to fix it. i was the one who left and the one who should've done something about it. and I didn’t... I didn’t realize what I had until I lost it.”

your heart beats a little faster at his words. your mind flashes back to all the unspoken moments between you two — the laughs, the stares, the quiet understanding that never needed words, the love that had always simmered under the surface.

“and you never stopped caring for me?” you ask before you can stop yourself, your face instantly turning red.

oscar’s gaze locks onto yours, and for the first time, there’s no hesitation. “never. and honestly not only did i never stopped caring, i've also never stopped loving you. I’ve loved you for so long, y/n. i was too afraid to admit it. afraid of losing you even more than I already had.”

a lump forms in your throat. it feels like the world has paused for just a moment like it’s finally giving you both the chance to say everything you couldn’t before.

“i'm not that person anymore,” oscar adds his voice a little more vulnerable now. “i've changed and i’ve grown up and if you’re willing to give me a chance to prove that... I’d do anything to fix what I broke.”

you didn’t expect him to be this open or this honest and you sure as hell didn’t expect him to feel the same way you’d always felt.

for a moment, you’re speechless. all you can do is look at him. the boy who left, the man who came back, and somehow... it feels like maybe you’ve been waiting for him this whole time.

“oscar,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “we were both just scared and maybe we don’t need to be anymore.”

he smiles a little unsure but full of hope. “so you’ll give me a chance?”

you hesitate, your pulse quickening as you nod. “yeah. i think I will.”

oscar steps a little closer with his hand outstretched. you don’t hesitate this time. you take it and your fingers intertwine like they used to.

and for the first time in years, you allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there’s a future for both of you — together.

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: thank you soooo very much for reading!! i appreciate the feedback on the first part xx

tag list from pt1: @raweceekk @silverstcness @littlegrapejuice @il0vereadingstuff @ladywhistledownx

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[tiredandsapphic]

pining, matthews?

pairing 𖦹 precrash!lottie matthews x fem!reader summary 𖦹 lottie finds herself oddly infatuated over the local record shop girl, the feelings mutual an 𖦹 wc 1.5k, oh medicated lottie, come home, the kids miss u

Who knew Wiskoyak would be cool enough to have a local record store. Thank gods it did, because it was probably one of the best jobs someone could have. Though if it wasn’t for your parents’ connection to the owner, you’d probably not have the job. But here you are, working part time in the perfectly dusty store.

Lottie didn't even know there was a record store so close, not until Van brought it up one day after practice. She practically forced the poor girl to visit claiming that there's more to the music world than just Mazzy Star and The Cranberries.

With her ego half bruised and a newfound curiosity, she searches for this so-called store with Van's shitty directions. She eventually finds it, tucked behind a local cafe and mechanic shop. 

When she enters, she's hit with the smell of incense and cigarettes, walls lined with posters. Faint record playing in the back, something she can't quite recognize, maybe Kate Bush? Her presence surrounded by the rows of cassettes and dusty vinyls, she almost doesn't notice you.

You're at the front counter, legs kicked up on a stool, chewing on a pen cap as you scribble in your notebook. You don't even look up.

Her so-called rich-girl aura doesn't exactly scream grunge record store— she suddenly feels very out of her element. But determined as Lottie is, with a pretty girl and a mission in front of her, she awkwardly approaches the counter.

Her footsteps draw your attention up, expecting some middle-aged guy looking for another Nirvana cassette. Your eyes widen slightly when your gaze travels up a figure in a letterman jacket, to deep brown eyes. Shit.

She smiles at you right away, her discomfort clearly on her face and now you feel the sudden need to make it all better. "Hey," is what you start with, mirroring a warm smile as you look up.

"Hi, I— uhh, to be honest, my friend kind of bullied me into coming here, and I have zero clue what I'm even looking for." She explains in a voice that makes you melt. She's sweet, but god she's fidgety, weirdly nervous. It's like watching a candied tragedy.

Laughing softly, you throw down your notebook, leaning forward on the counter to give her your undivided attention. Lottie's face is now feeling more warm.

"Oh yikes, I see," you raise your brows in a soft teasing way, "well I can help with that. What do you like?" And the question is so genuine, it's like you actually want to know, not just because it's your job.

She fumbles for a moment, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, the smallest crease in her brow. It's adorable. 

"I think Mazzy Star and Fiona Apple— but I also really like The Cranberries before a game." The tall girl admits and you nod along, slightly smitten by her taste. And a wave of realization runs over you.

"A game? Oh wait shit, you play for the Yellowjackets." You exclaim and it takes her back a bit, then an embarrassed smile grows on her face. "I'm guessing that the friend that bullied you into coming here is Van?" 

Lottie laughs and nods, "Mhm, that's her. She speaks highly of this place— and you, apparently you're ‘the girl that knows her shit’. Honestly I didn't know it existed." She admits, her eyes on you the whole time. You just chuckle.

"Yeah, a lot of people say that. It's my little heaven, I really only got the job because I know the owner, and of course, know my shit." You admit and stand up, smoothing down your clothes as if you were trying to look presentable. "Also I can totally work off your taste, it's good." You smile and she flushes, you can't help but flush as well.

"I'll feel less like a lost cause, thanks." Her footsteps trail behind you as you walk towards one of the aisles. "I'm Lottie by the way." She adds, if not a little awkwardly.

You give her a smile and tell her your name, which makes the girl beam just a little more. Lottie eyes you as you flip through some shelves, admiring the determined look on your face.

You start to pull out some albums, making small comments, even little music facts. Lottie's knees suddenly feel so weak.

You stop yourself mid word vomit, painted nails gripping a The Cure vinyl. "Oh my god, I've been rambling for the past 10 minutes on music, I'm sorry, you must think I'm a dweeb." You laugh, your cheeks feeling hot.

"No—" she adds, maybe a touch too quick, "not at all," she laughs softly, "it's cute, please, I don't think I've learnt this much about music before than now." She says as if she wasn't looking at you instead of the vinyls the whole time.

You look at her as if she just proposed— your heart certainly feels like she did. 

"Okay, good, because I haven't even shown you half of it yet." You grin and she just nods, more than happy to watch your fingertips skim the vinyl spines as you talk.

You probably talk for way too long, but the lack of other customers and her personality becoming less nervous just makes something click. She makes small jokes that have you laughing, and your job just becomes much more worth it.

At one point she skims over, standing in front of a small section that's labelled 'staff picks'.

"Careful. That section's dangerous. You might leave with a personality." You say casually with a teasing look.

She just blinks at you then laughs, and you walk over. You grab a vinyl off the wall. "Actually, here, I think you'll really like this."

And you hold out an Alanis Morissette album. "If you don't like it, full refund." You say half jokingly, but you're too confident in your music match making skills. "Perfect before a game too."

Lottie's deep gaze flickers from you to the album for a few moments before she takes it, her fingers brushing yours. Your internal record player skips. 

"I'll take your word for it." She nods, clutching the album like it's holy.

It's not even then that Lottie goes to cash out, she still trails by as you show her more, even sharing your own favourite artists, which she locks in her mental diary.

You eventually walk over to the counter to ring her up, almost saddened to do so. You wanted her to stay longer, so did she. Though her short trip evolved into something much longer.

Lottie keeps glancing at you during checkout. She's got that flustered soft fidgeting, biting her lip, her fingers twitching by her wallet, clearly wanting to say something but chickening out. 

So, while she's distracted digging through her bag, you build up the courage to make a move— sorta. You grab a post-it note, scribbling your number and writing 'Call me if you want more dangerously good taste. Or a date. Whichever.' and tuck it into the sleeve of the album.

You look back up and slide her the album, taking her money, as if you hadn't just did the boldest thing you've ever had the courage to do.

"Thanks, for all this." She says as she grabs the vinyl off the counter.

You just nod, "any time, I know this was your first time here, and I really hope it's not your last." 

Lottie smiles, her internal circuit malfunctioning. "I'll have to make sure you're on shift then, next time." She says softly before whispering a soft goodbye.

Your heart thumps as you watch her leave, blinking like you've just had the rug pulled from underneath you. You immediately bend over the desk like you've been shot in the chest, your hands on your face. You don't know whether to throw up or celebrate.

Later that night, after a long shift haunted by thoughts of the tall athlete, you lie on your bed, sprawled out like a coming-of-age movie.

Then your landline rings, coming from your cluttered desk beside your bed.

Your heart stops, it could be anyone, but your chest knows.

"Hello?" You answer after the second ring, finger fidgeting with the twisted wire.

"Hey, it's— uh. Lottie. From earlier." Her voice is a little shakier on the line.

"Oh. Oh, hi." Suddenly the wire of your landline is very intriguing, acting as if you weren't the one who asked for this.

"So. I found something in my record sleeve." She says, open ended.

"Oh. Yeah. That." Total deer in headlights. "Was that okay?"

She laughs at your tone softly, "More than okay. I was wondering... if maybe I could take you up on the offer." 

"Which part?" You're nearly breathless.

She pauses, "Well, preferably both, but the mostly second part." 

"Good, I was mostly hoping for that part." And suddenly your world flipped, for the better. 

You clutch your pillow tighter, the idea of a date with her no longer just a dream, but now a promise.

[katnipp]

was it really all just a lie?- daniela avanzini

genre: angst, fluff ending

synopsis: you and dani used to date at one point but it ended because she was afraid of coming out, so it came as a shocker to you when she introduced the members to her bf

pairing: daniela avanzini x 7th member, slight manon x reader

warnings: internalized homophobia, mentions of men

———————————————————————

katseye was the kind of girl group that looked effortless on stage. their harmonies wrapped around each other like silk, and their chemistry was electric—especially between dani and y/n.

off-stage, their connection went deeper than music. late-night studio sessions turned into whispered conversations, fingers brushing over piano keys, stolen kisses before every performance, and laughter under city lights. they were infatuated with each other.

but daniela was scared.

her world was carefully curated, and being out wasn’t part of it—not yet. As the band started gaining traction, so did the pressure. Managers, magazine covers, fan speculation—it all made dani felt like the walls were closing in.

one night after practice, she just ended it. she thought it was the best thing to do for the both of you guys.

“I just… I can’t,” she said, eyes glassy, refusing to meet y/n’s gaze. “It’s not the right time. I worked so hard and i can’t risk it all because of something that was supposed to only be casual.”

y/n didn’t say much. just stood there, holding back her tears, “was it really all just a lie?” but the only response she got was the sound of dani walking away.

y/n ran back to her and manon’s shared apartment and slammed the door of her room shut. she quickly got rid of anything that reminded her of her now ex girlfriend. as she was about to take down the last photo of her, she finally broke down into tears

“holy shit— y/n what’s wrong??” manon pulled you into a tight hug, “we broke up. she said that i was nothing but a one time fling,” you wept into her shoulder.

manon spent the whole night comforting her members and whispered sweet nothings in her ear while she slept. but she knew that the group was going to be impacted because of this situation.

—

weeks passed. the group’s atmosphere was off to the point where eyekons started to notice it too. dani and y/n’s usual bickering was now replaced with silence and her now loving gaze was gone.

during one of their hangouts at the local cafè, daniela decided to introduce her boyfriend to her members

y/n froze, her breath caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. dani was ready for a relationship—just not with her. the secret wasn’t the problem after all. she was.

“are you okay, y/n? you look like you just saw a ghost” her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of manon’s voice coming from right next to her

“i’m not feeling good right now so i’ll be heading home. just continue on without me,” she says while giving the girl a weak smile. everything in manon’s mind told her that something was wrong and to go after her.

manon entered the keys to your shared apartment and she found her laying on the couch with tears covering her face.

“she shouldn’t have done that to you,” manon said quietly, sitting beside you

y/n glanced over. “i don’t understand why she decided to end it so easily especially after everything we went through together. she decides to bring over her new boyfriend and rub it into my face?! i feel hurt and unloved,”

“you’re not,” manon said simply. “not to me, of course”

there was a sudden pause, the kind that hung heavy between two people standing on the edge of something. then manon reached over and touched her hand. “i’ve wanted to say something for a long time. but I didn’t want to come between you two.”

y/n looked at her. really looked. manon’s eyes were steady and kind. warm in the way dani’s had turned cold.

“I think I’m in love with you,” manon said. “the way you effortlessly look good on stage ,everything about you is so captivating. even in a room full of other people my eyes are only focused on you,”

y/n didn’t answer right away. but she didn’t pull her hand away, either

“you’re such an idiot,” she says while pulling the girl into a kiss. the kiss felt different— way more loving and passionate than dani’s

—

it took dani months to realize she’d made the wrong choice.

dylan was a sweet guy, but he wasn’t you. every performance kept reminding her of the memories—your laugh, your eyes, the secret kisses you guys would share backstage.

she decided to fix it

she showed up to y/n’s apartment with flowers and a shaky apology on her lips. but when the door opened, it wasn’t y/n who answered.

it was manon.

and behind her, y/n was laughing at something on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a soft glow in her eyes that dani hadn’t seen in months.

manon looked at dani. “she’s okay now,” she said gently, not with bitterness, but with a quiet finality.

dani nodded, heart sinking. she had been too late.

in the end, the group kept performing. but now it was manon and y/n who were now sneaking secret kisses. which left dani wondering, always, what they could’ve been if she didn’t give up on them.

—

a/n : hey guys so like this is my first time ever writing a fanfic so i’m sorry if it’s ass lmao😭 okay bai bai

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

how are you going to post about protecting trans rights while funneling money to the pockets of the woman who directly helped fund the dismantling of trans rights in the UK. you don't actually support trans people, you can't even prioritize their very real lives over a shitty fictional franchise

First off, I have not given that woman any of my money since I first bought the books 20+ years ago. I never watched the movies, I have no intention of supporting the tv reboot, I have never bought any merch or gone to the theme park(s?). For all intents and purposes, I have been a giant mooch for the past 22 years, since I started reading HP fanfic.

Second off, I support trans people. In part because I fall under that umbrella (nonbinary), but mainly because they're fellow human beings. I want them to live and thrive and have the best lives possible. I donate to LGBTQ+ charities when I can afford to, I support my local queer organization, I am trying to do the work when and how I can. Do you do anything beyond sending anonymous hate online? I hope so.

I shouldn't have to answer to you, whoever you are, but I'm taking this opportunity to make my stance clear.

I do not support JKR nor any of her views. (By the way, she'd also hate me for being ace, apparently. New vileness every day from her, how delightful.) I have wrestled with writing and perpetuating affection for a series she created -- a series which has more than its share of problematic aspects in many regards, even beyond the author's attacks on trans women (and trans and queer people in general).

And everyone is welcome to handle that internal debate for themselves however they like -- I can completely understand wanting to wash your hands of it. But it brings me joy to play in this sandbox and make it hella queer, and work through and detangle the cruelty and hatred that are built into the fibre of the books by the author. I seek to uphold the message that the author forgot: That love can be a saving force. A truly astounding (to me) number of people have commented on my ace fics to say they felt seen and hopeful. I did that with one of my silly HP stories.

And through my interactions with the HP fandom, I have found the most wonderful group of friends -- many of whom fall under the LGBT+ umbrella -- and feel accepted and whole for what might be the first time in my life.

I'm not going to give that up because my activism and attitudes don't match yours. I'll just do the best I can.

[bellamyblcke]

lieutenant gorn is one of the best characters in star wars. to me. he fell in love with a local woman. lost the woman. lost his taste for the empire. shows so clearly how in order to enforce imperial rule you have to view those you are oppressing as less than human and once you acknowledge their humanity once you love them every second upholding their subjugation is a chain around your neck too. he puts everything on the line not just for revenge but bc his entire life has become a performance in service of the downfall of something he once did and can no longer believe in. and not for a second does anyone suspect him bc hes played the part so well. and! importantly! he doesnt need acknowledgement or thanks or even his enemies (and they are his enemies) to know that it was him or why. he just needs it done. so it is.

[silly-jellyghoty]

I chose flood because while i never been in one that actually did more than spilled over some grass next to the stream, other things just don't happen where i live ever. The biggest earthquake we had some 15 years ago was like strength of 2 and people didn't even know about it until news told us that it was caught on some seismographs in local natural science institute. Volcanoes? None. Wildfires? None. Tornadoes? The best we can do is a dust devil. Hurricanes and tsunami? Too deep inland and on the wrong side of the ocean. Blizzards? Thanks to the global change of clima i didn't see any snowcover higher than 3cm in over a decade, at least not here in lowlands, mountains get some, but not enough for avalanches. We get some heavy rains every now and then and every year in some villages someone gets their underground garrages flooded or something but that's about it

I'm really curious about this!! in aotearoa, every classroom I was in growing up had posters up on how to respond to an earthquake. "drop, cover, hold" was drilled into me from a very young age. I experienced a few growing up, but they were mild because I don't live in areas where they are more extreme. One of our major cities, christchurch/ōtautahi, gets hit by earthquakes very frequently. if you look at a global seismic hazard map, aotearoa is fully lit up in the colour indicating high hazard chance. wild!!!

for reference, in the UK (similar size country) there are around 20-30 noticeable earthquakes per year. in aotearoa, that number is around 100-250!

[clioerato]

No Upside Down AU Hawkins, 1985

Eddie finds Steve — bruised, bloody, and covered in cuts. He stares at the former King of Hawkins High in total shock and horror, but he can’t not help him. Steve doesn’t say much. Just mutters something about a fight with Billy. Eddie’s not buying it — not when Billy clearly tried to rearrange Steve’s face.

But Eddie figures it’s none of his business. He drives Steve home and, at the last second, decides to stay the night. Because the house is cold and empty. Because Steve is trembling and asks him to. Eddie says yes.

And then things get weird.

Billy shows up in the middle of the night, pounding on the front door and screaming things like “You’re mine, I’m not letting you go” and “You know who you belong to.” Eddie’s like… what the actual hell. Billy is not just angry — he’s obsessed. Unhinged. Raging.

Steve stands in the doorway with a bat like it’s the most normal thing in the world and somehow manages to scare Billy off. Later, Eddie, still processing all this, asks, “How the hell did you get involved with that drug dealer? He’s been totally losing it lately.” And Steve just blinks and says, “Drug dealer?”

Yep.

Billy’s been dealing. For a while now. Only what he’s dealing (and using) isn’t just drugs. It’s… something new. Something big.

Whatever it is, it messes people up. Makes them paranoid, violent. Like kill-your-best-friend-for-dropping-your-bookkind of messed up. Steve starts piecing it together — the mood swings, the rage, the obsession. Sure, Billy always had a temper, but this? This is something else.

Slowly, Steve and Eddie realize: Billy isn’t just a dealer. He’s popular. He’s at the top of the high school food chain. People follow him. People like him. Which means it’s only a matter of time before half the school is tripping on this new drug, and Hawkins High turns into a teenage warzone.

And no, they can’t go to the cops. Steve got into a fight with Billy — the police will write it off as boys being boys. Power struggles. Teen drama. Nothing serious.

No one’s going to believe Eddie. He’s already the town freak.

So Steve’s got a list of problems:

Save Max. Because even in this universe, Steve’s forehead may as well have “Mom #1” tattooed across it in neon. And Billy? Billy already beat Steve half to death — Steve doesn’t want to imagine what he’d do to a kid. So yeah, Steve might have to commit a little casual kidnapping to get Max out of that trailer. Which, legally, looks real bad: eighteen-year-old steals child. Not great.

Act fast. Billy’s popularity plus brain-melting drugs is a house fire — and it’s spreading. Fast. Steve doesn’t have the luxury of waiting for the cops to connect dots.

He needs Eddie. Because Eddie knows the local drug scene. Because Eddie lives in the same trailer park as Billy. Because Eddie watches people — and no one would suspect him if he starts watching Billy a little closer.

Try to reach Billy. (Not that Steve says this out loud.) Because... there was something between them. Calling it a relationship might be pushing it — Billy is a walking disaster of internalized homophobia and unresolved trauma — but something happened. And now? Billy’s completely lost in a violent swirl of want, hate, jealousy, love, addiction.

Steve can’t go to the cops and say, “I’m being stalked by another guy.” It’s Hawkins, 1985. That’s not how it works.

He’s alone. Still living in that empty house. Billy already broke in once. And who can he talk to? Dustin? What, trauma-dump on a literal child? Nancy? Oh yeah, let’s tell your ex you were kind-of-sort-of sex with Billy Hargrove. Great idea.

So he’s left with Eddie. And Eddie stays. They don’t get along perfectly at first. But over time, they start to understand each other. Steve starts to feel… something. Something warm. Scary. He’s falling. And it terrifies him. Because what if Eddie finds out he’s bi? What if he freaks out and leaves? (Yeah yeah, I’ve read a hundred fics where Eddie’s terrified that Steve will find out he’s gay. I want the reverse. I want Steve watching Eddie glance at Chrissy and thinking, “Damn. I’m screwed.”)

Oh, and throw in a conspiracy theory or two — just for spice. What’s with that weird government-funded science lab on the edge of town? Why are the drugs so experimental? And what the hell is the “Hawkins Upside Down Program – 1986”?

P.S. If you want Steve to have a something like full-blown bisexual crisis, let it be over the fact that he clearly has a type. And that type is drug dealers.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Heart of the Matter--Chapter 2: Encounters

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black Female OC x Joe.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

_________________

It’s not lost on Joe, now, two weeks after his charity event that when he agreed to keep in touch with Trey he didn’t get any means of doing so. Joe’s not on social media all that much. The late night venture onto Marlowe’s Instagram page didn’t count either. He’d looked mostly out of intrigue and only partially thinly veiled professional interest--not that he was looking for a makeup artist. However, he could say he’d been looking to find local businesses to support, to give back to his community in ways he could. Joe would never attest in a court of law of practicing the response in the mirror as he shaved, but he did practice the response in the mirror as he shaved. 

With Trey’s social dark of any personal postings, except for the passing of his mother, in the last year or--Joe hadn’t had enough time to go further back than 2024, late 2023, before the Zoom interview started about his charity event--coupled with Joe’s aversion to social media, there’s seemingly very little in the way of actually getting connected personally. Of course the people who represented Trey could reach the committee and the committee would reach Joe and vice versa, but that’s awkward and slow. 

The universe would work it out. It always did. But Joe’s still reeling. That night still doesn’t feel real. Doesn’t feel like it actually happened and Joe regrets, in a mostly intangible fleeting sense, not getting a picture with Trey—to cement quite possibly one of the best moments of his life. That is until his email pings off his laptop. 

Final Edits from Charity Event reads the subject line. Joe clicks onto the email with little hesitation. He asked to be forwarded the final edits, in the hopes that maybe someone snapped a shot of him and Trey. Inside the chain of emails he can see the final invoice and final receipt of payment before he gets to the very end and there’s a link to a Dropbox. 

The first few photos are of him, during his speech and some of him posing with high name guests. There’s pictures of Joe with Tee and Ja’Marr, alongside other members of the team. There’s shots of guests, people who Joe doesn’t know and doesn’t recognize talking and laughing and posing. And there in the bottom batch is a candid of Joe smiling next to Trey--both of them are smiling, attention focused solely on each other. 

Thank the high fucking heavens for the universe. Joe’s downloading photographs faster than his computer can finish downloading the one previous—a string of links in his browser's notification. He’s swift to send the ones with Ja’Marr and Tee to them before his fingers hover over the one with Dominic. 

It’s a long shot. Joe knows that. But Joe’s not immune or scared of long shots. So he downloads the photo to his phone, scrambling to get the device into his hands, and opens Instagram before he can really think twice about it. Still in shock after meeting this legend, he captions and tags Trey’s account. Long shot or not he’s going to take it. 

The likes crop up in the tiny bubble. Joe can see it like a red beacon on his tiny screen from the corner of his eye. But all he can do is stare at the photograph, tell himself that night was real. And the longer Joe stares, the more he starts to see--the table, the way Trey’s hand is frozen between them like they’d just shaken hands or were about to shake hands. The shots angled, holding only three-fourths of Trey’s face, and all of Joe, over his shoulder too.

In the wee distance, in the specs of his screen, Joe realizes now in the background Marlowe’s walking up. The kid on her hip gives her away. Her hands full of the little girl and the plate. He’d seen her, briefly, before she’d left for the restrooms. Joe exhales, thinks back to the way she sounded on the video, how she laughed. He’d spent an hour that night going through her page after he mustered up the courage to continue scrolling. The caption for her grandmother rocked him and he partially wondered if the named Malia would make an appearance. Not that Joe thought it would be good news, but still he wanted those glimpses, wanted to see Marlowe again, and again, even in the tiny boxes on the screen. 

But each new post made him stop, savoring the sharpness of Marlowe’s gaze. Joe spent several minutes with each post, counting the golden dots around her face--two nostril piercings connected with a chain, a septum, her ears are a treasure trove of circles and studs. The divot of her top lip cradling a teardrop golden piece of jewelry, nestled perfectly into the cupid’s bow. None of this overpowers her face, never makes her look like she’s drowning. She wears the piercings. It’s her brows, her eyes, her nose, her lips that carry each piece of gold, as if without her they’d be nothing. 

He can’t tag her--it’d feel inappropriate. The picture is not about her and they hadn’t really talked. Joe can only stare, watching her in the distance of the photograph, knowing that in just moments, mere seconds she will come up next to him and whisper like the winds to get her father’s attention. Marlowe in the photograph has not yet dropped into Joe’s world--still a thought that he didn’t know he’d want to exist. 

Now, she does and Joe’s never been more grateful for such existence nor has he ever been more cursed to not know what to do about it either--if he could or should reach out given how few words were really exchanged between them. 

_________________________

“We gotta get you out,” Ja’Marr laughs. “For something other than work, you know.”

“I get out plenty.” Joe’s retort feels weak, even to him, but he has to return Ja’Marr’s prod with something.

Getting out involved the ever increasing risk of being spotted. People asking for photos is one thing, a thing Joe can handle as a part of his job. The sneaking of photographs and videos is the thing that gets him, the thing that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up at times. It’s reality that makes him glance over his shoulder, makes him crave anonymity more than anything. Joe couldn’t take back that he is famous. In the last year or so, that reality settled a bit more. Made him feel a bit more at ease at living his life the way he wanted. Even if at times it still felt like too much. 

The truth of the matter is that he’d never be able to control and account for it all. There would be some variable, some part of the equation that Joe would just miss. It would elude him. Being famous had its perks--however seldom that he truly felt like he could bask in that, but a lot of the time Joe felt like it was a looming guillotine. Like if he wasn’t careful the blade would come down on him faster than he could blink. 

Yet, getting out is still the hard part. It’s still the piece of Joe’s life that he can’t work out. Because he’s used to working, used to eating, sleeping, shitting, breathing football. Because that’s what he wants. Joe wants football. Fame is just the byproduct, not exactly a waste, but a reaction, a consequence to his own desires. 

“How many are dining today?” 

“Three,” Joe returns and the group follows behind the hostess to their table. Joe, Ja’Marr, and Tee settle around the circular table, menus handed to them.

“Your server will be right with you.” She turns, heads back to the podium and the bricked walls of Jeff Ruby’s are softly lit in the evening hour. The February sun still sets much too soon for comfort though it’s just on the brink of promise, whispering out hope, but not quite reaching it. 

“Visiting your moms isn’t getting out,” Ja’Marr finally counters. 

“This is like beating a dead horse,” Tee interjects. “We already know what it is from ‘im. He gon do a little something slight and then do some work out in LA and disappear until camp.”

“Yeah, if he likes it, I love it, I guess. But still. It stands. If I ain’t know you, Burrow, I’d say you’re a ghost.” Leave it to Ja’Marr to need to have something to say. 

Not that it bothers Joe. It’s the same kind of brotherly jabs he expects from his actual brothers. The ribbing is a sign of affection, even if it doesn’t always look like it from the outside. “Good thing you know me.” Leave it to Joe to need to have the last word, never good at starting it, but it will be taken in good jest. 

“You ever hear back from Dominic?” Tee asks, still attempting to drive the conversation away from the woes of Joe’s offseason so far.  

Ja’Marr’s hum is a sound of agreement, the slight bemused curl to his lip giving away his true feelings to Joe’s quip. Yet, he stays focused on the menu they’ve eaten off of numerous times. Joe turns to Tee with a shake of his head at the question. “Not yet.”

Joe won’t lose hope. Can’t afford it. He’d actually managed to not only send an invitation to Trey but got a response, and got Trey to show up to the event. That’s still a win, still something to hold onto. The universe would still be at work. Not that Joe is sure what he’d ask of Trey should he ever hear anything back. But that’s the kind of worry that’s better suited when the opportunity presents itself, not here, not now. 

“I still can’t believe you haven’t been here yet.” A group settles in to the left of Joe. The voice floats now, a clicking and scraping of chairs around their words. The kind of conversation that lets Joe know there’s someone, but not anything that would make Joe leave his current conversation. 

“Maybe you’ll get something soon. It’s pretty well known Dominic doesn’t come out much, but you said the conversation went well, so,” Tee offers with a shrug, as a well intended piece of encouragement. 

Joe nods and just as Joe opens his mouth to speak, the slightly rough edges come out instead of his own voice. “I’m hardly in Cincinnati longer than two seconds. You know this. But it looks nice so far.”

Joe’s only heard that voice in recordings--on the reels on Instagram that he spent much too long watching. He argued with himself on if he should like more and opted instead to save them, to return to them later. He hasn’t yet. Knows the videos of Marlowe exist, that they haunt him each time he picks up his phone because he could go to them. He could see her again like that. But he hadn’t had the foggiest ideas on how to reach out to her. An Instagram DM felt trivial. Though he drafted several, Joe just couldn’t bear the weight of pressing send. He cringed at himself for the several iterations, Hey, we met briefly at an event a couple weeks back. Wanted to say thank you for your support. All the way up to, This probably seems crazy, and I know we really didn’t talk much when we ran into each other a couple weeks back, at a charity event. But I quite literally keep thinking about you. 

To say Joe knows that voice anywhere is outlandish. How could he know a voice anywhere that he’s only heard on his phone, through an app where pictures and videos are meant to be shared with the thousands and thoughts, and damn near millions of people who use the app. He’d spent a night watching, saving, desperate for the next fix--the next smile of hers or the next Hi, y’all. 

Joe knows that voice anywhere. 

He cuts his gaze to find a group of four, settled now to his left. Marlowe sits diagonal to him. Her gaze fixed on the single piece of the menu, one rather large menu. She’s still dripping like the sun with gold. Joe’s chest tightens and he forces his gaze back to Tee. “If nothing happens, nothing happens. If something happens, something happens,” Joe returns, voice tight in his throat. 

Holy fuck. She’s right there. 

“You good?”

Joe nods at Ja’Marr’s question, feeling the tight squeeze at his throat. The server comes by and pours their glasses of water, to which Joe immediately takes down nearly half the glass. Marlowe is right fucking there. A prayer answered and Joe’s not sure what the fuck to do. If watching her videos on Instagram made him feel like a horny teenager, sitting across from her is the scale breaking experience. He feels thrilled, scared, and a little light headed. 

Joe’s ears echo over, the voices of Ja’Marr and Tee, and even the server, fading into a muffled background as Joe listens to the thundering of his heart, the rush of blood warming his face, neck, and chest. His mother complained about hot flashes as she got older, huffed that she wasn’t sure if she was ready for menopause or not, and he wonders if this is what she’s experienced. A bone chilling sweat, the heat in his face and neck making his pits wet. 

Marlowe is right fucking there. 

“Joe?”

The sound of his name cuts through the nerves, shatters the muffled echo into shards. Tee’s eyes are painted with concern when the two of them lock gazes. “Your usual right?”

“Uh,” Joe starts, then clears his throat before looking back down at the menu. He’s pretending. The words swirl in his vision, black ink and letters dancing over the off white menu. “Yeah, yeah,” he concludes, glancing back up to the server. It feels awkward to order the steak named after himself, his own name coming off his tongue thick. 

The server nods. “Of course.”

His glass is refilled again before the menus are collected and now Joe wishes he had something to fill his senses with, something to hold onto or to do that’s not stare down at his plate and be so painfully aware of how close Marlowe is to him. 

“Dude, you really should be called Ritz right now. Didn’t think you could get any whiter, but you’re just as pale as that t-shirt,” Ja’Marr teases. 

“What’s up?” Tee questions, pushing up in his seat as he does. 

The thing Joe had omitted, when recounting the story of meeting Trey was of course, Marlowe. Only for her to come sweeping in. Joe listens now, catching their conversation in bits about the job Marlowe took up in New York and the next one in Atlanta she’s gearing up for in another two weeks. Then in April she has shoots in Los Angeles to attend too as well. If the definition of booked and busy needed a picture, Joe is sure Marlowe’s would be there. 

There’s no way out of this. No way for Joe to recover from this kind of blunder. “Just,” he starts with a hiss. “One second.” He takes out his phone fingers drafting over the keyboard to the group chat they’re all in. 

Met Trey’s daughter briefly at the event. She’s sitting at the table to my left. Short hair and piercings. May or may not have stalked her IG. Joe could lie but the ever watchful gazes of his friends would see through it. So he leaves it to chance, to the game of possibility for them to decide. 

Their phones shake against the cutlery. Joe urges them to check with a quick glimpse of both turned over devices on the table. They reach damn near in unison, worried brows contorted as Ja’Marr and Tee glance at each other before reading the text. Ja’Marr snorts, his laughter shaking his shoulder before he turns his head away, right in the direction of Marlowe’s table. 

Tee’s grin is wide, an approving head nod bouncing on his shoulders. Joe’s phone shakes. I saw her at the event too. Had a kid with her so I ain’t say nothing comes the response from Tee. He pairs the first sentence with the inclusion of the pair of eyes emoji, glancing into the imaginary corner. 

Ja’Marr’s reply buzzes the phone again. Didn’t think she’d be your type. 

“I don’t have a type,” Joe huffs, reaching for his glass again. This sip is much smaller. 

“Your track record says otherwise. But I’m impressed, Burrow. Very impressed. A fine choice, I must say. You made a move?”

“Not yet,” Joe answer. 

“Now, wait a minute, what’s her name? Penelope? Paige? I thought you and her were still going at it? Or is that done?” Ja’Marr eyes dazzle, like he already knows the answer. 

Paige hadn’t been a thought to Joe in weeks. He liked her well enough. She was a fun time. But Joe sometimes being with her made his stomach uneasy. She wasn’t a bad person, but they both agreed it wouldn’t be serious. Yet her likes were somewhere on his page. Her comments were everywhere. Everytime he opened the damned app, which wasn’t often but still enough to see, she was everywhere. She was religious about texting, not a constant badgering but damn near close. 

For something casual, Paige definitely wasn’t acting casual. 

“Paige,” Joe begrudgingly corrects. “It’s casual but dead.”

“Since when?” Ja’Marr presses. 

Since Marlowe, but Joe can’t say that. And he probably shouldn’t have said it’s dead anywhere since Paige didn’t know it either. “Couple weeks back.”

“So if you’re with Paige anymore, why not make a move?”

“I was never with Paige. And because we,” Joe pauses, eyes dancing to Marlowe who’s still wrapped up in her conversation, “met…briefly, so I don’t want to come across as creepy.”

“Creepy or too scared?”

And there--there is fucking is. Joe is fucking terrified. More so of Marlowe than meeting Trey, a feat he didn’t think anyone or anything could surpass. Not even the SuperBowl appearance rattled Joe’s nerves this much. “First impressions are important, you know.”

“Burrow’s got a crush. Burrow’s got a crush,” Ja’Marr teases softly, a sing-song cadence to his voice that manages to irritate Joe more than he cares to let on. 

Because Joe does have a crush. He fucking does and he’s not 16 anymore in his small town, awkward and unsure of himself with girls. He’s fucking 28 now. He’s a professional athlete. He’s put in the work--day in and day out. And one woman, one simple look has reduced him to literal liquid in his flesh, leaves him hot and flushed. 

“Shut up, Ja’Marr please. You sound like cats dying,” Joe jabs, wants to find the spot that will make Ja’Marr leave him alone. 

The retaliatory jab leaves Ja’Marr unaffected, his grin still bright on his face. “Ain’t never said I was a singer.”

Joe’s phone buzzes and he hazards a peek, to make sure it’s not his mom, to find a text from Paige. It’s lonely over here. If I didn’t know any better, Joey. I would say you’re ignoring. 

Joe swipes the notification off his home screen, turning his attention instead back to the teasing grins of Ja’Marr and Tee. “So what’s the next play here?” Ja’Marr questions. “Hmm. Right over there. Just waiting.”

“You two should quit while you’re behind,” Joe huffs in return. It takes ten minutes, ten solid minutes to get the attention off himself between Ja’Marr outward teasing and Tee’s constant grin, his eyes drifting occasionally over to Marlowe and then back to Joe with a bouncing head nod. Because Joe’s not even sure what the right next move even is. Does he walk up to her? And then what? What would Joe even say?

Once the attention is off him, Joe exhales, falls back into the plush red velvet of the seat and does his damndest not to listen to Marlowe’s conversation, to not watch her from the corner of his eye. “Going out to dinner for your birthday is literally the bare fucking mininum.”

Joe’s been working on his steak slowly, trying not to make it obvious that he’s attempting to drag out every second he can get to be this close to Marlowe again. But the words from her friend--Joe doesn’t see who, just hears that it’s a softer voice out of the group--pause him. 

“I don’t like making a big fuss about my birthday,” Marlowe returns. Her fork settles back to her plate. “I like going out for dinner. Maybe a couple drinks, but it’s usually so cold for my birthday. Like right now, it’s freezing.” 

Winters in Ohio have a brutal edge, can be lethal even. Joe cuts another piece of his steak, slow as he goes to catch more of their conversation. Her birthday, Joe muses over the information. Knows he can’t do nothing now. Not with the window wide open in front of him. Not when this could hopefully be his way in. If a phrase could be a door, Joe is going to take the inch for a mile if he can. He’s going to walk through. 

“Okay, Mars is allowed to celebrate how she wants. She only turns 31 once and we won’t waste time with senseless arguing.” A deeper voice adds in. A voice that hasn’t interjected a lot. 

As the conversation continues around them, a low hum amongst the bites and clicks, Joe’s searching for the server--who’s thankfully been helping both tables--and when they pass by manages to flag them down. “Yes, is everything alright?”

“Yes, um, this is going to sound a little strange,” Joe prefaces keeping his voice low, though with the chatter of the restaurant he’s sure his voice won’t carry all that much. “Would I be able to send dessert to the lady at the table next to me? On my tab. She has short hair and piercings. Really pretty eyes.” Information Joe definitely does not need to give, and the second the words are out of his mouth Ja’Marr and Tee tap at each other, a soft sound, but Joe can see the rapid hands in the corner of his eyes. He continues on, “I heard it’s her birthday. But I don’t want it to be obvious unless she asks.”

“Yes, of course. What would you like to pass along?”

Joe’s not a big sweets guy--like to indulge occasionally, but doesn’t go for the sweet when the savory options are right there. So while he’s eaten here plenty of times he hasn’t exactly studied the dessert menu. “Could I look at a menu?”

“Yes, sorry, of course. One second.” 

“Our boy is doing big tings,” Tee teases. 

“Big tings,” comes the agreement, a fit of laughter bubbling between the two of them, shaking at each other's shoulders like children. 

That hot blush comes back, a creeping warmth up his face and Joe’s fucked. So entirely fucked because just as he goes to drop his head in his hands, he catches her eye. A nearly missed opportunity but Joe just happens to catch her. Marlowe smiles, flicking her gaze between Joe and Tee and Ja’Marr before looking back at Joe. He smiles, in what he hopes in an apologetic glance and not the one of longing he can feel in his chest. Because the three of them are being more than obvious and probably more than obnoxious. In the end, though, Marlowe shakes her hand, lips parting and Joe hopes-prays- it’s in laughter. He doesn’t let himself entertain the idea that she’s going to speak to him. Her attention is pulled back to her friends with just a simple, “So Mars-”

“Here’s the menu for you.”

Joe smiles as he takes the menu, his thank you falling automatic from his lips. It only takes Joe a minute, maybe even less as his eyes dart over the back page. “Kiss from a Rose, please.”

“One of the best. I’ll bring that as soon as it’s ready.”

Ja’Marr cackles--a full on, from his gut bursts of laughter, his feet tapping under the table against the floor. And if embarrassment could kill, if the guillotine Joe felt looming above him at times actually existed as a physical object and could be dropped, Joe would hope it would take him right now and with a clean kill--one final swoop of the blade.

“Look at our boy!” Ja’Marr howls. 

The tables around them are staring. Joe watches the eyes drifting their way and it feels like somehow there’s a giant red neon sign above his head alerting the entire restaurant to what he’s doing. Joe wants to die, wants to have his head removed clean off his shoulder. Tee’s not helping, hands clamped down on Joe’s shoulders as Tee excuses himself to the bathroom. The “Atta boy!” is soft before Tee fully leaves the table. 

Though it’s burning on his tongue to tell Ja’Marr to shut the fuck up, he can’t make it more  obvious. So Joe reaches for his glass of water. “Laugh it up. Wait until it’s your turn to be in the hot seat.”

Subtly, Joe realizes, is not Ja’Marr’s strong suit, not unless it’s professionally necessary. And Ja’Marr is the least subtle motherfucker at the table, across from Joe, with a grin bigger than his cheeks can seemingly hold. There will never be a moment, a time in the rest of Joe’s life where he will be able to live this moment down. Not that it worries Joe, but that it’s clear as Ja’Marr continues to giggle to himself at every glance up between bites, there will be no way for Joe to keep this from anyone else. 

Joe just hopes it all works out in the end. 

A few minutes after Tee returns to the bathroom, the server slips behind their table--the chocolate dessert in hand. It’s a lot more than Joe thought, a bright red rose nestled onto the serving tray alongside two bowls and a pitcher. The white dish is much larger than what he might’ve imagined. But he can’t take it back now. Joe can only watch as the server slips next to Marlowe, to her right. 

“A little birdie told us it’s your birthday,” the server states, settling the dish onto the table. A red rose shaped dessert sits in the middle of the plate.

“Which one of you did this?” she laughs, peering around at her friends. 

The server pours something over the flower, the petals frosting over instantly as they do. They hold the flower upside down by the stem above the white dish. “I’m going to have you clap, shatter it into a million.”

“Guys c’mon, who did this?” Marlowe asks again. 

“Wasn’t me,” a chorused phrase before it’s interrupted by, “But let me get a video!”

So Marlowe waits, hands poised on either side of the frozen petals and when she gets the all clear, she claps. The flash frozen petals fall into tiny pieces over the desert. More chocolate is added to the dish, around the edges of the petal covered center. “Okay, none of them are fessing up. You can tell me,” Marlowe starts peering up at the server. “Who told you it was my birthday and sent this? I bet it was Remi.”

Marlowe points across from her and Joe peers, now, to see a lighter skinned woman, hair straight as glass over her shoulders. The now named Remi shakes her head. “Wasn’t me, Mars.” The sound matches the softer voice Joe’s heard throughout the evening. 

“Sent via request from the gentleman at the table next to you,” the server answers, nodding in Joe’s direction.

The sentence makes Joe’s heart race. He looks away from Remi and Marlowe’s sharp gaze is eagled eyed on him, assessing by the narrowed in squint. Not scrutiny like she distrusts, but the furrow to her brow clearly gives away the momentary confusion. Her gaze softens, slowly, inch by inch the brows lift back into place. 

“Happy Birthday,” Joe offers. The smile feels shaky, echoes just how unsure he is now about the gesture. If it would be too much, or too forward. But Joe wouldn’t leave that kind of opportunity on the table. 

“Thank you, Joe.”

She knows my name. 

The thought runs on a loop, around and around in his brain. Yet somehow his response is still able to get through, the one that makes the most sense. “You’re welcome.”

But Joe’s brain plays: She knows my name on a loop, around and around, and around. His cheeks are flaming red; they have to be by the way his face feels. As if somehow he’s been left on a spit roast face down into the flames. Joe wants to look anywhere but at Marlowe, yet he can’t look away from her. Her eyes are a vortex that Joe would never fight himself against. So he’s sucked in, pinned to his seat, and holding the gaze of the most gorgeous woman he’s ever laid his eyes upon. 

And she knows his name. 

“You didn’t--you didn’t have to,” Marlowe continues, nodding down at the plate. “But still I appreciate it.”

“I wanted to.” Then the moment settles. Joe realizes what he’s actually done, without even considering if she liked chocolate or if it was safe for her to eat. Hell, could someone even be allergic to chocolate? That much Joe doesn’t know, but he is playing out the worst case scenario in his head--that she is somehow deathly allergic to chocolate--and he hopes he hasn’t made a fool out of himself. Hasn’t subjected his crush to her untimely end. Joe goes to apologize, goes to tell her she doesn’t have to consume anything if it’s not safe for her to do so, but he wanted her to have something nice. 

“Oooh, definition of if he wanted to, he would. Yes, lawd.”

Both tables laugh at the interjection and Joe finds a guy across from him, to the right of Marlowe, dawned in a shawl across his shoulders snapping his fingers—the deeper voice Joe’s heard sporadically throughout the night. Their gazes lock only for a moment and he nods at Joe. “Good on you, sir. Good on you. Now let’s exchange phone numbers. C’mon. Chop, chop I’m not letting you let this one go, Mars.”

“Q, I swear,” Marlowe hisses, her laughter bubbles out of her as she swats at him. It doesn’t connect, doesn’t look like it was meant to do so. But she stares down at the dessert for a moment, expression unreadable until she looks back at Joe. Her smile is shy and apologetic. “I am so sorry about him.”

“No,” Joe laughs, “it’s alright. He is right though.” Joe would be an idiot not to capitalize on the moment. The door just continues to open wider and wider and wider for him. The kind of sign that’s clear he should walk through. “I would like your number if that’s okay, Marlowe.” Her name tastes so sweet. Joe finds he likes the way the ‘L’ curls his tongue before it drops. Two syllables but it drips thick like honey over his lips. Before the name is even done, Joe wants another taste of it.

“How’d you--” she starts, then stops and shakes her head with a laugh. “My dad, huh?”

“He seemed very proud of himself for sticking around. Apparently, he needs good food to stay for an event.”

One brow arches, her eyes dancing with amusement. It’s dangerous. How quickly his heart rate spikes, how Joe keeps trying to make sure he’s reading this entire situation right. How much he wants to make a good second impression, considering he’d made a first one already without even realizing it. But Joe’s not going to pressure Marlowe, not going to keep poking and pressing where it’s clear he’s not wanted. Yet, he hasn’t gotten that sign yet, hasn’t seen anything that would make him think twice about pressing forward. 

The moment hangs between them, feels like it’s hanging on by a thread. His phone is just beneath his palm. He could flip it over so easily or leave it where it is, all depending on if Marlowe. 

“513,” she starts and then pauses. 

Joe flips his phone--doesn’t even lift it off the table, just turns it over-- cursing the restaurant for being as dark as it is under his breath as the Face ID shakes at him. It’s all index--the 6 digit passcode second nature to Joe by now and he immediately pulls up the phone app. “513,” Joe repeats back to himself, typing the digits in like he’s going to actually call it. The next seven float over to him with practiced ease. Perfectly spaced with enough time for Joe to type in each digit. 

He reads back all ten digits and looks up to Marlowe, ears ringing again--desperate now to cling to reality. She lifts up her phone, nodding and Joe’s not sure what he’s trying to convey but a hand slips in--Tee’s or Ja’Marr’s Joe can’t tell at the moment-- and taps the dial. Her phone lights up just a second later, ringing and ringing and Joe’s own number stares back at him. 

Joe ends the call and smiles—a genuine and bright stretch across his face. “So you can tell me how it is.” 

Marlowe’s head ducks immediately, her lips curled into a smile but Joe would’ve never pegged her as the shy type. His chest surges, makes his whole body warm that he can make her flustered like this. The wolf whistles don’t seem to help her. And Joe cuts his eyes to Ja’Marr and Tee—hot and direct—who immediately cease but dissolve into a fit of laughter. 

Her friends laugh at her, but she gives her thanks to Joe once again. And he doesn’t linger, doesn’t wait to see if she eats the dessert or not. Because Joe’s on fucking cloud nine. His skin buzzes as he signs the receipt after his card is run. 

In his car, halfway home, paused at a stop light, Joe’s phone shakes. The thick winter night wrapped around the outside in a heavy dark cut only by street lamps and headlights from cars and the rattling from the cup holder before the text flashes across his infotainment screen, It’s really good. You have great taste. Thanks again. 

February 11th, Joe is sure, as he takes off from the green light is a date that he’s never going to forget.

[emerald-dragonflame]

Autobot Character Lineup

Some general worldbuilding things

This particular fan project is set on a moon of a gas giant, where the local population of sapient species aren’t humans, but flying cat-like creatures known as sphinxes. Cybertronians are mechanical, but they do have some noticeable similarities to organic life. They can eat food, have soft squishy insides, and have biology similar to that of most organic life, just replace muscles with stuff like rubber. They’re like arthropods, in the sense that most of their “bone structure” is actually the chitin like armor protecting their more squishy bits (best way to tell what’s squishy and what’s not, check the color of a cybertronian’s face, anything that is that same color is usually their soft bits). They still need energon to survive, and the Well of Allsparks to reproduce, but in all intents and purposes, these cybertronians are basically just metallic crab people.

Optimus Prime

If you’ve ever watched Transformers Animated, he’s basically like that in this version, just a little older, and a little more solemn. Primes in this project are also more abundant than in other continuities (meaning we may even see a Sentinel or even Rodimus Prime), as Optimus isn’t even the oldest or leader of the Primes. However, that doesn’t mean that he’s any less of a good and strong leader. Those under him respect him, and he’s one hell of a great tactician and fighter, however he has one fatal flaw; he and Megatron used to be friends, and he believes that the old mech that Megatron used to be is still in there somewhere. Most believe that if Optimus finally stopped pulling his punches, the war would have ended before it even started.

This is especially true for his conjux endura, Elita-One. Basically the equivalent to his wife, she most certainly understands Optimus’ wish for a more peaceful solution to this millennias old conflict, but she also understands that their dying species needs this conflict to end. And the longer they wait, the more will die. He knows this, she knows this, yet he still tries…

Elita-One

The second in command, and besides Optimus, the one with the most battlefield experience, Elita is a bit more cutthroat and cold compared to her conjux. While he’s warm, kind, and tries to see the good in everyone, she is a lot less forgiving. They’re in the middle of a war, Cybertron is dead, there will be no next generation, and her beloved is trying to see the good in an evil dictator. Still, she can’t help but love and admire his spark. She did also know Megatron before he became the leader of the Decepticons, but for a shorter period of time, so she does understand, if only a little.

Outside of this, Elita tends to be the gentle mentor of the team, willing to be the sage, if stern, guide if needed. Her team, her family, is precious to her, and she will tear through legions of enemy forces to keep them safe.

Ratchet

The eldest, and most worn down of the team, the mech has been a medic for his entire adult life. Meaning he’s been doing this since Optimus was a little sparkling. Ratchet is the grumpy, crotchety old mech that you would expect, if not a little more mischievous than you’d expect. He can read people like a book, and uses it to his advantage to get his team get people to take their diagnostics seriously damnit! Dying of rust is no joke! Outside of that rough exterior, he does have a soft spot for his sphinx companion, Mokrem, who also happens to be (technically) the second oldest of the group (since cybertronians can live for millions of years, she’s obviously far younger than he is, but in reference to her species, she’s about 45 while he’s around 60). The two of them constantly hang around each other, joking, and “complaining” about how the youngins are acting childish. They do prefer the company of each other, rather than their own species, but neither of them would admit that.

Powerglide

The hotshot, the mech of the hour, the flier extraordinaire, the bastard who will not shut up, he’s the third most experienced with battle (or second least, depending on who you ask). He was the cybertronian that made first contact with a young disabled sphinx known as Velkì, thankfully she found him charming, otherwise with Powerglide’s track record of failing spectacularly at diplomacy, the Autobots would have probably been seen just as bad, if not worse than the Decepticons. He’s one of the very few Autobots that can fly not in an alt mode, and definitely takes a liking to this little moon with it’s flying species, taking in the culture and the sights, he’s probably the one that loves this moon the most out of all the Autobots. He especially loves Velkì, since she was the first friend he made here, and he loves making her feel like she can fly, despite her inability to do so on her own.

He and Bumblebee are the young bucks of the team, and they do know it, so they tend to kinda get away with a lot. Especially Bumblebee and Tìr.

Bumblebee

Outside of Tìr, Bee is the youngest of the group. The human equivalent would probably be a preteen/early teen. He’s a scout, with the least amount of experience, and the only beastformer of the team (a bumblebee… duh). Optimus tends to try and keep him out of harms way, mostly due to his age, and in the slight chance that if the Well of Allsparks is ever fixed, the youngest generation is needed to continue on with the species. Optimus does this to Powerglide, too, but to a lesser extent.

Bee is quite the trickster, he loves playing pranks on literally everybody, and isn’t afraid of doing it to people like Optimus Prime, or Ratchet (pranking a Prime is equivalent to throwing a water balloon at the king. It’s not illegal, but man is it dumb). Thankfully, Prime is pretty chill… Ratchet on the other hand… yeah. Since he and Tìr were the youngest, it was decided that they’d be partnered together, which was a horrible idea, leading the two most chaotic duo of the entire team. Do not leave the children alone

Velkì

A young adult sphinx with the inability to fly. That isn’t the first thing she’d want you to know about her, but it’s the first thing you notice, as one of her wings is severely underdeveloped. The real first thing that she’d like you to know about her is that she’s a baker, and a very good one at that. So good in fact, that she hoped that it would deter people from asking about her wings. It doesn’t, but she tries. She’s the type to think she’s the most boring molly in the world, but she will talk your ear off if you let her. Powerglide doesn’t seem to mind, tho she is a bit of a tsundere and would never admit how much she likes her Autobot companion. She’ll bite you saying that she hates you, while purring like a freight train, and rubbing all over you. She’ll bite has a squishy center, she’s just gotta let you in first.

Mokrem

The eldest of the sphinxes, and an archivist, Mokrem is really not the biggest fan of her own kind. Not that she hates them, just that she’s had a lot of bad experiences with other sphinxes to make her a little wary, meaning when it comes to Velkì and Tìr, she’s a bit prickly. Ratchet on the other hand… she has no romantic feelings towards him, she’s far too old for that, and it’s far too odd for her liking, but she does love him dearly, and prefers his company above anyone else’s. She’s the type of molly to happily stay on the sidelines, learning about these new creatures that stumbled onto her world then go galavanting around with the younger generation. It does feel nice to feel important, though…

Tìr

Finally, the youngest, and smolest of the team, Tìr is Bumblebee’s companion, and he is a rocket ship of happy go lucky charm, and energy pop rocks. The little tom has always been a little ball of sunshine, and was even more so when these huge metal monsters came clambering onto his world. Every little tom’s dream, and he had to be a part of it. It’s so cool!

[imnotkaizer]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Feels Aubrey G. ➟ based on this request strap on. (r!receive.) fingering. (r!receive)

( i hope i did your request justince and im so sorry it took so long) hi sweet girl @your-local-bi-panic ⊹ ࣪ ˖ )

The late October air in Storrs Connecticut carried a crisp bite, the kind that made you pull your jacket tighter and quicken your steps across the sprawling UConn campus.

The leaves had turned fiery shades of red and orange crunching underfoot as students hurried to classes or lingered outside Gampel Pavilion where the buzz of the upcoming basketball season was palpable.

Inside the arena, the UConn women’s basketball team was in full swing preparing for another championship run.

Among them was Aubrey Griffin, a senior forward whose athletic prowess and quiet intensity made her a fan favorite and a cornerstone of the team.

Aubrey was your girlfriend and the two of you had been inseparable since meeting during your freshman year.

It started with stolen glances in the library late night study sessions that turned into laughter filled coffee runs and eventually a shy confession of feelings under the glow of string lights at a team bonfire.

Three years later you were her biggest cheerleader sitting front row at every game wearing her jersey number proudly.

Your relationship was the kind people envied built on trust shared dreams and the kind of love that felt like it could weather anything.

But lately, something had shifted, You’d been spending more time with your childhood best friend, Jamie, who had recently transferred to UConn.

Jamie was a constant from your past the one who knew every embarrassing story from middle school, who could make you laugh until your sides hurt with just a look.

You’d been thrilled when Jamie moved to Storrs eager to reconnect and show them around.

Lunches turned into long walks around campus study sessions stretched into late-night pizza runs and soon, you were spending more time with Jamie than with Aubrey.

You didnt think much of it at first, jamie was just a friend, after all but Aubrey noticed.

She noticed the way you’d light up when you talked about Jamie the way you’d cancel plans with her to hang out with them the way you seemed distracted even when you were together.

Aubrey wasn’t one to wear her heart on her sleeve she was tough, focused, the kind of person who let her actions speak louder than words. But the growing distance between you was eating at her and a quiet insecurity began to fester.

The locker room smelled of sweat and Bengay the air thick with the post-practice hum of chatter and laughter.

The UConn women’s basketball team was sprawled across benches some peeling off tape others scrolling through their phones.

Aubrey sat in the corner her practice jersey still on her hands fidgeting with the laces of her sneakers. Her teammate, Paige, plopped down beside her, tossing a towel over her shoulder.

"You good, Griff?" Paige asked, her tone casual but her eyes shar, she’d known Aubrey long enough to spot when something was off.

Aubrey shrugged forcing a half-smile. "yeah, just tired."

"Bullshit" Paige said, nudging her. “You’ve been moping all week. whats up?”

Aubrey hesitated, she wasn’t one to air her feelings, especially not in a locker room full of teammates.

But Paige had a way of pulling things out of her and before she knew it the words were spilling.

"Its >name<" she admitted, her voice low "Shes been… different lately, always with jamie, you know? Her childhood friend. they’re together all the time, and it’s like I’m barely there anymore."

Paige raised an eyebrow. "You jealous?" Aubrey’s cheeks flushed. "im not jealous" she said quickly, but the defensiveness in her tone betrayed her.

"It’s just… I dont know. What if shes pulling away? What if Jamie’s more than just a friend?"

KK, who’d been eavesdropping from the next bench, chimed in. "Have you talked to her about it?" Aubrey shook her head.

"I dont even know how to bring it up without sounding like an idiot."

"You gotta communicate, Griff" Paige said, her voice firm but kind.

"You can’t just sit there stewing, tell her how you feel. If she loves you—and she does—she’ll listen."

"Yeah" KK added. "You’re Aubrey freaking Griffin. You don’t back down on the court, and you don’t back down in your relationship. Go talk to her."

Aubrey nodded but the thought of confronting you made her stomach twist, she wasnt good with words not when it came to something this raw.

Still, the idea of losing you or worse, watching you slip away to someone else was unbearable. She made up her mind. She’d go to your dorm tonight and figure out a way to say what was eating at her.

The knock on your dorm room door came sharp and urgent cutting through the quiet hum of your playlist and the rustle of pages as you flipped through a textbook.

It was late the October night outside your window cloaked in a chilly darkness the UConn campus hushed except for the occasional laughter of students passing by.

You glanced at the clock—9:47 p.m.—and frowned.

Your roommate was out for the night, and you weren’t expecting anyone. "Come in!" you called, setting your book aside and sitting up on your bed the fairy lights above your desk casting a soft golden glow across the room.

The door swung open and Aubrey stepped inside her tall athletic frame filling the doorway.

she was still in her practice gear navy UConn hoodie sweatpants sneakers unlaced like she’d rushed over straight from the gym.

Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun strands escaping to frame her face but it was her expression that made your stomach twist.

Her jaw was tight her eyes dark and stormy "Hey" you said your voice tentative as you stood sensing the weight of her mood.

"You okay? I didnt know you were coming over." Aubrey closed the door behind her with a soft click leaning against it for a moment as if steeling herself.

Her hands were stuffed in the pockets of her hoodie her shoulders hunched slightly and she didnt answer right away.

Instead she looked at you her gaze intense searching like she was trying to find something in your face to hold onto. "I need to talk to you" she said finally her voice low edged with a tremor that wasn’t like her.

Aubrey was always steady the unflappable forward who dominated on the court but now she seemed… unmoored

"Okay" you said taking a step closer your heart picking up speed. "Whats going on?" She opened her mouth, then closed it, her lips pressing into a thin line.

You could see the struggle in her eyes the way her brows furrowed as she tried to find the words.

She’d come here to say something about Jamie, about the way you’d been drifting, about the jealousy that had been gnawing at her but now, standing in front of you, the words wouldn’t come.

They felt too big too messy, how could she explain the ache in her chest every time you laughed at one of Jamie’s jokes, the way her stomach twisted when you canceled plans to hang out with your childhood friend, the fear that she was losing you?

"Aubrey" you said softly reaching out to touch her arm but before your hand could make contact, she moved.

In two quick strides she closed the distance between you her hands cupping your face as she kissed you.

It wasnt gentle or tentative—it was rough desperate, a collision of lips and teeth that stole your breath and sent a jolt of heat through your body.

Her kiss was a claim a release of everything she couldn’t say and you melted into it your hands gripping the front of her hoodie to anchor yourself against the intensity.

She backed you up until your legs hit the bed and you sank onto the mattress her body following pressing you down into the soft sheets.

Her lips never left yours her hands roaming with a possessive urgency sliding under your shirt to find the warmth of your skin.

When she finally pulled back her forehead rested against yours her breath ragged her eyes locked on yours with a fire that made your pulse race.

"I cant—" she started her voice hoarse but she didn’t finish.

Instead she kissed you again harder this time her tongue sweeping into your mouth as her hands tugged at your shirt pulling it over your head in one swift motion.

The cool air hit your skin but her touch was searing her fingers tracing the curve of your waist the dip of your collarbone before slipping lower.

"You’re mine" she murmured against your lips the words half growl, half-plea, as her fingers deftly unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them down with a roughness that sent a shiver through you.

She wasn’t holding back, her touch both commanding and desperate as if she needed to prove something to you, to herself.

Her fingers found you, teasing at first brushing against your most sensitive spots with a deliberate slowness that made you gasp and arch into her.

“Aubrey” you breathed your hands clutching at her shoulders your body already trembling under her touch.

She didn’t respond with words, her fingers moved with purpose slipping inside you with a rhythm that was both precise and relentless.

She was edging you pushing you to the brink of release only to pull back her touch a maddening dance of control that left you gasping begging for more.

Her lips brushed your ear her voice low and possessive as she whispered "I bet Jamie cant make you feel this way." The words hit you like a spark amplifying the heat pooling in your core, there was jealousy in her tone but also a raw vulnerability a need to know that she was the one who could unravel you like this.

"No one can" you managed your voice breaking as her fingers curled hitting just the right spot that made you cry out.

"Only you" The affirmation seemed to ignite her She kissed you again her lips fierce against yours as her fingers drove you over the edge your body shuddering with a release that left you breathless. But she didn’t stop.

Even as you trembled oversensitive and reeling, her touch continued pushing you past the point of pleasure into something, her fingers relentless in their pursuit of your reactions.

When you thought you couldn’t take any more she pulled back her eyes dark with intent as she reached for the drawer by your bed.

The strap was a familiar part of your intimacy and she secured it with a practiced ease her movements deliberate her gaze never leaving yours.

There was something almost primal in the way she looked at you like she was staking her claim all over again.

She guided you back onto the bed her hands rough but careful as she positioned you her lips brushing soft kisses along your jaw before she entered you.

The first thrust was slow deep drawing a moan from your lips as your body adjusted to the sensation.

But slow didnt last, her rhythm quickened each movement a mix of power and precision her hips driving into you with a force that felt like it was meant to mark you to remind you who you belonged to "Tell me you’re mine" she demanded her voice rough with emotion her hands gripping your hips as she set a punishing pace.

"Tell me you want this." "Im yours" you gasped your hands tangling in the sheets your body arching to meet her thrusts.

"I want you, Aubrey, Only you.” Her lips crashed into yours swallowing your cries as she pushed you toward another climax her movements unrelenting her own breath hitching as she chased the connection between you.

"I bet Jamie cant make you feel this was" she said again the words a mantra a reassurance she needed as much as you did. "no one can." "no one" you echoed, your voice barely coherent as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

When you came again, it was with a cry that she muffled with a kiss her own body trembling as she followed you over the edge her grip on you tightening as if she could hold you there forever.

For a moment you were both still the only sound in the room your ragged breathing and the faint hum of the heater, she collapsed beside you pulling you into her arms her hold fierce and protective.

The strap was discarded somewhere in the tangle of sheets but her hands never left you her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin as if to reassure herself you were still there.

"Im sorry" she whispered after a long silence her voice soft now, vulnerable. "I didnt know how to say it… I just— I was scared you were slipping away."

You turned to face her brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Im not going anywhere" you said, your voice steady despite the exhaustion settling into your bones. "Im sorry I made you feel like I was, jamies just a friend. You’re my everything."

🔖 — @addl0vee @mrsarnold @melpthatsme @bellaprintz25 @janaelalfysblunt @ellehoops @belsoulss @apbueckers @uwupaige @janaelalfysloml @paige05bby @azzisbueckers @paigeluvvr @giavonnii @jupitermoonbaby @shootingstarrrrr @dalilahissilly @luldejamleer @d7dream @gabbyygoo @bravemode @latenighttalkinqwp @avvwritesstufff @prettygirl-gabi @yailtsv @bebitts @heartsforari @usuallyshadowybasement @authentic-girl03 @private-but-not-a-secret @evanpeterstoe @destinybueckers44 @slaybaddietaytay @youmeandjennessey @starfulani @cherryswisherz @bueckersworld @paiges-1vur

[fangthroat]

also- i have been seeing a lot of creatures posting about therapy and being too scared to come out to their doctors! and that’s so valid. it is SO scary. but i had an experience and wanted to share because i think it’s important to know that you CAN kinda come out while still protecting yourself, not feeling like you have to divulge your entire identity to a somewhat stranger while also being honest about what you’re going through

i work with a nutrionist, for years now. she’s amazing and not only did she help me recover nearly entirely from my ED (i’m telling you, if you struggle with an ED or food trauma; see a nutrionist. if you have insurance they are almost always FREE! i never paid a copay once. it’s like a best friend to talk about food with that helps you repair your relationship with food. anti diet culture and body shaming. it’s amazing but that’s for another post)

she also helps me with issues regarding personal feelings, she listens to me and helps with ADHD, autism, depression and stressful life events because ALL of these things affect how you feel about and eat food. but idk why, maybe it’s because i’ve known her for so long and trusted her, but i simply started with this

for context: we were talking about inner childs and trauma therapy. inner child work or talking about how you process feelings (art therapy, poetry, journaling) is a great bridge to a convo like this

“ever since i was a kid my anxiety manifested as a rabbit. and my anger; my rage; my inner anger at myself manifested as a wolf. its developed more since then but it has stayed consistent even until now. i think in pictures and picturing myself as these animals and assigning them to my feelings, or using feeling like these animals to justify my experiences has always helped me”

and she wasn’t freaked out. she was interested, said it was so cool and amazing that i thought that way. that she struggled with seeing in pictures and that in doing that it is a great coping mechanism. i left that appointment knowing i didn’t really tell her i was therian, otherkin, etc. but i did leave being more honest. feeling like i had shared a little bit more of my real self with someone. it was a good feeling, and lifted some weight off me.

if you have a good doctor you trust; this is a great way to test the waters. i want my fellow creatures to know there’s hope. there’s people out there who will listen. baby steps are important to preserving your safety and testing who you can trust. this helped me, i hope it can help you. i understand people feel otherkin/therian things differently on a wide spectrum, and maybe the way i worded it doesn’t resonate with you and that’s 100% valid. but if it does- you aren’t alone. and you can do it! just unravel a little at a time 🩶

love your local hellhound that wants to see you grow. always be safe with people you don’t know.

[synity]

Everyday Love, Extraordinary You

"What if…" you found someone who didn’t rush your heart? What if love wasn’t loud? Wasn’t dizzying? Wasn’t a storm? But instead a quiet sunrise, a hand always reaching for yours, a voice that says, "You don’t have to be strong today… I’ve got you."

You weren’t exactly sure when it happened, when Vernon went from that chill guy who made everyone laugh at rehearsals, to the person whose voice you now found more comforting than your favorite playlist.

Maybe it was the way he didn’t rush anything. The way he listened really listened and never tried to fix things unless you asked him to.

Maybe it was the fact that he always remembered the tiniest details. Like how you hate bananas in smoothies. Or that you need white noise to sleep, but only the soft rainfall kind, not the static ones.

"You're so specific," he’d tease. "It’s kinda cute."

You were the storm. Vernon was the calm. And somehow, you made perfect sense.

It was a random Wednesday when you had your breakdown exhausted, overwhelmed, everything building up all at once. You didn’t even call him. You just went home, flopped onto your bed, and let the silence eat at you.

Until you heard the jingle of keys. The soft creak of the front door opening.

He walked in like he lived there. Which, by now, he kind of did.

You didn’t even look up. Just let out a quiet, “Hey.”

He didn’t say anything back right away. Just walked over and sat next to you on the bed, gently pulled you into his lap, and let you bury your face into his hoodie.

“Bad day?” he murmured, rubbing soft circles into your back.

You nodded.

“Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head.

“Cool,” he said. And that was that.

No pressure. No fixing. Just Vernon holding you while the world slowed down again.

Later that night, you were curled up in his hoodie still his favorite on you while he scrolled through his phone and let you rest your legs across his lap.

"You doing okay now?" he asked, glancing at you.

"A bit better," you mumbled, reaching for his hand. "You always help, even when you don’t do anything."

He smirked. “I do plenty.”

"Like what?"

He leaned down and kissed your temple lazily. “I show up.”

And God, he did. Every time.

On the weekends, he'd take you to random little places cafes that only locals knew, record stores tucked into basements, quiet parks no one else really cared about.

But with Vernon, they felt like secret universes just for the two of you.

One Saturday, you had a picnic under an old tree. Vernon brought your favorite pastries and three different kinds of juice because, "I didn’t know which one you’d want today."

You teased, “Wow, you really know how to spoil a girl.”

He winked. “I’m not flashy like some men, but I got my ways.”

Later, while lying under the stars with his fingers laced in yours, you whispered, “I feel safest when I’m with you.”

And instead of responding with some poetic line, he just squeezed your hand tighter and kissed your knuckles. That was Vernon. Quiet love. Deep love.

He wasn't the guy to flood your phone with texts or bring home huge flower bouquets every week. But he’d let you pick the music in the car. He’d keep your favorite hoodie folded on the passenger seat. He’d record a short “good luck” voice memo if you had a big day. He’d remember your favorite part of every movie.

And on nights when you couldn’t sleep, he’d lie beside you, eyes half-closed, whispering, “It’s okay, I’m here,” until your breathing matched his.

You once asked him, “How do you know you love me?”

He looked up from his cereal, blinked, and said, “Because I don’t feel right when you’re not around.”

And then he added, “…Also, your laugh is the best part of my day. Every day.”

You blushed. “That’s kinda cheesy, Hansol.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but you like cheesy. Don’t lie.”

And maybe that was the magic of it all.

You didn’t need fireworks or fancy dates every week. You just needed Vernon quiet, calm, endlessly observant Vernon who loved you in the most real, effortless, heart-melting way possible.

[dearestmillls]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ a chapter with you

pairing: soft!rafe x reader summary: when rafe enters the local bookstore of the town he's staying in for christmas the least thing he expects is to be locked in by a snowstorm and to fall for the sweet little worker who helps him pick out a book for wheezie. warnings: fluff, smut wc: 2.6k

when your boss asked you to put in some extra hours the week before christmas you had been slightly annoyed but didn’t decline the request. you would never skip on some extra cash, and you just loved the feel of the used bookstore you worked in. 

the worn spines of the best sellers, the smell of dust particles in the air combined with the vanilla diffuser you set up, and mostly the unlimited access to books that you obtained. bookstores weren’t the most visited shops in the mall where you worked–that meant you had all the free time in the world to dive into the different universes that authors provided. 

in fact, you had been so entranced by a fantasy novel that you hadn’t heard the flurry of snowy wind pick up outside the shop windows, a snow storm that hadn’t been forecasted starting. you didn’t even lift your head from the enticing pages until the faint ring of the bell above the door alerted you to a customer’s presence. 

your head snapped up, a practised smile gracing your lips as you took in the man. 

“shit,” you murmured. he was handsome, ridiculously so standing at about 6’2, with a blonde buzz and a tan that he shouldn't have if he was a local. he must’ve been here for a short vacation, god knows why he would come here of all places though. 

collecting your courage you stepped out from behind the counter and approached him timidly. “uh–hi. do you need help with anything?” you mumbled, eyes gazing up at him with a subtle bat of your lashes. he was even prettier up close with a jaw that could cut metal and eyes so blue they seemed electric. shit. 

when his hooded eyes met yours, you swore your heart skipped a beat. “fuck yeah, actually you can. i have a sister around—sixteen and i wanna get her a book or somethin’ for christmas, y’know?” he has to physically take a breath when he realises just how beautiful the little worker was. this would be interesting. “you have a suggestion for me?”

you nodded, your teeth sinking into your plush bottom lip, his voice was rough and low and incredibly attractive. “mhm…just,” you glance at him over your shoulder, not even meaning to look so seductive as you did to him, “follow me.”

rafe smirked, eyes dipping to watch your hips sway as you led him to god knows where. you were like one of his sexy librarian fantasies, except…better. quickly readjusting himself before you could catch him in the act, he followed you to the young adult section of your bookstore. 

“what does she like,” you picked up an emily henry book, “romance, mystery, fantasy?”

when he just looked down at you blankly you giggled, the sound melodious and music to rafe’s ears. “do you know anything about books?” you teased, shoving a random one in his chest. 

he caught the book before it could clatter to the ground and ran a hand through his hair with a sheepish expression. “it has words…” he offered, looking like a puppy waiting for approval. 

you hummed in affirmation breaking into a fit of giggles, “good start.”

for the next twenty minutes or so you guys searched for the perfect book for rafe’s little sister. he told you about how he came from outer banks, in north carolina (which explained the tan) and that he had one of those family events tomorrow that required a secret santa gift he regretfully had forgotten about until this morning. your boss was truly a psychopath and the only place open where rafe could try his luck at buying something. 

now, you two were sitting on two separate bean bags huddled by the fireplace. one of your friends had called concerned and told you about the snow storm brewing outside. so now rafe couldn’t even leave if he wanted to (not that he did) and he was stuck, literally, the door couldn’t be opened unless you fancied cleaning up a shit load of snow that could concave in the window. 

so instead, rafe was staying to ‘wait it out’, neither of you seemed to mind however as you gazed at each other admiring how the flickers of the fire illuminated your faces. you tear away your eyes from him to look at the clock above the register–it’s nearing 9 pm, but neither of you are in a rush to break the moment. rafe leans back in the bean bag, arms spread lazily like he own the place. his hoodie had been previously shed, revealing a tight white tee shirt tat clings to his biceps in ways you try very hard not to stare at. 

“so,” you say, curling your knees to your chest, “you gonna read something while you’re here, or just stare at the fire like a sad hallmark movie,”

he smirks, biting the inside of his cheek. “depends. are you gonna read to me?”

you raise a brow, biting your lip. “you want me to?”

“yeah.” the word is quiet, a little more sincere than you would’ve expected. 

you blink and then a smile lights up your face. “what do you want me to read?” you ask softly, your eyes tracing the sharpness of his jaw. 

he hesitates, looking unsure—then lifts the book you helped him pick for wheezie, flipping it open clumsily like he’s not sure which end is which. “anything. just…not too fast.”

there’s a beat of silence before you gently say, “wait do you want me to read it because…you don’t read much? or because you don’t…?”

he shifts, jaw tightening, eyes locked on the flickering fireplace like it might save him from the moment.  

“didn’t really learn,” he mutters after a moment, his voice low. “or i guess…didn’t try hard enough when they were tryin’ to teach me. school wasn’t really that important in my house. too much other shit goin’ on.”

you feel something ache in your chest. not pity, just…empathy. so you smile–soft, unbothered, warm. “Well, you’re locked in a bookstorm during a snowstorm, seems like a good time to start.”

he snorts, and you relish in the way his shoulder relaxes. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you whisper trying to act nonchalant, you flip open the book and scoot your bean bag closer to his until your knees brush his oh so muscular thigh. “we’ll start with the prologue, c’mon.”

and you read. slowly, clearly, your voice soft and rhythmic, pausing occasionally to ask is he’s following. you weren't sure when, but at some point, his hand drifted to to rest beside yours on the bean bag cushion—close enough to touch, but not quite. not yet. 

you can feel the tension thickening like honey, like gravity itself is pulling you to closer. by the time you hit the third chapter, your voice is hushed and his eyes are full of awe. 

“you’ve got a really nice voice,” he blurts, like it slipped out without permission. 

you glance up, cheeks warm, pretty pink lips parted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

his gaze drops to your mouth, and then he leans in, gently brushing his lips against yours before pulling back to murmur, “you wanna do this?”

your hands move to fist into his shirt, bringing him ever so closer. “please,” you squeeze out, your eyes zeroing in on his own lips. 

with permission, his lips brush against yours again—hungrier this time.  again, you don’t know who moves first, only that suddenly his hands are cradling your jaw like you’re something breakable and he’s never held anything this fragile before. 

but his mouth? his mouth says otherwise.

it’s greedy. rough. warm. like he’s been starving for softness and just found his favorite flavor of sugar. 

you make a small sound against him, maybe a whimper maybe a moan. but regardless of what it is, it flips something behind his ribs—because suddenly he’s pulling you into his lap, fingers digging into your waist, breath hot and shaky as he says, “you have no idea how fuckin’ pretty you are, do you? how fuckin’ perfect?”

your knees straddle his thighs, his body solid beneath yours, and you’re gasping into his mouth as his hands slide up under your sweater—calloused palms skating over your ribs, slow, teasing, reverent. he’s a menace. 

“this okay?” he murmurs, nose brushing your jaw as he speaks. his voice is raw, laced with barely there restraint.

you nod, dizzy with want and him. “yes.”

his hands trail higher, thumbs grazing the curve of your breasts through your bra, and you arch instinctively into the touch. rafe groans, low in his throat. 

“fuck,” he whispers, trailing wet kisses down your neck. “you’re killin’ me, pretty girl.”

you grip the front of his shirt, tugging it upward with an undeniable need to see him—all of him. “then do something about it.” 

he grins against your skin. “you sure? because fuck i won’t be able to stop.”

you nod again, and that’s all it takes.

one second you’re in his lap and the next you’re being laid back on a stack of thick beanbags, your sweater tugged over your head and tossed somewhere behind you. rafe trails kisses down your collarbone, tongue flicking against your racing pulse, and the way he touches you is downright worshipful—like he’s never been allowed to have something this good before, and he’s terrified it’ll be ripped away.

his fingers find the waistband of your leggings, and he tugs them down slowly, eyes locked to yours the whole time. “jesus,” he breathes. “look at you.”

you’re bare beneath him in the glow of a half-decorated fake fireplace, the scent of vanilla and old paper wrapping around both of you like a secret. your special secret. 

and then—his mouth is on you. between your thighs. working you apart with a level of focus and precision that makes your head spin.

one arm wraps under your soft thigh, holding you open for him steadily. the other rests firm on your stomach as if anchoring you down while he devours you like his life depends on it.

and god, he’s good. like he wants to earn your praise. like he’s listening to every gasp and whimper and adjusting until your legs are shaking and your hands are tangled in his short hair, your voice breaking as you beg— “don’t stop, don’t stop, please—”

and he doesn’t. not until you come apart with a cry, your entire body trembling beneath him.

he kisses his way back up your stomach, chest, throat—hovering over you now, pupils blown, lips swollen, hair mussed from your grip.

“you’re… unbelievable,” you pant, and he just smiles, smug but sweet.

“told you,” he whispers, nosing along your cheek. “books aren’t the only thing I can learn fast.”

you’re still catching your breath, heart stuttering under your ribs like a skipping record, you never wanna stop listening to when rafe leans down and kisses you again. it’s slower this time—messy and intimate, like he’s tasting the aftermath of what he just did to you and already addicted.

“you okay?” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough and a little shaky.

you nod, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt. “take this off.”

he watches you with those impossibly blue eyes, like he’s not sure he heard you right, and then—he does. peels it off over his head in one smooth move.

and fuck, he’s carved. golden skin over firm muscle, scars here and there like battle stories, but what gets you the most is the way he looks at you. not cocky. not smug. like he wants to impress you but doesn’t believe he can. like no one’s ever really seen him before.

you reach up, fingertips grazing his ribs. “jesus, rafe.”

his breath catches. “not jesus, babe,” he smirks, leaning close again. “but i’ll take the worship.”

you roll your eyes, but then he’s pressing you down again, slotting himself between your thighs, grinding slow and hard through the thin fabric of his boxers still on him. you feel everything. the thickness, the pressure, the need and his pre-cum wetting the fabric. 

“fuck, you feel—” he breaks off the words in a groan, forehead pressed to yours like he wants to become merged. 

your hands slide down, tracing the waistband of his joggers, teasing. “you gonna let me return the favor?”

he groans, eyes fluttering shut like the idea alone might just kill him. “you don’t have to—”

“i want to,” you whisper surely, and that’s all it takes.

he lifts his hips just enough for you to slide his joggers down, the waistband catching on him and dragging low, slow, deliberate. his boxers follow, and—

yeah. you can’t help the breathy little “oh” that slips out.

rafe just chuckles, but it’s tightly wounded, like he’s trying to keep it together. “you say it like you’re surprised.”

“not surprised,” you murmur, biting your lip as you wrap your hand around the base of him, “just… impressed.”

his head falls back as you stroke him—slow at first, then firmer. his abs tense. his hands fist the blanket beneath you. “holy shit,” he hisses, hips twitching forward on their own accord. “you’re—fuck, you’re good.”

you pump him a little faster, watching him fall apart for you, letting yourself enjoy every second of it. he’s so pretty like this, flushed and panting, whispering curses and your name like it’s a prayer.

and then—he grabs your wrist.

“wait,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “i wanna be inside you when i come.”

your whole body pulses at his words.

“okay,” you breathe, and suddenly he’s digging through his back pocket for his wallet, cursing softly when he finds the condom tucked there.

“always prepared, huh?” you tease.

he smirks, tearing the foil open. “nah. just had a feeling when i saw you.”

and then—he’s back on you. sliding in slow, watching your face the whole time, like he needs to make sure this is feels good for you. like he needs to remember it.

and god, the stretch is perfect. the pressure. the heat. he fills you so deep you swear you’re seeing stars already. 

“you feel—fuck,” he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. “you’re so tight. so good.”

you grip his back, nails dragging slightly. “move, rafe. please.”

and move he does. slow at first—deep, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl and your stomach tighten. he kisses you through it, hands holding your hips steady, lips brushing every inch of skin he can reach.

but when you start to moan his name, breathy and desperate, he snaps.

his rhythm picks up. faster. rougher. the sound of skin slapping  echoing under the glow of string lights and the crackle of the fake fireplace. your bodies tangle, and you swear you feel him everywhere—inside, on top of, all around you. he takes up every damn morsel of your mind. 

your second orgasm builds fast, sharp, burning hot low in your belly.

“gonna come,” you gasp, clinging to him.

“me too, baby,” he pants. “cum for me, yeah? wanna feel you—fuck—please—”

and you do. hard. stars behind your eyes, back arching off the beanbag as he fucks you through it.

he follows with a broken moan, hips stuttering, head buried in your neck as he pulses inside you.

the silence after is thick with breath and warmth and something that feels suspiciously like a beginning.

you stroke his hair softly as he catches his breath.

and then—he mutters, almost shy, “i wasn’t lying earlier.”

you blink. “about what?”

he lifts his head, blue eyes uncertain. “about the book thing. i… never really learned how to read. not well. school was kinda... a joke where i’m from. i’ve always just faked it.”

your heart clenches. soft and sudden.

you cup his face, thumb brushing his cheek tenderly. “okay,” you whisper. “then i’ll teach you.”

and the look in his eyes? like no one’s ever said that to him before?yeah. rafe’s done for

millie speaks💌— it has been a hot minute since i posted but here i am. hope you guys enjoy this i had so much fun writing it.

[spring002]

4EVER

ii. from the window 🎧 contains ooc characters, asshole scaramouche is the theme here, mentions of stalking, misunderstanding, | w.c. 1.8k additional note nahida and reader are NOT related in any way

the rose-pink light of dawn across the morning sky, shining off the ocean. as the tides foamed on the shore, she lounged there, toes in the water. her fingertips drawing shapes into the wet sand. a plan soared above her; her gaze averted up. her hand shielded her from the blaring rays. her eyes lingered on the plane’s silhouette, tilting her head. of course, planes would be in the sky, flying over fontaine but it seems like it’s different from the commercial planes that arrive every now and then. maybe, someone who’s rich enough to come to a beloved tourists’ vacation a week earlier than the usual flock. smiling to herself, a small huff escaping her lips, she’s excited for what’s coming in store for fontaine. well, summer wouldn’t be boring because at least, something interesting was going to happen. 

she was right; something interesting would happen though, she never would expect it to involve specifically her. reluctantly waking up, shielding her eyes from the sun’s blinding rays through the sheer curtains. she reached for her phone, wiping through the probable spam and right to reply to lyney’s messages.

[4+ notifications from lyney] swipe to view

[lyney]: name wya? you weren’t here for practice. apparently, father’s important business partner’s son is coming so we have to prepare an extravagant show!  delivered \\ 8:30 am hello? hellooooO? delivered \\ 8:35 am text me when ur up T_T delivered \\ 10:20 am

[you]: mb, i overslept lol :P seen \\ 11:15 am LYNEY REACTED :(

[lyney]: >:( delivered \\ 11:15 am

[you]: ill talk to you in a bit later :p delivered \\ 11:17 am LYNEY REACTED ?

[lyney]: wdym?? (o_O)?! delivered \\ 11:17 am

[you]: auntie nads called delivered \\ 11:25 am

without hesitation, she picked up the call once the name, “auntie nad”, flashed on her screen. a soft laugh came from the call as auntie nad asked, “oh, i didn’t wake you, did i?” 

auntie nad or nadia was an older lady that helped out name’s family when they first moved into fontaine. not only did she introduce name to her childhood best friend, lyney, but also provided name for advice or anything she really needed. 

name cleared her throat, trying not to sound groggy as possible, “no, no, i’ve been up. do you need anything?”

“yes, can you come by to café lutece?” café lutece? if name could remember correctly, that’s the cafe that’s frequented by the locals of fontaine, a place she grew fondly of while growing up. “it won’t be too long nor take up time with lyney.” her voice teased on lyney’s name as she groaned, 

“it’s not like that, auntie. honestly, he’s just a friend!” name replied, quick to snap her auntie from her delusions. the older lady laughed like it wasn’t a big deal, “alright.” they were both indebted to each other. So of course, in exchange, name helps out too.  

“i’ll be in the cafe in 10 or 15.” 

“i can trust you on that.” auntie nad replied and name could hear her smile over the phone.

[lyney]: ohhhhh, okay, have fun! B) seen \\ 11:45 am YOU REACTED ♡

[you]: lol thx seen \\ 11:50 am

both of them were seated at the innermost corner of café lutece, she looked at the older lady in front of her. it was unlike auntie nahida to be so quiet, but name didn’t bother to ask why, knowing she would know sooner or later. she kept her eyes averted to an odd amount of assortment of pastries on the table, most being your favorite, as if it was a bribe. dangling a lure to a trap, there’s definitely a catch to this meeting at the cafe. auntie nahida’s voice trembled a little, unusual from the confident, almost “all-knowing” auntie she knew. as she stirred her tea awkwardly, off rhythmic clink-clank from the metal to the porcelain cup. “i understand this might be too much to ask from you...” 

name understood to an extent whatever auntie was asking for might be out of her ability. she was quick to cut off miss nahida, taking a bite of a pastry, “auntie, nothing you’d ask from me would be too much. you’ve already helped my family when we first moved in here.” she looked at you like she gutted you out and left you on the streets, wincing at the sentiment you tried to comfort her with. it seemed like it only worsened her mood. 

miss nahida continued, sipping her tea cautiously, “can you watch over my nephew? i believe out of the three–” she was likely referring to lyney and lynette. “– teens that i know of, you’d be the best to help him adjust to fontaine...” and she’s right in some respects, though lyney would be the preferred fontaine tour guide, he���d likely spin it to show off his new tricks– that’s not at all bad but terrible for a newcomer to fontaine. on the other hand,lynette is more reserved compared to others. when she hangs out with lyney and name, she lets her brother do all the talking, placing herself as the residential listener. so, leaving herself as the final option and considering her bond with miss nahida is much closer than the twin’s, it makes sense why she would be… the “chosen one”. poor choice of words but makes sense. 

her wrinkles creased as she went on to ramble about the situation as if it was thrusted upon her out of the blue. “...he’s quite stubborn like his mother. but he’s very sweet…” 

name would accept miss nahida’s favor but on the other hand, who is her nephew? it was strange since auntie has never mentioned her family often.  now that name thought back on this topic, miss nahida only shared stories that related to her problems when name asked for her advice. she rarely made references to them. but when she did, it was always short and brief. this situation spiraled name into different questions that nearly shattered her worldview of auntie nahida. putting that aside to deal with later, she reached out, putting her hand on top of the older woman’s hand, “yeah, i could definitely tour him around fontaine, auntie.” 

“are you sure because i don’t want to interrupt your summer? i understand if you don’t want to hang out with a stranger throughout the break.” 

name laughed, “pssh, i’m sure, auntie. besides, i wasn’t going to do much this summer.” she replied, reassuring miss nahida. yet, she was only partly lying. technically speaking, if you put in consideration that she was supposed to help lyney with his new magic set but that’s merely part-time. besides, lyney would understand because it’s coming from miss nahida out of all people not like a random guy. 

the snacks on the table were dwindling down, miss nahida was still anxious. hell, anyone around them could see it and name wasn’t sure why. “are you sure? i mean, as i mentioned before, he’s stubborn and could come off as rude. more or less, he could be a bother to you. if anything, i’ll pay you.

although she did feel bad for taking the money, she did need it (just in case). “yes?” she chuckled lightheartedly. “i’m sure, auntie nahida. why are you acting like he would be a pain? he’s related to you, right? i’m sure that he would be just as kind as you.” the graying woman was laughing nervously like there wasn’t any truth in what name just said. 

maybe there was a reason why auntie was so hesitant to tell name to chip in this favor. not only name believed that this nephew of hers was ten years old but also a spoiled man child with a pretty, almost doll-like face. his faded, indigo hair, roots growing out, framed his face in a perfect hime cut, fit for a prince. maybe he didn’t check the weather because he was nearly sweating himself in an all-black outfit, baggy jeans and a zip up hoodie. his eyes had a starker difference than his appearance since they were softer like a kitten. but most of all, what pissed her off the most is how he reacted when they first met. well, she wasn’t expecting to be buddy-buddy off the bat, but she wasn’t expecting that he would snap at her.

maybe auntie nahida didn’t inform him about her because from his body language, she guessed that he didn’t know why she was there. he made eye contact with her, his soft eyes narrowed at her. the taller boy scoffed, waving his hand to shoo her off the porch as if she was a pest. he clicked his tongue, “hey, this is a private estate. i know you know who i am and obviously, it’s weird as shit to stalk me all the way to fontaine.” 

get a load of this guy… he’s so unbelievably full of himself. she almost wanted to laugh, biting her tongue to keep the giggles at bay. she was trying her best to keep her cool because she still held onto the faith that since this is auntie nahida’s nephew therefore there might be some kindness under his asshole facade. 

after some more back and forth, it was like a struggle to even talk to the guy. man, expecting this “kunikuzushi” guy to be like nahida might be more than an understatement. there’s no way, they’re actually related. “what?” keeping her voice relaxed while the bubble of exasperation was trying to escape. “i don’t know who you  are but don’t go on assuming that i do.” she greeted him, one foot on the porch and the other planted in the grass. “i’m name and nahida asked me to tour you around fontaine.” 

he tilted his head, bursting out laughing, “i must say your level of stalking is impressive. hell, you might even rival hailey bieber.” he walked around the girl, reaching the door of the estate. what an asshole and to stoop so low and compare her to hailey bieber was insane! not taking his silence as an answer, she walked after him, yanking on his sleeve by accident. 

“hey!” 

oh god, he almost fell. she had awkwardly teeter-tottered to balance the both of them. well, this could’ve been avoided if he was polite to begin with. name even indulged in the thought that he deserved it after being a total ass. “did you even listen to me?” 

scaramouche pulled his sleeve back, making the girl stumble back. she had to grab the porch’s railing for stability. he huffed, gosh, she made a mistake comparing him to a kitten. it’s obvious he’s a wolf and to be specific the big, bad wolf from the fables. “why would i listen to you? seriously, people–  you people do anything for views.” 

name scoffed, letting her facade slip, not noticing how the boy’s scowled uplifted. “are you serious? i don’t even have any cameras on me and why would i film you? i literally do not know you!” 

at the shore [closed]: : @sketcheeee @bittersweetmiko @usagiarchive @syunifu @lalalaloveallmydays @zenless-sys @raytoebiter @wateredfay @pinxeajin @yomishen @mello-bee @kunikuzushis-darling @adres-tia @lloversss @catyrv @sesamemin @scaraenthusiast1 @bubblebellaz @mywillt0live @itsjustmillie