#this has been in my drafts for a while but
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zarla-s · 1 hour ago
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I found...an issue with your skeletons.
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And the font thing that kind of contradicts...yeah
I've had this drafted for a while and today is the NINTH ANNIVERSARY OF HANDPLATES (!!!!) so you're going to get... lore!!
Anyway this is correct, Sans speaks in more than one font! MS Sans Serif if I remember right, or at least that's what people thought at the time. I wanted to work that into Handplates somewhere (I was thinking here) but I just couldn't find a good place for it. It ended up in a Mercyplates script that I never ended up actually doing UNTIL NOW!
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Anyway, my thoughts are skeletons can speak in different fonts if they want or learn how (except skeletons with a cipher) and some are just born with multiple font styles, but they have a primary font they prefer to speak in. Sans has a bit of MS Sans Serif in him but he likes Comic Sans more, haha. Papyrus might have a touch of Parchment MF in him but it's so similar to Papyrus that you probably wouldn't even be able to tell. Gaster only has Wingdings though, most cipher skeletons only have the one font.
Nine years... it doesn't feel like it's been that long. It's hard to believe...
[index] [patreon] [comicfury]
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moomimania · 1 day ago
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carrying you - then vs. now 🧡
I get to carry you for once... is that so, Moomintroll? By that logic, there must have been a time where Snufkin used to carry Moomin most often. But, surely, the older they get, those roles are reversed.
this has been in my drafts ever since I first played the game (which has been a while lol) I guess the announcement of the new DLC had me excited to finish these
also, I needed something to distract from the utter gut-punch that was the Arcane ending. HELLO I'M NOT OKAY
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goldfades · 7 hours ago
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★ 'cause she's watching him with those eyes / and she's loving him with that body, i just know it / and he's holding her in his arms late, late at night / you know, i wish that i had jessie's girl / i wish that i had jessie's girl / where can i find a woman like that? ───JB⁹
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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18k (a lot more than i expected...)
⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a college student navigates her complicated feelings for her charming yet infuriating neighbor, joe burrow, while dating the seemingly perfect linebacker. after a series of missteps, flirtatious teasing, and an unexpected kiss, she finds herself caught in a whirlwind of tension, confusion, and unexpected sparks, all while trying to avoid the loud, chaotic presence of joe and his ever-constant parade of girls.
⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited (sorry... i got lazy), NSFW (with lots... and lots... AND LOTS of plot), unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it, kids) praise, teasing, lots of kissing/foreplay, p in v, uhhh.. descriptions of big dick joe??? enemies to lovers, roommates, mentions of drinking/alcohol, cheating (not on reader), joe being an asshole, cocky joe, lots of fighting, heated arguments.
⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this has been in my drafts for a good 2 months and finally decided to finish it up on the sunday before american thanksgiving! so... yaya! please let me know your thoughts!
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The muffled sound of Ja’Marr Chase’s bass-heavy playlist seeps through the thin walls of your apartment, rattling the picture frames you swore you hung up straight last week. The tiny LSU apartment complex, with its peeling beige paint and eternally broken elevator, has its charms—like the way the front door doesn’t lock unless you kick it just right or how the air conditioner only works when it’s below 70 degrees outside.
But Joe Burrow? He’s not one of those charms.
No, Joe Burrow is the bane of your existence, the human equivalent of a pothole on a road you have to take every day. His name alone makes your best friend, Ella, roll her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. “Just ignore him,” she says every time you come storming through the door, ranting about whatever fresh annoyance he’s cooked up that day. “He only bothers you because you’re fun to mess with.”
Right. Like that’s supposed to make it better.
Living next door to Joe and Ja’Marr was tolerable at first. Sure, they were loud, occasionally messy, and probably violating a dozen lease terms, but it wasn’t personal. Then, you had one small misunderstanding—okay, so maybe you yelled at Joe for leaving his bike in front of your door after you tripped over it—and now it’s like he’s made it his life’s mission to drive you insane.
Sometimes, it’s harmless: an obnoxious smirk when you cross paths on the way to class or his sarcastic comments about how you always seem to be spilling coffee on your shirt. Other times, it’s borderline infuriating: stealing your parking spot, taking the last box of cinnamon rolls at the grocery store, or claiming the shared apartment complex grill for “official game day business” every single Saturday.
Still, there’s something annoyingly magnetic about him, even when you want to wring his neck. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing at his own jokes. The stupid mop of curls he somehow manages to pull off. The effortless confidence that borders on cocky, though you’d never say it out loud because that’s exactly the kind of thing that would go straight to his head.
Ella always jokes that you two are like an old married couple, constantly bickering but secretly loving it. You disagree. Mostly because Joe already has enough people falling at his feet—like the swarm of girls in purple-and-gold jerseys who show up at the apartment complex every other week, giggling like they’re auditioning for a reality show.
You sigh, brushing a stray crumb off the countertop as Ella flops onto the couch behind you, textbook in hand. And if his stupid grin when he sees you on your balcony later tonight is any indication, he’s already got something planned.
You just don’t know it yet.
The parking lot outside your apartment complex is a war zone at 11 p.m., with far too many cars crammed into a space that was clearly designed with only half the residents in mind. You circle the lot for the third time, your headlights cutting through the dark like a searchlight on some hopeless mission. After eight grueling hours at the campus library helping undergrads figure out why their printers are possessed, your brain feels like oatmeal, and all you want is to collapse into your bed.
But, of course, tonight isn’t going to be that simple.
Because there he is. Joe freaking Burrow.
He’s in his Jeep—windows down, music playing softly, and, naturally, there’s a blonde perched in the passenger seat laughing at something he said. Of course, he found the last available spot. Except—it’s not his spot, because you saw it first. Your blinker’s been on since the beginning of time (or at least the last 30 seconds), and you refuse to back down now.
Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as he slowly starts to reverse into the spot, like he hasn’t noticed your very obvious claim to it. Heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and indignation, you tap your horn. Just once. Polite, but firm. He stops, glances in his rearview mirror, and then—of course—he smirks.
Oh, hell no.
You roll down your window and lean out. “Hey, Burrow! I was waiting for that spot.”
He leans his elbow casually against the window frame, his curls catching the faint glow of the streetlight. “Were you? Didn’t see your name on it.” His voice is slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to be a pain in your ass.
You glare at him, barely suppressing the urge to snap. “I was here first.”
“And I started reversing first,” he counters, raising an eyebrow like it’s a debate class and not a parking lot at nearly midnight. The blonde giggles beside him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Just let me have it. You look like you could use the exercise.”
Oh, he’s done it now.
“Excuse me?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you’re too far gone to care. “I’ve been on my feet for eight hours dealing with entitled freshmen, and if you think I’m about to let you—”
“Alright, alright,” Joe interrupts, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m not trying to ruin your night.” He throws the Jeep into drive, and with a dramatic sigh, he pulls away, leaving the spot open for you. But not without one last parting comment. “Don’t scratch the paint when you park. Oh, wait—you’re really close to that pole—”
You park with excessive precision, throwing your car into park before leaning out the window to call after him. “I didn’t ask for your help, Joe!”
His laugh echoes across the parking lot, carefree and infuriating. You slam your door shut a little harder than necessary, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you trudge toward the building. Finally, peace.
Or so you think.
Because just as you reach the elevator, its ding announcing its arrival, you hear the telltale sound of sneakers scuffing against concrete and—because your luck is absolute trash—Joe freaking Burrow strolls in behind you, Blonde Giggles McGee still glued to his side.
“Hey, neighbor,” he says casually, stepping into the elevator with you like he didn’t just steal and relinquish a parking spot out of sheer pettiness. The blonde gives you a wide, vaguely clueless smile, her gum snapping between her teeth.
You press the button for the third floor with a pointed jab and cross your arms, leaning against the elevator wall as Joe and his date take their sweet time figuring out which floor they’re going to. The door finally slides shut, and the tension in the small space is unbearable.
“So,” the blonde says brightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “you guys, like, live here? That’s so fun! Like, neighbors and stuff. Wow.”
Your lips press into a tight smile, trying to avoid eye contact with Joe, who you can feel grinning at you like this is the highlight of his week. “Yep. Fun,” you reply curtly, forcing the word out like it’s laced with acid.
Joe’s shoulders shake slightly, and you realize he’s laughing. He glances at you, and there’s that damn smirk again, like he knows exactly how close you are to losing it. “She’s real talkative tonight,” he says, tilting his head toward you. “Usually, she’s got more to say.”
You turn to him with a withering glare. “Don’t you have something else to do, Burrow?”
Before he can reply, the elevator lurches slightly as it comes to a stop on your floor. You step out quickly, muttering a polite “Good night” that is entirely devoid of warmth. Joe follows, his pace annoyingly casual as he throws one last look over his shoulder.
“See you around, neighbor,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.
You don’t look back.
The smell of cheap ramen hits you the moment you open the door to your apartment. It’s comforting, in a way—familiar, like Ella’s answer to every late-night craving or bad day. She’s in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, barefoot and wearing the oversized LSU sweatshirt you’d bought together during freshman year.
“You’re late,” she says without looking up, her voice light with mock reproach. “Was the library on fire, or did you stop to fight Burrow in the parking lot again?”
You kick off your shoes with a sigh, tossing your bag onto the couch. “Option B. Obviously.”
That gets her attention. She turns, spoon in hand, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? It’s, like, midnight. You two are going to give each other aneurysms before graduation.”
You slump into one of the kitchen chairs, letting your forehead hit the table dramatically. “He stole my parking spot. Had the audacity to smirk about it, too. And then—get this—I got stuck in the elevator with him and some girl who wouldn’t stop talking about how ‘fun’ it is to have neighbors.” You lift your head to glare at Ella, who is now struggling to hold back a laugh. “I’m cursed. That man is my curse.”
Ella snorts, pouring the ramen into two mismatched bowls. “He’s not your curse. He’s just a guy with too much charm and not enough common sense. And clearly, you’re living rent-free in his head, which, honestly, is kind of impressive considering he’s got a playbook in there.”
You accept the bowl she slides across the table, your stomach growling despite your lingering irritation. “I don’t want to live in his head. I want him to stop being so… so Joe all the time.”
Ella sits across from you, propping her chin in her hand with a sly grin. “Are you sure? You seem to spend a lot of time talking about him.”
You glare at her over a mouthful of noodles. “Don’t start.”
But she’s already started, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, it’s giving sexual tension.”
You nearly choke, coughing as you wave her off. “Nope. Absolutely not. There’s no tension. Only irritation. And rage. And an overwhelming desire to see him move to a different apartment complex.”
Ella laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Whatever you say, babe. But for the record, I think you secretly enjoy it.”
You open your mouth to argue, but before you can form a retort, there’s a knock at the door. Both of you freeze, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights.
“You expecting someone?” Ella whispers, her tone suddenly conspiratorial.
“No,” you whisper back, your heart sinking as a horrible suspicion creeps over you.
Ella gestures for you to check, and with a deep, resigned breath, you shuffle to the door, bowl still in hand. You crack it open just enough to see who’s on the other side, and—because the universe apparently hates you—there he is. Joe Burrow, in all his smug, infuriating glory, holding a box of cinnamon rolls.
“Hey, neighbor,” he says, his grin infuriatingly wide. “Figured I owed you something for stealing your spot.”
You stare at him, speechless, for a moment. Then, finally, you manage, “It’s 11:30 at night.”
He shrugs, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable time for a peace offering. “Better late than never, right?”
From behind you, Ella’s voice rings out, barely containing her amusement. “Is that Joe? Invite him in!”
You turn to glare at her, silently vowing revenge, but when you look back at Joe, he’s already stepping inside like he owns the place.
“Nice place,” he says, glancing around before holding up the box. “So… cinnamon roll?”
You sigh, shutting the door behind him. It’s going to be a long night.
Joe leans casually against the counter, still holding the box of cinnamon rolls like he’s been invited to stay for a late-night hangout. You narrow your eyes at him, folding your arms. “So, what’s this about, really? Cinnamon rolls aren’t exactly your style.”
“Wow, judgmental much?” he says with a mock-wounded expression. “What if I just wanted to be neighborly?”
Ella snickers softly behind you, spooning up her ramen as she watches the exchange like it’s prime-time TV.
Joe grins, ignoring your skepticism. “Actually,” he says, setting the box on the counter with a little too much flourish, “I’m out of sugar. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”
You blink at him, incredulous. “Sugar? You came over at almost midnight to borrow sugar?”
“Yup,” he says, popping the “p” for emphasis, completely unbothered by your glare.
Ella, ever the peacemaker—or enabler, depending on the situation—sets her bowl down and gets up to rummage through the cabinets. “We’ve got some,” she says reluctantly, pulling out a small bag. She walks over and places it in Joe’s outstretched hand, but not without narrowing her eyes at him. “You better bring this back, Burrow. Or at least repay us with something better than cinnamon rolls.”
“Noted,” he says with a charming smile, tucking the bag under his arm. He turns to you, his grin softening into something almost teasing. “Thanks, neighbor. You’re a real lifesaver.”
You don’t bother replying, instead stepping aside so he can leave. He makes his way to the door, pausing for a moment. “Oh, and don’t forget to check your parking job in the morning,” he says with a wink before slipping out into the hallway.
The second the door clicks shut, you groan, slumping against the counter. Ella bursts into laughter, practically doubling over as she grabs her bowl again. “You two are ridiculous,” she says between bites.
“I’m moving out,” you mutter, dragging yourself to the couch. “I don’t care if it’s to a cardboard box in the quad. It’ll be quieter than this.”
You think that’s the end of it—Joe’s random sugar-borrowing adventure, Ella’s endless teasing—but of course, you’re wrong. Because a few hours later, just as you’re finally starting to drift off in the tiny bedroom you call your sanctuary, you hear it.
A muffled giggle. A low, rumbling voice you’d recognize anywhere. Then, unmistakably, the rhythmic creak of a bed frame against the wall.
Your eyes snap open, and for a moment, you pray you’re imagining things. Maybe it’s a nightmare—a cruel joke your overtired brain is playing on you. But then you hear it again, louder this time, followed by a very enthusiastic “Oh my God, Joey!”
You groan, grabbing your pillow and pressing it over your ears.
From the other side of the wall, Ella’s muffled voice reaches you through the darkness. “Is that…?”
“Yes,” you hiss, your voice barely audible through the pillow. “It’s him.”
She snorts, and you can hear her shifting in her bed. “Well, at least he’s getting good use out of that sugar.”
You let out a strangled laugh, torn between exhaustion and disbelief. “I swear, if this goes on all night—”
As if on cue, there’s another creak, louder this time, followed by more giggling and exaggerated moaning.
Ella sighs. “Thin walls, huh?”
“Apparently,” you mutter, rolling onto your side and glaring at the wall like it’s personally offended you.
The noises continue—giggles, muffled moans, the occasional thud that makes you wince. You bury your face in your pillow, silently cursing Joe Burrow and his audacity.
It’s going to be a very, very long night.
The next morning comes too soon. Despite the symphony of creaks, giggles, and thuds that plagued the night, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed and cranky. The coffee pot sputters as you pour yourself a life-saving cup, muttering curses at your neighbor under your breath. Ella, still in her pajamas, watches you from the couch with an amused smirk.
“You look alive,” she teases, spooning cereal into her mouth. “Barely.”
“I hate him,” you say flatly, taking a long sip of coffee.
“Sure you do,” she singsongs.
You don’t dignify her with a response, grabbing your bag and heading out the door.
As luck—or fate—would have it, the universe isn’t done with you yet. Because just as you’re locking your apartment door, you hear the unmistakable sound of high heels clicking down the hallway.
You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it.
There she is. Last night’s Blonde of the Hour, strutting toward the elevator with a walk of shame so confident it might as well be a victory lap. She’s wearing Joe’s oversized LSU hoodie, paired with last night’s skirt and heels. Her hair is tousled, but she doesn’t seem to care.
And because the universe apparently has a sense of humor, she notices you at the same time you notice her.
“Morning!” she chirps, her voice way too chipper for someone who clearly didn’t sleep much.
You press your lips together to keep from laughing, nodding in acknowledgment. “Morning.”
The two of you step into the elevator together, the silence stretching awkwardly between you. You steal a glance at her from the corner of your eye, wondering if she has any idea that her night of “fun” ruined yours. But then she sighs and adjusts the sleeves of Joe’s hoodie, completely unbothered, and you realize she probably doesn’t care.
The doors slide open to the lobby, and you step out first, your pace brisk as you make a beeline for the exit. But as you push through the glass doors into the bright morning sunlight, you nearly collide with none other than Joe Burrow himself.
He’s leaning against his car, coffee cup in hand, looking far too put together for someone who should be as tired as you. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, then flick over to the blonde trailing behind.
“Morning, neighbor,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.
“Morning,” you reply dryly, brushing past him toward your car.
But of course, he can’t just let it go. “Sleep well?”
You stop dead in your tracks, turning to glare at him. His smirk is infuriatingly smug, and you can’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless or just messing with you.
“Thin walls,” you say pointedly, raising an eyebrow.
His smirk falters for half a second before he recovers, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Noted.”
The blonde, oblivious to the tension, giggles. “Joe, you didn’t tell me your neighbors were so fun!”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead unlocking your car with more force than necessary. “Oh, we’re a blast,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the driver’s seat.
As you pull out of the parking lot, you catch a glimpse of Joe in your rearview mirror, still leaning against his car, watching you leave. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or curiosity—but you don’t have the energy to figure it out.
Later that afternoon, when you’re back in your apartment trying to catch up on work, Ella pops her head into the living room with a mischievous grin.
“Guess who I ran into at the coffee shop?”
You glance up warily. “Who?”
“Joe,” she says, plopping down on the couch. “He said he’s planning a little ‘building mixer’ this weekend. Invited everyone on the floor. Including us.”
You groan, letting your head fall back against the couch. “No. Absolutely not. I am not going to some Burrow-hosted mixer.”
“Oh, come on,” Ella says, nudging you with her foot. “It could be fun. Free food, free drinks… awkward encounters with your mortal enemy…”
You glare at her, but she just laughs. “You’re going,” she says firmly. “I already RSVP’d for us.”
And just like that, you realize your week is about to get a whole lot more complicated.
Saturday night rolls around faster than you’d like, and with it comes the so-called “mixer” that Joe Burrow somehow convinced Ella you had to attend. You’d held onto the slim hope that it would be a small, quiet gathering of your neighbors in the building, with maybe some snacks, polite small talk, and an early exit for you.
Instead, you step off the elevator into what can only be described as chaos. The hallway is packed with people, the distant thrum of music vibrating through the walls. Someone’s yelling about finding the keg, and the faint scent of spilled beer and cologne wafts toward you.
“This is not a mixer,” you mutter to Ella as you both navigate your way through the crowd.
Ella, of course, looks thrilled. She’s dolled up in a crop top and high-waisted jeans, her hair and makeup perfectly done. “Relax,” she says, looping her arm through yours. “It’s just a party. Have a drink, let loose. Who knows? You might even have fun.”
You highly doubt that, but before you can argue, she spots Ja’Marr Chase leaning against the doorway to Joe’s apartment and perks up immediately. “I’ll catch up with you later!” she says, already untangling herself from your arm and heading toward him.
“Ella!” you call after her, but she’s too busy tossing a flirty smile Ja’Marr’s way to notice.
Great. Now you’re alone in the middle of a party that feels like half of LSU showed up to, surrounded by strangers and sticky floors. You push your way toward the kitchen, hoping to grab a drink and then find a corner to blend into until Ella decides it’s time to leave.
But, because the universe apparently loves messing with you, you hear his voice before you see him.
“Well, well, look who decided to show up.”
You groan internally and turn to see Joe leaning against the counter, a Solo cup in hand and that ever-present smirk on his face. He’s dressed casually in a fitted t-shirt and jeans, but somehow still manages to look like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.
“I’m only here because Ella dragged me,” you say, crossing your arms. “Don’t get any ideas.”
Joe chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Come on, admit it. You’re having the time of your life.”
“Yeah, sure,” you deadpan. “Sticky floors and loud music are exactly my idea of fun.”
He grins, clearly enjoying your irritation. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with me so badly, you could’ve just asked. No need to pretend Ella dragged you here.”
“I—” You stop yourself, realizing there’s no point in arguing. It’s exactly what he wants. Instead, you grab a bottle of water from the counter and turn to leave.
“Hey, hold up,” he says, stepping in front of you. “You’re not just gonna drink water all night, are you?”
“Yes, Joe, I am,” you say, trying to sidestep him, but he moves to block you.
“At least let me get you a real drink,” he says, gesturing toward the makeshift bar someone set up on the other side of the room. “I make a mean rum and Coke.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, stepping aside, but not before adding, “But you’re missing out. My bartending skills are unmatched.”
You roll your eyes and head toward the living room, finding a spot near the wall where you can observe without being dragged into the chaos. You sip your water and watch as Joe works the room, effortlessly charming everyone he talks to.
About an hour later, you’re starting to regret not leaving when Ella abandoned you. You’ve been stuck making awkward small talk with strangers, and the music is only getting louder.
Then Ella appears out of nowhere, grabbing your arm with a giggle. “Come with me,” she says, pulling you toward the corner where Joe and some of his teammates are lounging on a worn-out sectional.
“Why?” you ask, resisting her tug.
“Because Ja’Marr wants to introduce me to his friends, and I don’t want to go alone!”
You sigh, reluctantly following her over. Ja’Marr greets Ella with a grin, and she practically melts under his attention. You, on the other hand, find yourself stuck sitting next to Joe, who looks far too pleased about the arrangement.
“Miss me already?” he asks, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.
“Not even a little,” you reply, glaring at him.
He chuckles, clearly unbothered. “You’re really bad at hiding how much you enjoy my company, you know that?”
You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, one of his teammates interrupts. “Yo, Burrow, who’s this?”
“This,” Joe says, gesturing toward you with a dramatic flourish, “is my lovely neighbor.”
“Neighbor, huh?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. “You two seem… close.”
You snort. “Not even remotely.”
Joe grins, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind you. “Don’t listen to her,” he says. “She’s just shy.”
You shoot him a withering look, but he only laughs, clearly enjoying himself.
As the night drags on, Joe makes it his personal mission to annoy you. Every time you try to leave, he finds a way to pull you back into the conversation, teasing you relentlessly. His teammates, to their credit, seem amused by the dynamic, occasionally chiming in with their own jokes.
By the time Ella finally decides she’s ready to leave, you’re exhausted—physically and emotionally. You practically sprint for the door, eager to escape Joe’s smirk and the endless teasing.
As you step into the hallway, he calls after you, “See you around, neighbor!”
You don’t bother responding, instead dragging Ella toward the elevator. But as you press the button for your floor, you can’t help but feel like you haven’t seen the last of Joe Burrow tonight—or any night, for that matter.
The next week at LSU passes like any other, but somehow, Joe Burrow has managed to worm his way into your daily routine. It starts small—running into him at the mailboxes, hearing his muffled laughter through the thin walls at ungodly hours, and the occasional “good morning, neighbor!” shouted across the courtyard when you’re clearly not in the mood.
It’s maddening, really, the way he seems to delight in being everywhere you don’t want him to be. And yet, despite your annoyance, you can’t deny that his presence makes life just a little more… interesting.
FRIDAY NIGHT
Ella bursts through the apartment door, her face lit up with excitement. You’re sprawled on the couch, flipping through lecture notes and wishing the week would end already.
“Guess what!” she exclaims, tossing her bag onto the counter.
“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Ja’Marr invited you to another party?”
“Close,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Ja’Marr and Joe are throwing a tailgate tomorrow before the game, and we’re invited.”
You groan, already dreading the idea of spending yet another afternoon dodging Joe’s incessant teasing. “I’m busy,” you lie.
“You’re coming,” Ella insists, plopping down next to you. “It’s practically a campus tradition, and besides, you could use a little fun.”
“Fun,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling being forced to socialize with half of LSU now?”
Ella rolls her eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Food, drinks, and—” she grins mischievously—“a chance to hang out with your favorite quarterback.”
You glare at her. “Joe Burrow is not my favorite anything.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing you. “Wear something cute. We’re leaving at noon.”
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
The tailgate is, unsurprisingly, a spectacle. Rows of tents stretch across the field, decked out in purple and gold, with grills smoking and music blasting. Students and alumni alike mill about, laughing and chatting as they gear up for the game.
You follow Ella through the crowd, clutching a plastic cup of soda and trying to blend in. She, of course, makes a beeline for Ja’Marr, who’s manning the grill with an ease that suggests he’s done this a thousand times.
And where there’s Ja’Marr, there’s Joe.
He spots you almost immediately, his trademark smirk spreading across his face as he waves you over. “Hey, neighbor! Glad you could make it.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but he’s already stepping closer, his easy confidence making it impossible to ignore him.
“What, no hug?” he teases, holding his arms out dramatically.
“Not in this lifetime,” you reply, sidestepping him.
Ella, now fully engrossed in a conversation with Ja’Marr, leaves you to fend for yourself. You glance around, debating whether to make a run for it, but Joe blocks your path, clearly amused by your discomfort.
“You’re really bad at this whole socializing thing, aren’t you?” he says, leaning casually against the nearest table.
“Maybe I just don’t enjoy your company,” you retort, taking a sip of your drink.
He grins. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”
Before you can respond, one of his teammates calls his name, distracting him long enough for you to slip away. You find a quieter spot near the edge of the field, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background.
But, of course, Joe finds you again.
“Thought you’d try to escape, huh?” he says, appearing at your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I wasn’t escaping,” you lie, crossing your arms.
“Sure you weren’t.” He pauses, glancing at the crowd. “Not a fan of tailgates?”
“Not a fan of crowds,” you admit.
He nods, surprisingly serious for once. “Fair enough. They’re not for everyone.”
You glance at him, caught off guard by the genuine tone in his voice. It’s a rare moment of sincerity from someone who seems to live for getting under your skin.
And then, just as quickly, the moment passes.
“Still,” he says, his smirk returning, “you’ve got to admit, the food’s pretty good. Ja’Marr’s burgers? Best on campus.”
The party stretched well into the night, turning the once-bustling tailgate into a dimly lit, hazy scene of music, laughter, and scattered conversations. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated these kinds of events. The air was warm, the smell of grilled food and spilled beer thick, but for once, you weren’t faking a smile just to survive.
Instead, you were leaning against a folding chair near the makeshift DJ booth, chatting with a guy named Wes. He was a linebacker for LSU, though, by his own admission, mostly a benchwarmer. Shy, soft-spoken, and refreshingly normal, Wes wasn’t at all what you expected to find at a party like this.
“You’re telling me you’ve never been to Mike’s cage?” he asked, his voice slightly raised to be heard over the music.
You laughed. “I don’t know, it just never seemed like a big deal to me. It’s a tiger.”
His eyes widened in mock offense. “It’s not just a tiger. It’s our tiger.”
“Okay, okay, maybe I’ll check it out sometime,” you said, grinning at his enthusiasm.
From the corner of your eye, you caught movement, and instinctively, you glanced over. There, leaning against the bar table, was Joe.
His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on you and Wes.
The sight of his uncharacteristically cold expression sent a jolt through you. Was he annoyed? No, that didn’t make sense. He didn’t care about you, not really.
Wes was saying something about the tiger habitat, but your attention flickered back to Joe. His knuckles whitened around the edge of his red Solo cup, and he seemed to be muttering something to Ja’Marr, who only shrugged in response.
“Everything okay?” Wes asked, his brow furrowed as he followed your gaze.
You blinked, forcing yourself to refocus. “Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”
Joe, however, was impossible to ignore. At one point, he stormed past your little corner of the party, brushing close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm against yours.
Wes had just finished telling a story about his first LSU practice, his nervous laughter making you smile, when Joe’s voice cut through the conversation like a jagged knife.
“Nice to see you making friends,” he said, his tone just sharp enough to raise the hairs on your neck.
You turned to find Joe standing a few feet away, his trademark smirk forced and strained. He wasn’t looking at you but at Wes, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.
“Hey, Burrow,” Wes said, his voice even but noticeably quieter.
Joe stepped closer, ignoring you entirely as he clapped Wes on the shoulder. “Wesley Evans, right? Linebacker extraordinaire.” His words were light, almost teasing, but there was a strange undertone to them.
“Uh, yeah,” Wes said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though ‘extraordinaire’ might be a bit of a stretch.”
Joe chuckled, his laugh cold. “Oh, come on. Don’t sell yourself short. I mean, someone’s got to keep the bench warm, right?”
The group went silent.
You froze, your stomach dropping as the words settled over the conversation like a wet blanket. Wes’s easygoing demeanor faltered for just a moment—just long enough for you to catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes.
But he recovered quickly, letting out a forced laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.”
“Joe,” Ja’Marr said sharply, stepping forward. “That was uncalled for.”
Joe raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk faltering. “What? I was just joking.”
“No, you weren’t,” Ja’Marr said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You stared at Joe, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and confusion. What was his problem? You’d seen him tease people before, but this was something else. This was cruel.
Joe’s eyes finally flicked to yours, and for a brief second, something like regret flashed across his face. But just as quickly, he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before stalking off into the crowd.
The group stood in awkward silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
“I’m sorry about that,” you said softly, turning to Wes.
He shook his head, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”
But you could see the way his shoulders sagged, the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his cup.
Ja’Marr sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not usually like that.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, still staring at the spot where Joe had disappeared.
Ja’Marr shot you a look but said nothing. The group eventually dispersed, the easy energy of the night soured by the encounter.
And as you followed Ella home later, you couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head, trying to piece together why Joe Burrow seemed so determined to ruin the night—not just for you, but for Wes, too.
The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the faint buzz of crickets and distant party music filling the air as you and Ella navigated the dimly lit sidewalks. The night had been long, and your head was still spinning from Joe’s earlier outburst. You’d always known him to be annoying, maybe even a little infuriating, but tonight was different. There was a sharpness to him, an edge that left you unsettled.
Ella broke the silence first, her voice soft. “What do you think that was about? With Joe, I mean.”
You shrugged, kicking a loose pebble down the pavement. “Who knows? Maybe he ran out of people to torture and decided to branch out.”
Ella laughed lightly but didn’t press further. By the time you reached your apartment complex, the cool night air had started to seep into your skin, making you shiver. All you could think about was collapsing into bed and forgetting this day ever happened.
But, of course, Joe Burrow had other plans.
There he was, right in front of your door, pressed up against yet another blonde, her manicured nails tangled in his hair as they made out like the world was ending.
You stopped dead in your tracks, Ella nearly bumping into you.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.
At the sound of your voice, Joe broke away from his hookup, turning to face you with a smirk that was equal parts shameless and infuriating.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Wes not invite you over for a post-party study session?”
Your jaw tightened. “Get out of the way, Burrow.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “What’s the rush? You don’t want to hang out? I can introduce you to…uh…” He glanced at the girl beside him, snapping his fingers as if trying to remember her name.
The blonde giggled, clearly unbothered. “Stephanie,” she offered, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Right. Stephanie,” Joe said, his grin widening.
Ella groaned softly beside you, crossing her arms. “Joe, move. We’re tired.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping aside but not before leaning casually against the doorframe, effectively blocking your path again. “But seriously, where’s Wes? Thought you two were hitting it off. Or is he back on the bench already?”
“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, finally losing the last shred of patience you had left.
Joe straightened up, clearly surprised by the sudden bite in your tone. “What? I’m just messing around.”
“No, you’re being a jerk,” you shot back. “First, you humiliate Wes at the party, and now you’re standing here, rubbing it in like it’s some kind of joke. What’s your problem?”
Stephanie shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between you and Joe. “Uh, maybe we should—”
“Not now,” Joe cut her off, his tone sharper than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t even look at her, his eyes locked on yours.
Stephanie’s mouth fell open in shock. “Excuse me?”
“Just go,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm.
For a moment, the three of you stood frozen, the tension hanging thick in the air. Then, with an indignant huff, Stephanie grabbed her purse and stormed off, her heels clicking angrily against the pavement.
Ella’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Wow,” she muttered under her breath.
Joe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply before turning back to you. “Happy now?”
“No,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re still here.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re acting like I committed some crime. I was just joking, okay? It’s not my fault you can’t take a little teasing.”
“Teasing?” you repeated, incredulous. “Joe, you embarrassed Wes in front of everyone tonight. And for what? To make yourself feel better? To prove you’re the big man on campus?”
His jaw clenched, the cocky facade cracking ever so slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then enlighten me,” you challenged, taking a step closer. “Why do you always have to be such an ass?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and tense. “Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention.”
Your breath caught, his words hitting like a punch to the gut. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his door slamming echoing through the quiet hallway.
Ella let out a low whistle. “Well, that was…something.”
You stared after him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Something.”
“Did he just…?” Ella’s voice was barely a whisper beside you.
You swallowed hard, not trusting yourself to speak. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It wasn’t like Joe to be vulnerable—hell, he practically lived to get under your skin. And yet, there it was, hanging in the air: the truth you never asked for, wrapped up in all his stupid teasing and annoying antics.
“Forget it,” you finally muttered, fumbling with your keys as you moved to unlock the door. “He’s just trying to mess with me.”
“Uh-huh,” Ella said slowly, following you inside. “Because, you know, the guy who just ditched a hot blonde to argue with you at midnight clearly doesn’t care.”
You shot her a glare, unwilling to entertain the idea. “I’m going to bed.”
Ella raised her hands in surrender, smirking knowingly as she headed for her room. “Okay, but don’t act surprised when he shows up tomorrow. He’s not exactly the type to let things go.”
“Goodnight, Ella,” you said firmly, shutting your bedroom door behind you.
But as you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t get his words out of your head. Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention. Was he serious? Or was this just another game to him, a way to throw you off-balance and make you question everything?
With a frustrated sigh, you rolled over, punching your pillow as if it was somehow Joe’s fault that you couldn’t sleep. Whatever his deal was, you weren’t going to let him get under your skin any more than he already had.
But deep down, you knew it was too late. Because whether you liked it or not, Joe Burrow had already wormed his way into your thoughts—and no amount of denial was going to change that.
The next morning, you woke up to a series of loud knocks on your door, far too early for any sane person to be awake. Groaning, you pulled the covers over your head, but the knocking continued, persistent and unrelenting.
“Go away!” you yelled, but the noise didn’t stop.
With a huff, you threw off the blankets and stumbled out of bed, yanking open the door with every intention of giving whoever it was a piece of your mind.
But, of course, it was Joe.
He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just woken you up at the crack of dawn, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Morning, neighbor.”
You stared at him, too stunned and too tired to muster a response.
“Didn’t think you’d be up,” he said, his tone annoyingly chipper.
“I wasn’t,” you snapped, rubbing your eyes. “What the hell do you want?”
His smile widened, and he held up a to-go coffee cup, the LSU logo bright against the paper sleeve. “Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”
You blinked at the cup, then at him, suspicion rising. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he said, still holding it out. “Just coffee. Truce?”
You hesitated, the words from last night still lingering between you. But, against your better judgment, you reached for the cup, your fingers brushing his for a brief second. “Fine. Truce. For now.”
His eyes gleamed, like he’d just won some kind of invisible battle. “I’ll take it.” He turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way—I’m not going anywhere.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing in the doorway with a coffee cup in hand and the distinct feeling that, somehow, things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.
Things between you and Wes have been going really well. You’ve been texting each other daily since that first meeting in the quad, and his messages always seem to bring a smile to your face. Some days, you talk about classes and the usual college chaos—complaining about professors who seem to thrive on assigning last-minute papers, laughing over campus gossip, or sharing music recommendations.
Other days, the conversations drift into deeper topics: family, future dreams, and the things you never thought you’d share with someone you’d barely known a few weeks ago. It's easy, effortless, and you feel like you've known him forever. There's a connection that grows stronger with each passing day, his texts becoming a constant you look forward to amid the swirl of college life.
When game days roll around, you make sure to watch, even if football has never been your thing. You learn enough of the basics to text him encouragement before each game and tease him when his team makes a stupid play. And every single time he wins, you get a photo of him in his jersey, sweaty and glowing with victory, his smile so wide you can feel it through the screen.
One crisp Saturday evening after a particularly big game—a win that had the entire stadium roaring and chanting for more—your phone buzzes. It’s Wes, as expected, but this time the message is different.
Wes: Big win tonight. You should come out to celebrate—party at the house. It'll be fun, promise.
You hesitate for a moment. Frat parties aren’t usually your scene, but the idea of seeing Wes in person after weeks of building up this text-based connection makes your heart beat a little faster. It feels like the right time to finally break out of the comfort of your phone screen. You don’t want to overthink it, so you respond quickly.
You: Okay, I’ll come! What time? Wes: Perfect. Starts at 9, but I’ll be there around 10. Meet me out front? I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.
You can’t help but laugh at that—his protective side has become more apparent lately, and you find it kind of endearing. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of anticipation. You try on half your wardrobe, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness that makes your stomach flutter. After way too much deliberation, you settle on something that’s cute but comfortable—a black crop top, jeans that fit just right, and your favorite sneakers. Casual, but you don’t want to come off like you’re trying too hard.
The party was in full swing by the time you and Wes went in, the familiar buzz of laughter and music filling the air. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders as you made your way through the packed house, a red solo cup already in his hand. It was a typical LSU post-game celebration—teammates hyped up from their win, students eager for a reason to cut loose, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting.
Wes, ever the golden retriever type, was all smiles as he greeted his teammates. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as you plastered on your own smile. Wes was great—sweet, thoughtful, and good-looking to boot—but there was something missing. Conversations with him always felt a little too polished, like he was sticking to a script.
Still, you weren’t going to let your wandering thoughts ruin the night. As he led you toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen, you decided to let loose a little, leaning into his world for the evening.
You were two drinks in when you felt it—a shift in the air that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Glancing across the room, your eyes locked with Joe’s. He was leaning casually against the wall, his cup dangling from his fingers as he laughed at something Ja’Marr said. But his focus wasn’t on his teammate—it was on you.
That look.
You’d seen it before, the one that screamed I’m up to something. Your stomach twisted as his lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.
“What’s wrong?” Wes asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”
Wes didn’t notice your distraction, too busy rambling about the game. You nodded along, but your attention kept drifting back to Joe. He was still watching, and now he was moving.
Straight toward you.
“Wesley,” Joe said, his voice louder than necessary as he clapped a hand on Wes’s shoulder. “Man of the hour! Hell of a game tonight.”
Wes beamed, his chest puffing out a little. “Thanks, Burrow. That means a lot coming from you.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” Joe said smoothly, his grin sharpening. “You’re really making a name for yourself out there.” He paused, his tone dipping just enough to make the compliment feel off. “You’ve got a solid five minutes of playing time this season, right?”
Wes laughed, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Yeah, Coach says I’m improving every week.”
Joe nodded, his expression the picture of sincerity. “No doubt. You’re an inspiration, man. Really showing the bench how it’s done.”
You rolled your eyes, biting back the urge to step in. Wes didn’t deserve to be Joe’s verbal punching bag, even if he was too oblivious to notice.
Then Joe shifted his focus.
“And this,” he said, gesturing toward you with his cup, “is the girl everyone’s been talking about?”
You stiffened, already bracing yourself.
“She’s great, right?” Wes said proudly, tightening his arm around your waist.
“Absolutely,” Joe said, his eyes locking on yours. “Smart, pretty, patient.” His lips twitched as he added, “Definitely one of a kind.”
The room felt hotter, smaller. You knew what he was doing, and you refused to let him win.
“Wow, Joe,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “That’s almost a compliment. Are you feeling okay?”
The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy.”
Wes chuckled awkwardly, clearly missing the tension simmering between the two of you. But the people around you weren’t as oblivious. Conversations around the kitchen began to quiet, heads subtly turning in your direction.
Joe leaned in slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Though I gotta say, Wes, you’ve got your hands full. She seems like the type to keep you on your toes. Always ready with a snappy comeback.”
You took a step forward, your jaw tightening. “Maybe because some people deserve it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re talking about me,” Joe said, his smirk widening. “But hey, you’ve got to admit, I keep things interesting.”
“Interesting?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You mean infuriating.”
By now, you were toe-to-toe, the space between you charged with unspoken words and something else you refused to acknowledge.
Joe’s eyes flicked down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he smiled again, softer this time. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”
Your breath caught, and for a moment, you were certain everyone in the room could see the way your cheeks flushed, the way your chest rose and fell faster than it should have.
Joe straightened, patting Wes on the back. “You’ve got a good one here, man. Don’t screw it up.”
And just like that, he was gone, disappearing back into the crowd with that stupid smirk still on his face.
Wes turned to you, oblivious as ever. “Man, Joe’s great, isn’t he?”
You didn’t answer, too busy trying to calm the storm raging inside you. Because as much as you hated to admit it, Joe Burrow had just gotten under your skin again. And this time, you weren’t sure you could shake him off.
The days blur together after the party, each one bleeding into the next with a heavy quiet you can’t shake. Joe hasn’t teased you, hasn’t made any more snide comments in passing. It’s almost like he’s disappeared entirely, and the silence he’s left behind feels suffocating.
But it's not the kind of peace you wanted—it's the kind that echoes, that bounces around inside your skull, replaying the things he said over and over again until you can’t ignore them anymore. You try to focus on Wes, try to let his easygoing, good-natured attitude soothe the irritation that keeps curling under your skin, but the more you think about Joe’s words, the more they fester. Suddenly, everything about Wes feels too soft, too careful. He’s kind, yes, but there's a blandness to it, a safe predictability that only makes you itch for something sharper.
Then, days later, you find yourself in the apartment lobby, bundled up against the late autumn chill, glaring at a maintenance form on the wall. The hot water’s been out for days, and you’re halfway through filling out a complaint when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is—the shift in the air is enough.
"Wow, fancy meeting you here," comes Joe’s voice, smooth and mocking, with just enough bite to make your spine stiffen. You don’t turn around, don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you keep writing, the pen pressing hard enough against the paper that it almost tears.
"Cold water bothering you too?" he continues when you don’t respond, his tone amused. You can feel him looming behind you, a little too close, and you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stay calm.
"Just trying to get it fixed," you reply curtly, finally turning around and catching the cocky smirk tugging at his lips. You’re not in the mood for whatever game he’s about to play, but of course, he’s not about to let you off that easy. His gaze slides from the form in your hand back up to your face, one eyebrow quirking up in that infuriating way that always makes you want to wipe the smugness off his face.
"Surprised you’re handling it yourself," Joe drawls, his eyes bright with something almost like delight. "Thought you'd get your little boyfriend to do it for you."
Your fingers tighten around the pen, and you force yourself to take a breath, ignoring the way your pulse quickens. "Not everything revolves around Wes," you shoot back, but your voice wavers just enough to make Joe’s smirk widen. His eyes flick over your face, and you hate the way he seems to read every expression, every crack in the mask you’re struggling to hold up.
"Really?" he says, the word heavy with skepticism. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall like he’s settling in for a show. "Could’ve fooled me. He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, huh? I bet you’re the perfect, supportive girlfriend." His voice drips with sarcasm, and something inside you snaps.
"Shut up, Joe," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. You turn back to the form, determined to ignore him, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he leans in closer, his breath warm on your ear.
"Why?" he murmurs, his voice soft but taunting, like he’s got all the time in the world. "Hit a nerve?"
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because the truth is, he did hit a nerve. And he knows it.
"Come on," he pushes, a note of genuine curiosity in his tone now. "Don’t you ever get tired of it? Playing nice, doing everything right, sticking with someone who’s… I dunno, safe?"
You spin around, eyes blazing, and Joe’s face lights up with triumph. "You don’t know anything about him," you snap, but there’s a waver in your voice that makes Joe’s eyes narrow with interest. "Wes is kind, and he’s decent, and he actually cares about people, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you."
Joe’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it only grows wider, almost wolfish, and you hate that it sends a thrill through you, a charge that leaves your heart racing. "Yeah," he says, his tone almost pitying, "he’s safe. Boring. He’s exactly the kind of guy who���d never get in your way, never challenge you, never push back. And you’re happy with that? Really?"
You glare at him, your blood boiling, but you can’t look away. Because some part of you—the part you’ve been trying to silence for days—knows he’s right, and it makes you want to scream. "What the hell is your problem, Joe?" you demand, your voice shaking with anger. "Why do you even care? What does it matter to you if I’m with him or not?"
For a moment, something flickers in Joe’s eyes, something you can’t quite read, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that infuriating smirk. "I don’t care," he says, too quickly, his voice a little too smooth. "I just think it’s funny, that’s all. Watching you pretend like he’s enough for you."
You step closer without realizing it, your fists clenched at your sides. "You don’t know what you’re talking about," you insist, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. Joe’s gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and you feel a jolt of something hot and dangerous twist in your stomach.
"Don’t I?" he murmurs, and suddenly, you’re standing toe-to-toe, your breath mingling with his, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his smirk softens just enough to be dangerous.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
There’s a beat, a moment suspended in time where it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of you, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air. Then, suddenly, Joe’s expression shifts, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face as he leans back, breaking the spell. He claps you on the shoulder, his touch light but lingering.
"Good talk," he says, his tone infuriatingly cheerful as he pushes past you towards the elevator, leaving you standing there, breathless and rattled.
"Have fun with Wes," he throws over his shoulder, and the door slides shut behind him before you can find the words to reply. You’re left staring at the closed elevator doors, your chest heaving and your hands still trembling around the pen, the echoes of Joe’s taunting voice ricocheting in your mind.
And for the first time in days, the silence feels even louder.
The days drag by, and every one of them feels heavier, weighed down by Joe's words. They hang over you, echoing whenever you try to ignore them, seeping into your thoughts when you're with Wes. The way he holds your hand, the way he smiles politely at your jokes, the way he never raises his voice or teases you too hard—it’s all safe. It’s what you thought you wanted. But now, thanks to Joe, it’s all starting to feel empty, like a shell with nothing inside.
As if to make matters worse, Joe's been louder, more present, and more irritating than ever. He’s upped his game, bringing a new girl home almost every night, the kind who giggle just a little too loud in the stairwell, whose heels click sharply against the tile floors, waking you and Ella up in the middle of the night. You hear them laughing through the paper-thin walls, their voices carrying long after you wish they’d shut up. Ella throws a pillow at the wall one night, groaning in frustration, but you just lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, the annoyance mixing with something else—something you refuse to name.
And then Wes’s birthday sneaks up on you, like a storm you’d been pretending not to see on the horizon. Everyone's talking about it—the party of the semester, hosted at his parents’ mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. You know it’s a big deal. Wes’s parents are the kind who throw events instead of parties, the kind where everyone’s wearing their best, and you’d feel out of place if you weren’t on Wes’s arm. You spend way too long picking out your dress, ignoring Ella’s teasing smile as you change twice and then settle on something classy, something you think Wes’s parents will approve of.
The mansion is even more extravagant than you expected. Tall, stately, and glowing with warm light spilling from every window. A string quartet plays softly near the entrance, and there’s enough champagne to drown in. It’s a perfect picture of Southern elegance, the kind of party where everyone’s on their best behavior and no one dares spill a drink on the white marble floors.
You’re almost able to relax, standing with Wes as he introduces you to old friends and relatives, his arm around your waist like you’re some kind of prize. But then, from across the room, you catch sight of someone familiar stepping through the grand double doors, and the air goes still.
Joe. And he’s not alone.
On his arm is a girl who looks like she’s stepped straight out of a beauty magazine—perfect curls cascading down her back, a dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, and a pageant smile that could light up the whole room. She’s everything you’re not: polished, pristine, and undeniably beautiful. And Joe’s leaning in close to her, whispering something that makes her laugh, the sound light and carefree, echoing above the music.
Your heart sinks. You should have known he’d be here. You should have known he’d show up with someone like her.
The moment he walks in, it’s like the temperature drops. You feel him scan the room, his gaze sliding over the crowd until it lands on you. There’s a flicker of recognition, a half-smile that tugs at his lips, and for a second, you swear he’s going to make a beeline for you, but then he turns to his date, all easy charm and confidence.
You look away quickly, swallowing down the hot, bitter twinge of jealousy that rises in your chest. Beside you, Wes is oblivious, laughing with some cousin or another, completely unaware of the storm that’s building in your mind.
The party moves on, but you can't shake the weight in your chest. Every time you turn around, Joe is there—always in your peripheral, laughing with his date or effortlessly sliding into conversations with people he’s never met, commanding attention without even trying. And it’s driving you mad. You hate that he’s here, hate the way his presence seems to seep into every corner of the room, hate that you can’t stop looking for him, even when you don’t mean to.
Wes’s parents announce dinner, and you find yourself at a long table, perfectly set with silverware that you don’t even know how to use properly. Wes is on your left, chatting away, and you force yourself to smile and nod at the right moments, though your gaze keeps drifting over his shoulder. Joe is at the far end of the table, but his eyes meet yours—bright and full of something that feels like a challenge. He raises his glass in your direction, and you don’t miss the way his date practically glows under his attention, leaning into his side.
You grit your teeth, focusing on Wes, who’s completely unaware of the way your stomach is twisting. He’s sweet, attentive, a perfect gentleman, and you wish you could ignore the itch under your skin, the restlessness that grows with each passing minute. But it’s there, burning hotter every time you catch sight of Joe, laughing too loud or leaning in too close to whisper in his date's ear.
By the time dessert is served, you’re practically vibrating with frustration, and Wes’s voice is starting to blur into the background. He’s telling some long-winded story about his summer at the family lake house, but all you can think about is how easy it would be to just walk over to the other end of the table and—
“Hey, you alright?” Wes’s voice breaks through your thoughts, and you force yourself to focus on him, pasting on a smile that feels hollow.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, reaching for your glass of champagne and taking a sip that burns all the way down. He seems satisfied, squeezing your hand gently under the table, but his touch feels distant, almost suffocating.
And when you glance back at Joe, he’s watching you, his smile sharper than you remember. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes your skin prickle, like he’s waiting for something, like he knows exactly what kind of game he’s playing. His date is still chattering away, oblivious to the way his gaze keeps flicking back to you, like a tether he can’t quite cut loose.
You look away, your face heating, and try to drown out the feeling with another sip of champagne. But it's no use. The night has only just begun, and you already know—it’s going to be a long one.
You escape upstairs, the noise of the party fading as you climb the grand, spiraling staircase. It’s quieter up here, with the muted sound of conversation and laughter drifting up from below, and you can finally breathe a little easier. You’re not even sure what you’re doing—just that you need a break from the suffocating conversation, the polished smiles, and the feeling of being watched. Wes is deep in conversation with a teammate, and it was easy enough to slip away unnoticed. You tell yourself you're only going to the bathroom, but you don’t even bother finding one. You just wander down the hall, hoping to collect yourself, to calm the thudding in your chest.
But then, of course, you see him.
Joe, leaning lazily against the wall at the end of the hallway, like he’s been waiting for you. There’s no sign of his date—she’s probably downstairs, lost in the crowd—but Joe’s here, and he looks too damn comfortable, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He gives you that infuriating half-smirk the second your eyes meet, like he’s been expecting you. Like he knows you’re going to stop.
“Lost?” he drawls, his voice a low, lazy tease, and you freeze, every muscle in your body going tense.
“No,” you snap, hating the way your heart skips when he pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. “Just getting some air.”
“From Wes?” he asks, eyebrows raising, and you can hear the taunt in his tone, the way he draws out the name like it’s a joke. “Or from this whole perfect little party of his?”
“None of your business,” you shoot back, but he’s closer now, and you hate how your breath catches, how the air between you feels thick and electric. He’s looking at you like he’s stripping away all the layers you’ve put up—the polite smiles, the careful charm—and seeing straight through to the part of you that’s restless and hungry for a fight.
“You know, I can’t tell if you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate. “Or if you’re just playing the role of ‘good girlfriend’ to make everyone happy.”
“Shut up, Joe,” you warn, but your voice is weaker than you want it to be, and he notices. Of course he notices. He takes another step, and suddenly he’s way too close, the heat of him radiating into the space between you, making it harder to breathe.
“Or is it that Wes is just…too boring for you?” he presses, and something snaps. You step forward, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble back a step, anger flaring white-hot in your chest.
“Why do you care?” you demand, your voice rising. “Why do you always have to ruin everything? You can’t stand seeing me happy, can you? You always have to get in the way—”
“Oh, please,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp with irritation. “Don’t act like I’m the one ruining things. You’re the one who can’t stop looking at me. You’re the one who’s pretending this perfect little relationship is enough for you.”
You don’t even think. You just react, stepping closer, your chest heaving with the force of your anger, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You don’t know anything about me!” you shout, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them. “You don’t know what I want or what I need, so stop pretending like you have me all figured out!”
He’s laughing now, a low, mocking sound that sets your teeth on edge, and you want to hit him, to scream, to do something to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face. But then he’s had enough. Suddenly, he moves, quick as a flash, and before you can even blink, he’s grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you up as if you weigh nothing, throwing you over his shoulder in one swift, effortless motion.
“Put me down!” you shout, struggling against him, but he just tightens his grip, carrying you down the hall like you’re some kind of rag doll. Your fists beat uselessly against his back, and you’re half-cursing, half-panicking as he ignores you, kicking open the nearest door and stepping inside.
The door slams shut behind him, and you barely register the darkened room—a guest bedroom, dimly lit by the moonlight streaming through the curtains—before he’s setting you down, pressing you up against the wall with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. You’re too stunned to move, your back hitting the cold plaster, and suddenly his body is pinning you there, his hands on either side of your face, caging you in.
“Finally shut you up,” he mutters, his voice rough, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the way his breath brushes your cheek, hot and fast. His eyes are dark, burning with something you’ve never seen before, and the space between you feels like it’s crackling, alive with an energy that makes your skin prickle and your pulse race.
“Why do you have to be such a—” you start, but he cuts you off, leaning in closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his chest pressing against yours. His mouth is inches from yours, his lips twisting into a wicked smile.
“Go on,” he taunts, his voice low and dangerous. “Say it. Tell me what you really think.”
You’re breathing hard, your anger warring with something hotter, something that’s been building between you for months, and you can’t stop yourself. “You’re an asshole,” you spit, your hands coming up to shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. He just leans in, his nose brushing against yours, the air between you thick and suffocating.
“And you,” he says softly, his voice almost gentle, “are a liar.”
You don’t know who moves first—whether it’s him closing the distance or you surging up to meet him—but suddenly his mouth is on yours, hard and desperate, and you’re kissing him back like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted. The kiss is furious, full of all the things you can’t say, all the frustration and the longing and the anger that’s been building up for so long it feels like it’s going to explode. His hands are in your hair, his grip almost painful, and you’re clinging to him, pulling him closer, gasping into his mouth as he presses you harder against the wall.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispers against your lips, his breath ragged, and you shake your head, too far gone to think, to lie, to do anything but pull him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Shut up,” you breathe, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he kisses you again, deeper this time, slower, like he’s savoring the taste of your surrender. The room feels too small, the air too thick, and you know you should stop, you know this is wrong, but you can’t, not when his hands are sliding down your sides, not when his body is pressing into yours, not when he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.
And then, suddenly, it’s too much. You push him away, your breath coming in short, harsh gasps, and he lets you go, stepping back with a grin that’s all arrogance and triumph. Your lips feel swollen, your face flushed, and you hate that you can’t stop looking at him, that you want more even though you know you shouldn’t.
“See?” he says softly, his voice maddeningly smug. “I do know you.”
The words barely have time to leave his mouth before you’re on him again, shoving him away from you, your hands hitting his chest with more force than you intend. He stumbles back a step, a flash of surprise crossing his face before his eyes harden, that infuriating grin vanishing. You’re both breathing hard, the air between you heavy with everything unspoken, with all the sharp words that have been building up since the day you met.
“You don’t know anything!” you snap, your voice cracking, and he just laughs, a short, humorless sound that makes your blood boil.
“You keep saying that,” he shoots back, his voice low and dangerous, “but here you are. Every time, it’s the same thing. You want me to stop? Then say it. Tell me to leave.”
You open your mouth to say exactly that, to tell him to go to hell and stay out of your life, but the words won’t come. They catch in your throat, tangled up with the truth you can’t face, and he sees it. He always sees it. His gaze softens, something like understanding flickering in those dark eyes, and it pisses you off more than anything.
“See?” he murmurs, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You can’t. Because you don’t want me to.”
“Shut up,” you whisper, but it’s too late—he’s already crowding into your space, his hand curling around the back of your neck, tilting your face up to his. You hate him for the way he’s looking at you, like he’s unraveling you with a single glance, like he knows exactly how to break you down, and before you can stop yourself, you’re surging up, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him again, harder this time, angrier.
His arms come around you instantly, pulling you closer, and you hate that it feels good, that it feels right, even as you’re pushing against him, your nails digging into his shoulders. It’s a mess of teeth and tongues, the kiss desperate and furious, and you’re drowning in it, in the heat of him, in the way his fingers are tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.
Then the door swings open, and you both jerk apart, your breaths coming in ragged, uneven pants. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you see Ja’Marr standing there, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. He looks at you, then at Joe, and lets out a long, frustrated sigh.
“Really, Joe?” he says, his voice laced with disappointment. “In the middle of Wes’s birthday party? Do you have a death wish or something?”
“Calm down,” Joe says coolly, like he’s not the least bit bothered, his gaze still fixed on you, as if daring you to run. “We were just talking.”
“Yeah,” Ja’Marr scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Talking, right. Because making out with your teammate’s girl is totally a normal conversation.”
You feel your cheeks burn, and you step back, smoothing down your clothes like you can erase what just happened. “This—this was nothing,” you stammer, trying to ignore the way Joe’s lips curl into a smirk at your flustered tone. “We’re done here.”
Joe just gives you a lazy, almost triumphant smile, like he’s won some unspoken battle, and turns to Ja’Marr with a shrug. “She’s got a mind of her own, you know,” he says, and you want to punch him, to scream, but Ja’Marr just shakes his head, looking equal parts disappointed and resigned.
“Whatever,” Ja’Marr mutters, grabbing Joe’s arm and pulling him out into the hallway. “You need to get your act together. Wes is going to notice if you keep pulling this crap.”
Joe’s eyes flick to you one last time, something unreadable in his expression, before he lets Ja’Marr drag him away. The door clicks shut behind them, and you’re left alone in the darkened room, your heart racing and your thoughts spinning out of control. You know you should follow them, that you should go back downstairs and pretend like nothing happened, but your knees feel weak, and it takes you a long moment to gather yourself, to steady your breathing.
By the time you make your way back down to the party, your face feels numb, and you’ve forced on the brightest smile you can muster. Joe is already back in the thick of things, his arm slung casually around his date’s waist, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. You want to be angry, to hate him for making it look so easy, but then Wes catches sight of you, his eyes lighting up as he excuses himself from his conversation.
“Hey, there you are!” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. You try to smile, but it feels fake, like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore. “Where’d you disappear to?”
“Just needed a minute,” you say, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. You’re about to say something else, anything to fill the awkward silence, when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.
Joe’s watching you, his gaze flicking from your face to your mouth, and that’s when you realize—his lips are still stained with the faintest trace of your lipstick, a dark, telltale smear at the corner of his mouth.
Wes follows your gaze, and his smile falters, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Joe, what’s on your—”
But Joe cuts in smoothly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin widening as if he finds the whole thing hilarious. “Guess I got a little carried away,” he says, his voice dripping with mock innocence, and you feel the ground sway beneath you as Wes’s arm tightens around your shoulders, his confusion shifting to suspicion.
“What’s he talking about?” Wes asks, his eyes narrowing, and you open your mouth to respond, to deny, to do something—but nothing comes out. Your voice has abandoned you, and all you can do is stand there, frozen, as Joe’s smirk deepens and he lifts his drink in a mocking toast, his gaze never leaving yours.
“Good party,” Joe says casually, his tone almost friendly. “Really enjoyed myself.”
You don’t remember what happens next—just the blur of faces, the noise of the party swelling around you, and the hollow ache settling deep in your chest as Joe turns away, laughing with someone else, like he hasn’t just blown everything to pieces.
Wes's smile is strained when he pulls you aside, away from the music and the crowd. There’s a tightness around his eyes you haven’t seen before, something almost defeated, and for the first time that night, you feel a genuine pang of guilt. This is the part you were dreading—the confrontation, the disappointment in his eyes. But instead of yelling, instead of demanding an explanation, he just looks... tired.
“Hey,” he starts softly, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t wanna make a scene, okay? But I think... I think maybe you should go.”
You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat. There’s no anger in his voice, just resignation, like he already knows the answer before you can even try to lie. You can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.
“Wes, I—” you begin, but he holds up a hand, a weak, defeated smile pulling at his lips.
“It’s okay,” he interrupts, and there’s something achingly kind in his voice, which somehow makes it hurt more. “I think we both know this... isn’t what you want. Not really.”
You feel relief flood your chest so suddenly that it’s almost nauseating, and that’s how you know he’s right. Because instead of being devastated, instead of scrambling to explain yourself, you just feel lighter. Like a weight you didn’t realize you were carrying has finally been lifted.
You reach out to touch his arm, but he steps back, shaking his head. “Don’t,” he says quietly, and you let your hand drop, nodding numbly. There’s nothing left to say. You don’t try to apologize; you don’t try to make excuses. You just turn and leave, the buzz of the party fading behind you as you slip out the front door, the cold night air hitting you like a slap.
The walk back to the apartment feels like a blur, your mind whirling with everything that just happened, everything you don’t want to think about. You don’t know if it’s the relief of being free from something you never truly wanted, or the shame of how it all went down, but by the time you reach your building, your hands are trembling and your breath is hitching.
You let yourself into the apartment, your eyes already burning with unshed tears, and you find Ella curled up on the couch, half-asleep in front of the TV. The moment she sees your face, though, she sits up, worry creasing her brow.
“Whoa, what happened?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, but you don’t even know where to begin.
“Everything,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and then it all spills out. You tell her everything—about Joe, about the kiss, about Wes’s sad, tired smile and the way he let you go without a fight. You’re talking so fast you’re stumbling over your words, your emotions a chaotic tangle of regret and relief and frustration, and by the time you’re finished, you feel completely wrung out.
Ella listens without interrupting, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief to sympathy as you pour your heart out. When you finally go quiet, she just sighs and pulls you into a hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and you don’t realize how much you needed to hear that until the tears start falling. She doesn’t tell you that you screwed up, she doesn’t lecture you about Joe, she just holds you while you cry, rubbing soothing circles on your back until the tears run dry.
By the time you pull away, your throat is raw, and you’re exhausted. Ella doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look that says she understands, that she’s on your side no matter what, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.
But then, just as you’re wiping your eyes and trying to compose yourself, you hear it—a loud burst of laughter echoing through the thin wall you share with Joe’s apartment. It’s followed by the high-pitched giggle of a girl, and your stomach twists. Of course. Of course.
Ella catches the look on your face and scowls. “He’s such an ass,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You want me to go bang on the wall and tell them to shut up?”
“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s... it’s fine. Let’s just go to bed.”
You don’t even believe yourself, but you can’t deal with Joe right now, not after everything. So you go to your room, shut the door, and try to block out the noise. You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself it’s over. But sleep doesn’t come easily, and all you can hear is Joe’s voice in your head, his mocking words echoing long after the sounds from next door have finally gone quiet.
Over the next few days, you try to fall back into a routine, but everything feels off-kilter. Wes doesn’t text you, and you don’t reach out, letting the silence stretch between you until it feels like a mutual understanding—something that was always going to happen. Ella hovers, supportive but careful not to push, and you appreciate that. You just need space, time to sort through everything.
Joe, however, is a different story.
You barely see him around the complex, but when you do, it’s impossible to ignore him. He’s still bringing home girls—more than ever, it seems—and they’re always loud, obnoxiously so, like he’s doing it on purpose, like he’s rubbing it in your face. And maybe he is. Maybe this is his way of proving a point, of showing you that he doesn’t care, that he never cared, and the worst part is... you don’t know if you care either. Or maybe you care too much.
One night, after a particularly sleepless stretch of listening to laughter and footsteps pounding through the walls, Ella finds you staring blankly at the ceiling, dark circles smudged beneath your eyes.
“He’s doing this on purpose, you know,” she says bluntly, her tone halfway between irritation and pity. “He’s trying to get to you.”
“Yeah, well,” you mutter, rolling over to face the wall. “It’s working.”
Wes’s birthday party fades into memory, and a few weeks pass. It’s easier to pretend you don’t care when you don’t have to face the fallout. You focus on classes, avoid places where you might run into Joe, and try to ignore the way your heart sinks every time you hear his voice next door.
Then, one Friday night, there’s a knock on your door. You’re half expecting Ella’s latest Tinder date or a package, but instead, you find Joe leaning against the doorframe, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. There’s something almost hesitant about the way he looks at you, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.
“Hey,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, and it catches you off guard.
“What do you want?” you ask, and you hate how defensive you sound, how you can’t help but put a wall between you.
Joe’s eyes flicker, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing down the hallway before he looks back at you. “Can we talk?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s asking because he wants to or because he thinks he has to. “Please?”
You hesitate, every part of you screaming to slam the door in his face, to tell him to go to hell. “Talk?” you echo, as though the very idea is laughable. “What’s there to talk about, Joe?”
He shifts uncomfortably, his hands still deep in his pockets. “I just—” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. For once, he doesn’t look cocky or composed. He looks tired. “I screwed up, okay? I know that. And I just… I want to make things right.”
You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Now you care about making things right? Weeks later? Where was this when you were busy humiliating me in front of everyone at Wes’s party?”
Joe flinches, and the sight of it sends a small, mean thrill through you. You want him to feel every ounce of the anger and hurt that’s been simmering inside you since that night.
“I was drunk,” he mutters, like it’s an excuse. “You know I didn’t mean half the shit I said.”
“Oh, so you only mean half of it?” Your voice rises despite yourself, and you take a step closer. “Which half, Joe? The part where you said Wes was too good for me? Or the part where you implied I’m some kind of charity case?”
Joe groans, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s not what I meant! You’re twisting it—”
“I’m twisting it?” Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “No, Joe. I’m finally calling you out on your crap. You think you can just waltz in here, throw out a half-assed apology, and I’m supposed to forget how you treated me? Newsflash: I’m done being your punching bag.”
“Punching bag?” His voice spikes, and you can see his patience starting to fray. “Are you kidding me? You think I don’t care about you? That I’d say that stuff to hurt you on purpose?”
“Then why did you say it?” you snap, stepping closer until you’re almost toe to toe. “Why, Joe? If you care so much, why do you always find a way to make me feel like I’m not enough?”
He stares at you, his jaw tightening, his chest rising and falling as he tries to keep his temper in check. But then he snaps, his voice loud enough to make you flinch. “Because you drive me crazy, alright? You’re in my head all the damn time, and it’s like I can’t think straight when I’m around you!”
You’re stunned into silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with something electric, something you can’t name but can feel in every nerve of your body.
Joe’s eyes are blazing, his chest heaving as he takes a step closer. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to feel like this about you? I didn’t, okay? But I do. And it scares the hell out of me.”
You swallow hard, your throat dry. “Joe…”
He shakes his head, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m sorry, alright? For all of it. I just—I didn’t know how to deal with this, with you.”
You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you is gone. Joe’s hands are on your arms, his grip firm but not rough, and you’re looking up at him, your breath catching in your throat.
Joe doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let the anger rise again. He stays close, his hands still resting on your arms, his grip grounding and firm. His gaze softens, something vulnerable breaking through the tension in his voice.
“You think I like being the guy who gets under your skin?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s no bite to it now. Only honesty. “You think I enjoy pissing you off just for fun?”
You stare at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift, the rawness in his tone. “Don’t you?”
Joe lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “No. That’s just the only way you ever seem to notice me.” His words hit like a punch to the gut, and your breath hitches. “If I’m not in your face, annoying the hell out of you, it’s like I don’t even exist to you.”
You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He’s too quick, too honest, and you don’t have a defense ready for the truth.
“That’s why I invite them over,” he continues, and there’s no cockiness in the admission. Just exhaustion. “Those girls, the loud music, the stupid games—it’s not because I want them. It’s because I’m trying to get you to see me. To pay attention. Even if it’s just so you can yell at me.”
Your stomach twists, a lump forming in your throat. You want to stay mad, to cling to your anger like a shield, but it’s slipping through your fingers. Joe doesn’t stop; he steps closer, so close now that you can feel the heat radiating off him.
“I don’t know how else to get through to you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tired, okay? I’m tired of pretending like I don’t care when I do. So much more than I should.”
Your breath catches, and your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. You don’t know what to say, what to feel. Joe watches you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, his hesitation palpable. And then, before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.
It’s not rough or demanding like you might have expected. It’s soft, tentative, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His hands slide from your arms to your waist, anchoring you gently, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds back.
For a moment, you freeze, torn between the urge to push him away and the overwhelming need to lean into him. But then your walls crack, and you kiss him back, your hands clutching at the front of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
Joe pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. His breathing is unsteady, his expression a mix of relief and something deeper. Without a word, he steps forward, his hands tightening around your waist as he gently pushes you through the door.
You don’t resist. You can’t.
He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then sweeps you off your feet in one swift, effortless motion. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you down the hall toward your bedroom.
“Joe…” you begin, but he silences you with a look—a look so tender, so unlike the Joe you thought you knew, that your words die on your lips.
By the time he lays you down on the bed, the anger and frustration from moments ago have evaporated, replaced by something else entirely. Something that hums between you like a live wire.
He hovers over you, his weight supported by his arms on either side of your head. His eyes search yours, silently asking for permission, for understanding. And when you nod, so small and uncertain, he dips his head to kiss you again, this time deeper, more sure of himself.
Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging gently as he trails his lips down your jaw, your neck, every touch making your pulse race. He’s careful, almost reverent, as if afraid to break the fragile moment you’re sharing.
And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—Joe Burrow isn’t the selfish, cocky guy you thought he was. Maybe, behind all the bravado, he’s just a boy who wanted you to see him. And now, you finally do.
Joe’s lips trail along the curve of your neck, leaving a warm, electric path in their wake. He takes his time, his breath hot against your skin, and every deliberate touch makes your pulse thunder louder in your ears.
His hands glide over your waist, fingers pressing lightly, almost teasing as they trace the hem of your shirt. You feel his smile against your neck when you squirm slightly beneath him, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “No more yelling? No smart remarks?”
You swallow hard, trying to find some semblance of control, but the way his hands move, the way his lips hover so close yet don’t quite touch, leaves you breathless. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say to you right now,” you shoot back, though your voice wavers.
Joe chuckles, lifting his head to look at you, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his thumb brushing over the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’ve always got something to say to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off.”
You glare at him, but it’s half-hearted, your resolve crumbling as he dips his head again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I like it when you get all fired up,” he whispers, his tone teasing. “But I think I like this quiet side of you even more.”
You huff, trying to ignore the way your body betrays you, leaning into him despite yourself. “You’re so full of yourself.”
Joe smirks, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand slides under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin, and you shiver at the contact. “Maybe,” he admits, his tone smug, “but you’re still here, aren’t you?”
You want to retort, to wipe that cocky grin off his face, but before you can, he shifts his weight, his lips capturing yours again. This time, the kiss is slower, deeper, and you feel the teasing edge in his movements as he kisses you until you forget whatever comeback you had planned.
His fingers inch higher, tracing light patterns on your stomach, deliberately avoiding the places where you want him most. It’s infuriating, how easily he has you unraveling, and when he pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, you let out an exasperated groan.
“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, tugging at his shirt in frustration.
Joe leans down, his nose brushing against yours, his lips curling into a playful grin. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”
He shifts again, his hands sliding up to frame your face as he kisses you once more. His lips are soft but insistent, drawing you in until all you can focus on is him—his weight pressing you into the mattress, the warmth of his skin, the way his touch sets every nerve in your body alight.
“Say the word,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft but laced with a challenge. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
You stare up at him, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. But the word never comes. Instead, you pull him down again, your fingers threading through his hair as you kiss him with all the pent-up frustration, anger, and longing that’s been building between you for weeks.
Joe groans softly, his hands sliding down your sides, his teasing touch giving way to something more intentional. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your lips, his tone smug but laced with something warmer, something that makes your stomach flip.
Joe's lips find yours again, the kiss deepening as his teasing facade begins to slip. His hands roam your body with more purpose now, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s memorizing every curve. He nips lightly at your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Still hate me?” he whispers, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. He moves back slowly, before pulling off your leggings, his eyes never leaving yours.
You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you pull him closer, your nails grazing the back of his neck, and the quiet groan he lets out is enough to make your pulse race.
The leggings are long forgotten now, leaving you exposed in your underwear. Joe chuckles softly, his breath fanning against your lips as he trails kisses along your jaw, then lower, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck. His tongue follows, soothing the faint sting, and the combination has your hands fisting in his shirt.
“You’re not as tough as you act, you know,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. His hands slide beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your bare skin as he pushes the fabric up slowly. “I think you like this way more than you’re letting on.”
“You talk too much,” you manage to gasp, but your retort loses its bite when his thumb grazes just beneath your ribs, sending a rush of heat through your body.
Joe pulls back just enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He takes a moment to look at you, his blue eyes dark and filled with something you can’t quite name, and for a second, the teasing smirk is gone, replaced by something softer.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard.
Your breath hitches, and you feel your cheeks flush under his gaze. Before you can overthink it, his lips are on you again, softer this time but no less insistent. His hands trace slow, deliberate patterns along your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra, and you arch into his touch without meaning to.
Joe grins against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower as he presses kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and then to the edge of the fabric.
He pauses, glancing up at you as his fingers toy with the clasp, his expression both playful and questioning. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says again, his tone softer now, without the usual cockiness.
But stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. Instead, you pull him down to you, your lips crashing into his with a fervor that answers his unspoken question.
Joe groans against your mouth, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising ease, and you feel the shift in his demeanor as his teasing gives way to something more raw, more urgent. His lips trail lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake, and every deliberate touch has your body humming with anticipation.
“Still hate me?” he asks again, his voice rough and teasing, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as he looks up at you.
You reach for him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. “Shut up, Joe,” you whisper, your voice breathless but firm, and for once, he listens.
Joe's smirk returns, but it’s softer now, laced with something warmer than his usual arrogance. He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and full of disbelief, as if he can’t quite believe where the night has led. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he lets his lips and hands do the talking, his touch reverent but still filled with that undeniable fire that seems to burn between you.
He slowly pulls away, looking up at you with a small smirk before he gets up. Before you could start questioning him, he takes off his shirt and sweats swiftly, your eyes widening at his body.
Joe’s smirk deepens as he catches the way your eyes widen, lingering on his toned frame. His confidence seems to grow with every second you stay silent, your gaze betraying the sharp tongue you usually use to deflect him. He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to drink him in.
“You’re staring,” he teases, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes burn with something more primal. “I knew you liked looking at me, but this is a new level.”
You roll your eyes, but the heat rushing to your cheeks gives you away. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice wavers slightly, betraying the effect he has on you.
Joe chuckles, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of you, his face inches from yours. “Too late for that,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’ve already done it for me.”
Before you can fire back, he trails his hand down your side, fingers skimming over your waist and hip with maddening slowness. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your chest, each one softer than the last, as if he’s savoring the way you shiver beneath his touch.
You can feel his hardened bulge against your stomach, and you're just about done with his teasing. You need him, now. “Joe,” you whined as he pulls back with a smirk.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he says, his voice low and raw. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Before you can reply, his lips are on yours again, his kiss stealing whatever snarky comeback you might have had. His hands move with purpose, sliding over every inch of bare skin, and the slow, deliberate way he touches you has your body aching for more.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, the words a quiet challenge. But you don’t. You can’t.
Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with all the frustration and longing you’ve been holding back for weeks. Joe groans, the sound vibrating against your lips as his teasing slips away entirely, replaced by something deeper, more desperate.
“God, you’re impossible,” he mutters, his voice laced with both exasperation and awe. But his actions betray the truth—he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He finally pulls away, breathless as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with adoration and lust. “I'm gonna fuck you, alright?” he mutters before leaning closer. “And for all those times you pissed me off, and annoyed me, I'll forget about all of that if I can just... hear you.”
You're caught off by the request and you almost think he's joking, but you're mistaken. He's dead serious. All you could was nod slowly in response and Joe leans away, pleased.
Joe’s control starts to slip, and it’s evident in the way his kisses grow hungrier, more urgent. His hands tremble slightly as they trail over your body, mapping out every curve like he’s afraid this moment will disappear. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his breathing uneven.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice raw, the cocky edge completely gone. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”
Then finally, he slowly peels off his briefs, and his large, hardened cock falls out.
Joe lets out a small groan as his head falls back, relief in his expression. His pink tip is already leaking with pre-cum. You practically faint at the sight, you couldn't help but let out a whimper. His hands find his cock before he slowly begins to pump it, his eyes finding yours again.
He spreads your legs open before leaning in, his lips finding yours as his hands lead his cock to your cunt. His forehead falls against yours as he slowly begins to insert himself, a heavenly groan leaving his lips at the feeling of your warm, tight walls.
You felt like you were being split in half, in the best way possible. You can't even describe how good his cock felt, he wasn't even a quarter inside of you, but you still felt like you were filled to the brim.
“O-oh, fuck, Joey,” you moaned as your swollen lips form an O, your head falling back onto the plush pillows. Now you understood why the girls in his apartment were so loud—they definitely weren't exaggerating.
His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you closer as if he wasn't inside of you already. His lips crash against yours again, the kiss filled with desperation, like he’s trying to pour every suppressed emotion into it. It’s intoxicating, the way his need for you feels almost overwhelming, and you find yourself clutching at his shoulders, wanting to be as close as possible.
He bottoms you out slowly, and he tries to give you a second to adjust—he really, really tried. He just couldn't. He slowly started thrusting in and out of you, and before you could even process the change in speed, he was rocking his hips against yours like the world depended on it.
The bed was creaking loudly underneath the two of you, the only sounds that could be heard was your loud moans, his grunts of pleasure, and the sound of skin against skin.
His cock was dizzying, to say the least. It hit all the spots you swore nobody had ever reached, making you question all your previous partners. You couldn't even form a singular thought about anything else except for Joe's huge cock and the way he was making you feel.
“Joe!” You manage to gasp as he begins to pound into you impossibly harder, but he cuts you off with another kiss, groaning softly against your lips.
“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice husky and edged with desperation. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you gasp as his hands spread your legs wider, pinning you to the mattress.
Before you can respond, his lips are on yours again, his kisses growing more frantic, more needy. His hands are everywhere, exploring, worshipping, as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. The way he touches you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, leaves you utterly undone.
His words make your head spin, and you can’t find a response. You're too caught up in the way he was pounding into you, like a fucking animal.
But Joe doesn’t seem to care; he’s too caught up in you, his hips moving faster and faster until you're practically crying out loud. His hands roam your body as if he’s memorizing every curve, every inch of skin. There’s no pretense now, no games—just raw, unfiltered desire.
You begin to feel the knot in your stomach begin to form, tight and persistent. You begin to grip his shoulders even tighter, your head falling back into the pillow as you moaned.
“O-oh, fuck! I'm gonna cum, please.” You began rambling as your legs wrapped around his waist, his hips not faltering one bit—if anything, he began going faster.
“Yeah? Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He grunted out, his own impending orgasm. “Cum for me, baby.”
That was all you needed. The knot in your stomach snapped violently, your whole body spasming as you cried out in utter pleasure. The orgasm washed over you perfectly as Joe's hips began to falter, and a few moments later, his cum spilled into you.
You both lie there, tangled in the sheets, your breathing ragged and your hearts racing as the room settles into a heavy, satisfied silence. Joe’s arm is draped lazily across your stomach, his fingers tracing light, absentminded patterns on your skin. The intimacy feels different now—softer, quieter, as if the storm that had built between you for so long had finally passed.
He exhales deeply, his chest still rising and falling against your side. “Well,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, “that was... long overdue.”
You glance over at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile despite yourself. “You think?” you reply dryly, the lingering warmth of the moment making it hard to muster the sharp edge your tone usually carries with him.
Joe turns his head to look at you, his hair mussed and sticking out in every direction, his cheeks still flushed. There’s that cocky grin of his, but it’s softer now, tinged with something you don’t think you’ve seen before—contentment, maybe. “Yeah,” he says, chuckling lightly. “So overdue I’m almost mad at us for waiting this long.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. His grin widens as he props himself up on one elbow, leaning over you. His gaze flicks across your face, and he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “But hey,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, “now that I’ve finally got you right where I want you, I think it’s time to make this official.”
Your brow furrows slightly as you tilt your head at him. “Official?”
Joe nods solemnly, though the sparkle in his eyes gives him away. “Yup. A real date. No fighting, no yelling, no storming off. Just you, me, and a public setting where we try very hard not to tear each other’s clothes off.”
You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Oh, is that so?”
“That’s so,” he replies with a grin, catching your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze softening. “Come on, let me take you out. I’ll even behave. Swear.”
You arch a skeptical brow, though the warmth in your chest betrays you. “Behave? You? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Joe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Guess you’ll just have to say yes and find out,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but undeniably sincere.
You roll your eyes again, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Fine,” you say, trying to sound reluctant but failing miserably. “One date. But if you embarrass me, it’s the last one.”
Joe’s grin is blinding as he flops back down beside you, pulling you against his chest. “Deal,” he says, his voice full of triumph. “You won’t regret it. Best date of your life, guaranteed.”
You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” he counters, his tone smug as his hand tightens around yours.
Maybe, just maybe, he’s right.
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↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !
↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡
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romanteacism · 2 days ago
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A Butterfly and A Dragon’s Flight mood board Prince Aemond x Elinora Tyrell
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Summary: They were polar opposites. She was light, and he was the darkness that followed. She had kindness exuding from her whole being, and he was cruelty personified. She was a butterfly, and he was her dragon— two beings that have nothing in common only because one had never encountered the other… not until Lady Elinora Tyrell met Prince Aemond Targaryen.
Warnings: Grumpy x Sunshine Trope, Forbbiden Romance, Posseivness, Jealousy, Bullying, Violence, Mature (18+)
Masterlist: Chapter 1
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A/N: New story alert! This story has been in my drafts for a while, and I just had the sudden urge to share it, so... here we are! This story is more cannon-oriented and possibly darker (idk not sure) than the previous stories I've written, and I think it would have fewer chapters because I intend for it to be a novella, but even though it's shorter in chapters, it's quite lengthy when it comes to each upload. I hope you guys will like it!
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vigilskeep · 9 hours ago
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not looking directly into the eye of this thought but given [gestures to my many and various posts about house dellamorte being a burning building you have to get out of] all that. it does strike me that a pregnancy could be the narratively correct catalyst for at least one version of that sol/lucanis post-canon breakup-before-it-gets-better i was on about.
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celestie0 · 2 days ago
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hi my friends! hope you're all doing well. just wanted to come on here and share a little updates w you guys (if you're still here lol)
i guess it's been like a month n a half since i formally went on hiatus, and it's been nice! i got kinda sick for a little bit lmfaooo which was tough to manage w school, but i'm better now
although i took time away from my blog, i still delved in writing here n there. i haven't written anything for kickoff since tbh i'm in such a slump w it. but i still have big plans for stuff that happens after ch13, so hopefully i can just push through this next chapter and get to a better place. thanks so much to anyone that is still interested in the story, it means a lot to me. i know i'm so slow w updates and the story has been going on for almost a year now, but the continued support is so sweet! even though i didn't work on writing it these past one n a half months, i still really love it and plan to finish it.
i'm not sure if many people remember that i had this sort of "apocalypse" gojo x reader au about an asteroid being set to hit the earth in three days, and reader n gojo are ex lovers n the impending end of the world makes them break no-contact...yeah i finished writing the first chapter for it and i really love it so far! it's like set in new york which is really fun haha i love stories where new york is kind of its own "character" if that makes sense...it will definitely be a limited series w only 4 chapters or so, but i kinda wanna finish all 4 chapters before i start posting it bc i don't want it to be a drawn out series in terms of posting since i think it'd be best enjoyed in frequent succession if that makes sense
as for ihm, i think i wrote the most for ihm during my hiatus. i finished three chapters for it, but they are shorter chapters (around 3-4k words). i kinda realized one of my biggest reasons for burnout w my fics were the reaaaaallly long chapters...like didn't i have a 22k chapter for kickoff or sumn lol. idk i can't remember. but anyways, yeah the mindset behind the longer chapters was bc i liked each chapter to kinda have its own conflict, build up, tension then resolution in a sense. but it was exhausting to write that way tbh lol. so i think moving forward, for ihm, i will have shorter chapters. i just don't wanna think to much about things anymore, and write from my heart, bc i have a lot of things planned for ihm, and among the criticism i've received for my writing choices vs my own vision for the story, i've realized during my hiatus that the only way i can finish ihm, or any of my storeis for that matter, is if i just.........stop giving a fuck about it. lol idk if that sounds strange to say, but like, i don't want to over-edit anything. i don't want to think too much about redundancy. i don't want to flower things up or cut stuff out. i'm at the point where imma just write a first draft, check for grammarly errors, and then post it. i guess the reason i'm sharing this is because idk if this means that people may enjoy my writing less since i will admittedly be spending much less time on it than i did before, but tbh i realized i find the most joy while i'm writing, and not while i'm editing. so i want to spend as little time on the latter as possible, and if that changes the quality of my work, then so be it.
anyways, hmm as for hiatus. i guess i'm off hiatus now? i really enjoyed being off of tumblr tbh this app has a lot of questionable content at times (esp in jjk community) and it also did wonders for my studying bc i wasn't spending time doomscrolling or shit posting anymore lmfaooo. but as for writing in particular, i think i will start to post ihm again exclusively. i can't say anything about kickoff or my other projects, but i feel comfortable to start posting ihm again.
sorry, i know that i have kept my replies and ask box off for a long time. but i will open them again once i start posting chapters because i really miss interacting with you guys.
anywho, these are my updates lol i'm like not sure how many of my readers are still here or which ones have moved on but that's ok, i'm grateful to anyone n everyone. hope to see you all soon again!
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dixons-sunshine · 2 days ago
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I’m not sure if you’re cool with writing stoner!daryl, as I didn’t see anything about that in your what you won’t write section so if you’re not ok with that it’s totally cool !! But if you are …..
Could you do a stoner!daryl x reader where they’re out on a run and reader finds some joints in a house and takes them back with her. And when they get home she shows him and they share a joint and sit on the porch to stare at the stars. I feel like high Daryl would be super touchy and needy and their stargazing would last too long before he drags her back to their bed lol
Head In The Clouds | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader
A/N: Okay so I’ve had this in my drafts for a while because I’m so scared that I messed this up. I tried doing my research on this but I’m still worried. I hope I did an okay job with this.
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Daryl Dixon was a rather serious guy. Sure, being with him, being his partner, had made him open up like a blooming flower, granting you the permission to see his caring, funny, care free side. However, despite that, Daryl was still a serious guy, who preferred to keep his affections for you something private, something sacred, something for the two of you only.
So it came as a big surprise to you that all of that flew out the window for him after one singular joint. It was as if he had his head in the clouds.
Earlier that day, you had gone on a run with Aaron. The two of you had stumbled across a house that had been left relatively untouched, supplies-wise, and after a bit of digging, you had come across a little bag of pre rolled joints. There was not many, only three, but it still made for a cool find—a find you were currently sharing with Daryl, whilst sitting on the porch steps of the Alexandrian home you shared with Rick, Michonne, and Carl, gazing up at the stars, like Daryl had suggested the two of you do.
You took a hit from the joint, before passing it over to Daryl again, giggling softly when he leaned over to press multiple kisses to your cheek in thanks. “Dar,” you managed through your giggles, gently pushing him away, “that tickles.”
Daryl chuckled gruffly, his cerulean eyes sparkling in the low light that flooded through the curtains inside. “What, I can’t express my gratitude no more?”
You smiled at him and shook your head your body feeling light, almost like you weren’t sitting on the steps. Almost like you were floating. “Your stubble is ticklish.”
Daryl inhaled the smoke from the joint, held it for a couple of seconds, before releasing it. By now, it was only one pull away from being done, and when Daryl extended it to you, you waved it off.
“You can have it.”
He shrugged and took the last pull, before putting it out in the ashtray next to him. Once he was certain that it was out and that it would not accidentally start a fire, he turned his attention back to you. He scooted closer to you, wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer, before resting his chin on top of your head.
“Have I ever told ya how goddamn beautiful you are?” he asked softly, his voice sounding like he was in awe.
You laughed lightly and nuzzled your face into his chest, suddenly feeling shy, your hazy mind already locking the compliment away in the metaphorical “love” box. “Thank you, my love.”
Daryl inhaled deeply, the scent of your clean, recently washed hair infiltrating his senses and making him higher than the joint he had smoked ever could. “Ya smell so good, too.” He began pressing kisses to your temple, trailing down to your cheek, your jaw, before he gently nibbled on your neck… “Good enough to eat. Better than any damn meal I ever tasted.”
His words were making you feel woozy. Sure, Daryl has complimented you before, but rarely were there any sexual connotations behind them. This side of Daryl was something extremely rare, one that the high from the joint was bringing out to the surface.
Slowly, his hands began trailing over your body. First your thighs, up your hips, your waist, lingering right over the swell of your breasts, before moving back down and slipping under your shirt. His hands landed flush against your skin, making you gasp softly.
Daryl pulled back slightly to gaze into your eyes, a small, lovesick smile on his face. “I love your eyes.”
“Yeah?” you asked in a soft whisper, a smile on your face.
Daryl nodded. “Yeah. Them eyes’a yours shine brighter than the stars in the night sky.”
You giggled softly. “I can say the same about yours.”
Daryl’s smile widened slightly, before he leaned down and captured your lips in his for a proper kiss. Despite his sweet words, the kiss certainly was anything but. The kiss was passionate, steamy, and a slight bit sloppy. The joint had made the two of you a bit uncoordinated, but that did not matter. The kiss was still perfect to you.
Daryl was the first to pull away. He got up and extended his hand to you, before helping you up as well. However, he kept your hand in his, lightly tugging you behind him. “C’mon.”
“Where are we going?” you asked, although you had a pretty good idea.
Daryl sent you a heated look, one that had a shiver rolling up your spine. “I dun’ need’a see the stars to stargaze. M’gon’ see ‘em anyways once we get to our room.”
“Oh, yeah?” you asked rhetorically. “Why’s that?”
“Because m’gon’ take care’a you so good, you’re gon’ be seein’ stars, anyway.”
His words sent a lightning-like bolt straight down to your core. As you and Daryl walked into the house and creeped up the stairs, thankfully lucid enough to be mindful of the other people in the house, you could not help the excitement that filled you at the prospect of what was to come.
And as Daryl closed the door behind him and pinned you up against it, the two of you sharing sloppy, messy kisses, you thanked yourself for deciding to bring those joints back with you in the first place.
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sunbleachedf4wn · 8 hours ago
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our lady of sorrows // supernatural, 3x16 no rest for the wicked
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ghoulangerlee · 2 days ago
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HERE WE GO. dewther phone sex that probably could have gone on for another six thousand words if I'd continued writing instead of forcing myself to end it :)
there is some lore-y stuff in here because I am not me if I don't include my own personal lore, and at the end there's mentions of heats and knotting but neither of those actually happen :)
Dew is a lil mean in this but as it turns out, Aether really likes em mean.
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The phone rings, pulling him from the inventory reports in front of him—it's the desk phone of all things, not his cell that sits face down a little further away and for a moment, he thinks to ignore it, to continue his work so he can finish quicker and get to bed sooner, but at the late hour it could be some kind of emergency— 
He picks it up, balancing his pen in his other hand as he cradles the desk phone between his ear and shoulder, “Infirmary, this is Aether speaking, how can I help you?”  
There’s silence on the line for a moment and Aether tilts his head, “Hello? Is someone there?”  
A sigh, familiar in its tone echoes across the line, “Hey Aeth,” Dew mumbles, sounding tired, “Didn’t know if you’d still be awake.”  
Aether glances up at the clock across the room, the hands ticking by slowly, it’s late, much later than he’d expected, “Ah,” he says, “I was finishing up some inventory reports in the infirmary, some new guy decided to double the amount of gauze we need so now we’re swimming in it but don’t have any more antibiotics,” he glances down at the papers in front of him, red lines crossed through black numbers, “Been down here most of the day counting things to get everything right again.”  
Dew hums, a pleased little sound, “I like hearing you talk about the work you do,” he says, tone bordering on that sappy-tired one he gets whenever he’s worked to the bone and sleepy, “I miss you.”  
“I miss you too,” Aether murmurs with a small smile, leaning back in his chair and focusing all of his attention on Dew, “How is guard duty with Frater Imperator?” he asks, a brief flash of worry catching him.  
“He’s safe,” Dew says, yawns widely over the line, “A little annoyed by the travel, a lot annoyed that there may still be something or someone after him despite everything,” he’s candid about it, and if Aether closes his eyes, he can almost see Dew sitting in front of him, waving a lazy hand in emphasis as he speaks. “Of course, we’re doing fine, this other church is okay, a little drafty and the ghouls here don’t really speak, but I guess it’s fine for a little while. The elders keep giving me dirty looks when they think Copia isn’t watching though.”  
A pang of regret goes through him, he’d almost went with Dew and Copia, but something had come up in the infirmary, someone had fallen ill and he’d been the best person to fill in, he wishes he were there with Dew right now. “Sounds exciting,” he says, “A little draft isn’t too much for a fire ghoul, right?” he asks teasingly, feeling the tension of the day fade the longer he speaks to Dew.  
“Cold day in Hell that a puny little church with an annoying clergy bothers me enough to make me leave early,” Dew says with a snort, “I wanted to talk to you though, time differences suck. We’re on different continents and everything so I can’t even really feel you right now either.”  
Aether gets it, he can feel the way his bond with Dew is weakened, barely there, dormant in the distance between them—in the back of his mind he can still feel him, but it’s a far cry from the usual. “I know, wisp,” he murmurs, “I wish we were closer too,” he admits, “Church is quiet without you here.”  
“Copia was giving me shit earlier,” Dew admits after a few moments of silence, “Said I looked sad, like someone stole something from me,” he pauses, clears his throat, “Told me to come call you, that you’d probably be up working still even at the late hour.”  
“He was right,” Aether says with a little laugh, “Not that he has any room to talk about what is and isn’t late,” he continues, and then glances up at the ceiling, “Are you still sad?” he asks cheekily, lazily spinning his chair to the side, “Do you need me to talk to you so you can fall asleep?”  
He means it as a joke, but there’s a serious undercurrent there, something they’d discovered before Copia’s lateral move, when Dew had toured but Aether stayed behind—sometimes, sometimes his brain wouldn’t let him sleep, not alone, and he’d call Aether, listen to the quintessence ghoul talk until his eyes grew heavy and he fell into a comfortable sleep—imagining his mate right there beside him.  
Dew hums lazily, “Maybe,” he starts, but this time, there’s something of a breathless quality to his voice, “Or maybe I want to talk to you about other things.”  
It takes Aether a moment, if he focuses hard enough, he can hear something on the other line, a slick sound, a hitch in Dew’s breathing, “Is this a booty call?” he can’t help but ask, the words spilling out before he can stop it, “Dew are you—” he cuts himself off, presses his palm against the bottom of the phone and glances around the office.  
It’s late, of course, and the door isn’t locked, but he’s the only one down here right now, having sent the rest of the staff off, only keeping a bare bones support staff in case of emergencies, but he can’t sense anyone else.  
“I am working,” Aether finally says, lowering his hand, feeling a flush come up the sides of his neck, “If someone were to walk into my office, they’d—”  
“They’d what?” Dew asks sharply, the hitch in his voice making it obvious what he’s doing, “They’d think you were on the phone, right, baby? That you’re working late, working so hard for everyone, making sure the inventory reports are all correct. You’re not doing something silly like touch yourself, are you? You’re on the phone and you’re working diligently.”  
Aether grits his teeth, pressing a fist hard into his thigh, “I’m not touching myself,” he says, and looks down at his desk again, numbers taunting him on the page, “I’ve stopped working for the moment to talk to you,” he inhales deeply, bites his lip when he hears Dew moan quietly over the line.  
“You’re being such a good boy,” Dew murmurs the praise, praise that shoots right down to Aether’s core, “I’m going to touch myself and you’re going to listen to me and keep working, aren’t you?”  
Aether bites harder at his lower lip, tilting his head back against the chair, “I am,” he finally agrees, after a long moment of listening to Dew breathe heavily, the slick sounds of his hand.  
Dew waits for a moment, almost as if he’s aware that Aether’s not working, waits for minutes until Aether sits up, scoots his chair forward and picks his pen back up, “If I were there with you, I’d situate myself under your desk,” he purrs, words going a bit high on the end. “You’d be a busy body about it, complain about me distracting you but we both know you want me to.”  
Aether digs the pen into the paper in front of him, keeping his gaze trained on the numbers on the page and he hums a little, “You are good at being a little shit sometimes,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual.  
A laugh, breathless and the slick sounds seem to get louder, “Uh huh,” he agrees, “I am, but you love me like that, you love when I push your buttons. Take you down a peg, big guy.” Dew grunts a little and Aether can only imagine that he’s fucking up into his fist, “You turn to putty in my hands the second I get my mouth on you,” he breathes.  
“Lies,” Aether says, trying to keep his voice firm as he presses his legs together, “You’re just running your mouth.”  
Dew swears softly, “Aether,” he moans out, “Strong words for the guy who begged me to fuck him right before I left,” he teases, and Aether feels hot under the collar when he thinks about it, how desperate he had been for Dew’s dick. “It’s okay big guy, I love when you fall apart for me, when you can barely speak because you’re so dick drunk,” he coos, “Thinking about how your skin’s so cold, but every time I get inside you, you heat up like a fire ghoul,” he teases, “Like I’m branding you from the inside out, isn’t that right baby, you’re all mine and no one can fuck you as good as I can.”  
Aether squeezes the pen in his hand tight enough that he can hear the plastic creaking, “Dew,” he says sharply, but doesn’t speak beyond that, knows if he says anything else he’s going to make a fool of himself, he’s going to start babbling about how much he wishes Dew were here now, down under his desk, mouth on him, making him come.  
As the silence stretches between them, Dew moans again, this time higher, another swear, the steady creak of bedsprings, little ah, ah, ahs falling from his lips as he does, “Say something sweet for me baby,” he finally says, breathless and oh so close. “Let me hear your gorgeous voice, tell me what you want me to do for you, baby.”  
And oh Dew’s begging now, desperate in the same way he gets when they’re together, even when he’s being mean and teasing Aether—when he’s close, when he just needs a bit more to come.  
The pen clatters to the desk and Aether’s quick to shove his hand down the front of his scrubs, so glad he’d opted for them instead of the stuffy slacks he normally wore when on administration duties, “I want your mouth on me,” he finally admits, “Wanna fuck your face while you wait under the desk for me to finish working,” he manages to get out, moans when his fingers meet his dick, stroking over it quickly. “Want you to put a couple of fingers inside me, something for me to squeeze around,” he swallows heavily, tilts his head back against the chair as he arches his hips up into his own touch, imagining the heat of Dew’s mouth around him, “I feel so empty, firelight,” he admits, voice breaking a little as he does, pants out in the open, “Feels so empty when you’re away, want you to carve a place inside me and never leave.”  
Dew swears again, louder, a litany of fucks falling from his lips and Aether thinks he comes, thinks if he focuses hard enough he can feel it, the heat of it inside him, that maybe their distance is driving him a bit mad with how much he misses him.  
“Come for me baby,” Dew’s voice, rough with his orgasm, fills Aether’s ears, draws a sharp gasp out of him as he clenches around nothing and comes, goes completely breathless with it as he continues to touch himself until he’s too sensitive and he has to pull his hand away though it doesn’t go far, arm falling limp between his thighs once his hand is free from his scrub pants.  
It takes a while for his heart to settle down, for his breathing to fall under control again and he allows it, floats there as he wishes that Dew were here with him right now, a warm weight between his legs, fire all down his chest and stomach as he cradles him close, chasing away the chill that always falls over Aether after coming.  
“—ay we’re going to be back tomorrow, we’ve done all the ground work here, anyway, the rest is just boring admin work that can be done over Doom meetings.” Dew’s murmuring when he comes back into focus, “As soon as I see you baby, I’m going to get my hands all over you just like you deserve,” he promises, filthy and low in his ear, “Gonna have you coming so much you’ll be satisfied for days.”  
Aether hums, interested when his brain catches on the first part, still mostly focused on the second half of Dew’s words, “Tomorrow?” he asks, hating the way his voice sounds so hopeful.  
Fuck, it’d been weeks though, since he’d last seen Dew. Since they’d been together. He misses him.  
“Yeah, baby,” Dew murmurs, “Our plane landed a bit ago, we’re at a hotel for the night, but Copia’s got a car coming to get us in the morning. We’ll be home before you know it.”  
Aether makes another noise, something choked, “Oh,” he says, looks down at the paper on the desk in front of him, half-finished inventory reports, “I’ve got to—”  
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Dew says firmly, “You’ve got tomorrow off and maybe the day after, Copia’s feeling a bit benevolent,” he says that with a bit of a grin in his voice, “Inventory will be fine for a couple of days, besides, Copia said he’d work on whatever you didn’t finish, just leave it where you’ve got it and he’ll take over. No arguing with me, alright?”  
And well, Aether can’t argue, because he’s feeling a bit selfish, a bit like he wants to shirk his duties for a few days so he can spend time with Dew instead, something warm settling in the pit of his stomach. “Okay,” he settles on, feels the weight lifted off of his shoulders at the word as he leans back in the chair, making it squeak a bit under his weight.  
“Good boy,” Dew says sweetly, “Now, listen, I want you to hang up the phone and go get cleaned up, settle in our bed and before you know it, I’ll be there, waking you up with a kiss.”  
Aether thinks about his nest, the one he’d been working on since Dew had left, how it still smells like the two of them and how much he wants to be there now, “Okay, yeah,” he says, “I can do that.” He swallows, bites his lip, “I love you, Dew.”  
Dew hums softly, “I love you too, big guy, I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”  
When he hangs up the phone, it’s with warm feelings, and as he levers himself up out of the chair, he feels like he’s floating.  
He grabs his phone, scrolling through the few notifications that he has, there’s a couple of text messages that he’s not too concerned with answering tonight, another text from Dew that’s just a heart emoji and then a singular calendar notification.  
Aether raises an eyebrow but thinks nothing of it at first, locks up the office and deposits the key in the safe box for another staff member to find before he heads up from the infirmary and to his and Dew’s bedroom.  
Once he’s showered and settled into bed, wearing only his underwear and a thin t-shirt that used to be Dew’s at one point and is entirely too short on Aether and stretched out the from the number of times he’s squeezed into it, he picks his phone up again.  
Taps the calendar notification and blinks at the entry that had been added recently.  
Mandatory Leave 10.26 - 11.3 – Accepted by F. Imperator  
There’s a text, one that had come in while he was in the shower, from Copia this time.  
Dew may be a little grumpy in the morning, our car arrives in three hours to pick us up, we’ll be back before your heat starts. The others have stocked your room while you were working and I’ve taken the opportunity to clear your schedule for the next week just in case. Let me know if there’s anything you need <3  
He feels a surge of affection, sends back a heart in response and takes a moment to take stock of himself, feels the low simmer of something that had been bothering him for a while, something gnawing at him the entire time he’d been without Dew—and he didn’t think that it was heat, thought it was just something happening because Dew had been away for so long. His mind races a bit, wonders why his heat had decided to show now of all times—  
His phone buzzes again, a text from Dew.  
Go to sleep, Aeth. I can feel you thinking from all the way out here. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.  
He huffs quietly, sends back a fuck you and a heart a moment later, almost immediately, another text comes through.  
Of course, big boy, anything you need. I’ll even let you knot me if you want <3  
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necroticboop · 2 days ago
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GARGOYLES : ↳ Types of Soulmates
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herejusttosufferalong · 1 day ago
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You know what? I understand that the questions were awkward for them but they were relevant to the story. Sometimes they were asked pointedly but regardless, that’s an obvious question to have lined up! It’s the theme of the season. The entire cast was asked the question at one point or another. Would it get annoying and redundant for L and N? Duh but that’s press junkets, babes!
So, why? Why was L being defensive? Why did N look like she was solving a difficult math problem every time was asked?
Please share your opinion if you care to. You seem hesitant to most of the time so I won’t insist but I’m interested in your insights if you’d be willing to share.
So this ask has been sitting in my drafts since the end of July and honestly, I still don't have a good answer for any of this.
One would assume that the proper coaching had taken place for the both of them to answer the "friends to lovers" and subsequently any shipping questions.
However, it always seemed to be Nic answering for the both of them regarding their "relationship."
Sure Mr. Yeah would pipe up in agreement to whatever she would say but did he not have any thoughts of his own that he could actually share with the class?
The whole point of PR is the ability to craft, promote and maintain a narrative.
Yet they struggled in this area...
We got stock answers but they weren't always articulated well. They genuinely seemed like they had no clue how to answer certain questions about their off screen relationship.
Or maybe that was the craftiness of the "PR" all along...
Because calling their relationship/friendship "unique" was not off the cuff. It was very calculated, very intentional.
It is just vague enough to invite endless speculation while setting certain boundaries, even as muddied as they are.
Now I'm not saying their answers were all PR and that everything we saw on the WT was PR either. There was too many instances where their masks dropped.
But we can't deny that the WT was designed to manipulate and evoke certain emotions and conversation around our favorite characters who were promoting an upcoming season of a television show.
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idontlikeem · 2 days ago
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hi! i'd like to talk about losing. you don't have to read this if you don't want to, but i wanted to write it, and guess what, it's my blog. i just like this team a lot and i'm feeling a little maudlin about my guys and a little sick to fucking death of the shit i'm seeing all over kingdom come from 'fans'. so here we are.
So You Became A Fan Of A Living Legend But The Hockey Team Is Bad: a commentary.
look. this is not the most fun i've ever had watching hockey, and i'm quite sure a lot of people feel the same way. the penguins are bad this season! they were bad last season too, but there's something very special about the extent to which they are shit right now. and those are not fun games to watch.
but here's the thing: who cares.
like, idk. there's so much god damn negativity surrounding this team and its performance right now, and i'm guilty of contributing to it as well, because yeah of course i'd rather watch a team win in decisive fashion most nights. of course i'd rather dream about may and june and the stanley cup. of course i want to watch that happen again for my favorite players. like, duh.
but. it's probably not going to. not if these players get what they want, which is to play together on this team until they're ready to retire.
and you know what? that's fine. if they're fine with it, who on earth am i to not be?
i think we all have the same reaction when we see idiots online saying things like 'sid doesn't deserve this trade him to a contender'. and that's because we are smarter and more refined fans who understand that what sidney crosby DESERVES is to select how and where and when his career ends. is it on a team that sucks? then that means being here is more important to him than getting that fourth cup. staying with geno and kris and the penguins as a whole, never putting on another NHL logo, is more significant to him personally than another victory. and isn't that special? isn't that worth celebrating?
of course we know all of that because we're better at being fans than the uncles online who are writing weird fanfic in their heads. but. guess what that comes with:
losing.
and losing badly, in the case of this season.
i am here to tell you that sitting and bitching about it helps no one. right now, what we have to watch and celebrate is our favorite players still playing at a high level. they're still doing cool stuff on the ice. and they're doing it TOGETHER. this is what they wanted. so your options are either to hate it and sit in negativity about it each and every game, OR readjust your mindset and learn to enjoy what we have while we have it.
we are watching myth-making happen live. we are watching living legends play hockey. this is a privilege and an honor and it's not something most fanbases get EVER. and we have two! can you believe it?
there are things i would have rather seen done differently over the last couple of years. as far back as 2019 there were moves i disagreed with and changes that could have been made that perhaps could have extended their window. and of course the 2022 series against the rangers, that was a very good team that got hit by injuries at the absolute worst possible time, and probably that was their last chance as a core to compete. it's frustrating to watch that stuff happen when you have no control over it.
the pittsburgh penguins were high-end competitors and contenders for seventeen years straight. that's insane and unheard of in this league. they're not anymore. and the price you pay for almost two decades of dominance is...being bad. when you're competing you trade prospects and draft picks for win-now players. sometimes those work out, most of the time they don't. with the amount of winning this team has done, even the trades that didn't work were worth it, because it meant they were trying.
there are no fanbases who are going to feel bad for penguins fans right now. that's also why we're getting so much attention from the national media. people aren't used to this team being as bad as it is, and people like watching downfalls. that's fine. most of those fans have never watched their team win, and most of them never will. so if their joy is coming from sidney crosby's team being bad....well, love and light, you know?
and we shouldn't feel bad for ourselves either. this is what happens. this is how it goes. this is the price for the band staying together.
i dunno, guys. this is a disjointed rant. it's just so effing hard to be kicked in the nuts everywhere you go with unrelenting negativity. it's on twitter it's in the articles and yes, it's here too. but if you can't be a fan of a team when they're bad, then i'm sorry but you're not a fan of the team (or certain players), you're a fan of winning. and NO team wins all the time every year. that's not how sports work.
we are lucky. at least, i feel lucky! don't you? gosh, sidney crosby scored his 600th career goal tonight. evgeni malkin is over 500 goals on his career. can you believe that? it's amazing to watch.
and it's going to be over in less than two years. do we really want to waste it by wishcasting something that's not going to happen instead of enjoying what we DO have?
if the media bums you out, don't listen. don't read the articles. don't go on twitter. dry your tears on the stanley cup banners that sid and geno hung up—there are three to choose from!
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jiminy-crickets · 3 days ago
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saw the tags on your rb, and as a fellow "connor bedard has autism" headcanoner, i would love to know more of your thoughts 😈
it's less of a headcanon and more of a divinely correct vibe check. but like am i wrong...???? although I do see it more as they're the same flavour of ND with different presentations, like Connor is hyperfocus ADHD, and Macklin is inattentive (this comes from someone with mixed presentation ADHD¹, they also tried to diagnose me with austim but my legs were too long i make eye contact BUT!!! 93rd% "indicating that Cassie has many behavioural characteristics similar to youth diagnosed with ASD." raaaaa 💪💪💪 93% is an A!! i ace even the tests i fail!!!) Plus his rigidity with his diet, is bonkers for someone that young (and it's been going on since he was like 14-15)
Like especially with the way that Connor's constant practicing, after practice until the zamboni kicks him off, and then on off days and optional skates hiding his gear to make him take days off?? that is pretty classic hyperfocus ADHD. And especially with the way he blames the teams loses on himself, like please sir seeing you in the mirror is not good for my health!!
And with Macklin, people often mischaracterize inattentive ADHD with not being motivated or good at routine and while yes those two things are a normal part of human life, and more-so with ADHD, he has shown many times how deeply he cares about hockey........ but I think (and also remember i am projecting) his father being THAT hands on with him and his brothers training (even now which yuck, you have your own job get your grubby paws off of your kid's job) has made him unable to self propel, and get himself into that routine? (AND AGAIN I AM PROJECTING) like something Macklin has said a few times is how the shift to a pro-hockey schedule has been hard, and yes it is an adjustment, but he has been essentially living away from his parents for YEARS, two years boarding at Shattuckk, one year (presumably) billeting in Chicago while playing in the USHL, and one year in college at BU, and I think the real shift is that... daddy is planning his workouts again, full time not just summers (also, the travaling doesn't help) AND THAT (i am projecting) is HELL to someone who built a routine, and any hope of getting back into one was dashed when he went of IR for his hip after one game. the boy needs CONSISTENCY!!!!! And until they get him 1) away from his freak father who has his hands al over his development plan, and 2) on simple routine with max five types of days (home game, home practice, home rest, away game, away rest) he will not get situated.
BACK TO BEDARD <33333
the man loves rules and procedures. him at his first training camp all doe eyed and "wanting to make the team!" so much that Kyle Davidson... maybe it was Luke Richardson who said it...??? either way his coach or his GM pulled aside his MOTHER to tell them that they needed to start looking at apartments. Before getting drafted it was never "when" it was "if i get drafted".... like dude.... it's gonna happen! Whenever he get's sen't to the box its always a "they hate me, don't they know I am unable to break rules!! not because they don't apply to me but because I can NOT break rules!" vibe (I am only kinda projecting on this one)
and I do think the type of media around them during their developmental years up has affected them, Macklin's media was always focused on his father, which reinforced his reliance/dependence on him, whereas Connor's was focused on him which encouraged him to focus on himself and what HE can do to improve.
also Connor has that DOG IN HIM
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^ connor bedard real not fake (also my childhood psychologist had this PROMENENTLY displayed in her office and i think seeing it every two weeks had an adverse affect on me)
¹ and a bunch of other learning disorders, dyslexia, dysgraphia, dyscalculia, audio processing disorder, also anxiety, depression, and cutie patootie disease (fatal 😔)
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miraculouslbcnreactions · 8 hours ago
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I know you’ve said in the past that you don’t think switching marinette and adrien’s kwamis would solve anything writing-wise, but do you think having the kwamis switch personalities would do the trick? marinette still has ladybug/creation, but with plagg’s personality, and adrien still has black cat/destruction, but with tikki’s personality. thoughts?
No, I don't think that this would fix anything because it's approaching the problem as if the issue is some flaw in the show's base setup. As if you have to make major changes for Miraculous to work. My stance has always been that the base setup is totally fine. The problem is the execution. In fact, I think that the current kwami personalities are a great choice, the problem is that they're not being used well.
Marinette has a pretty strong personality. She knows what she wants, but has a tendency to get caught up in her own head and a tendency to make snap judgments. Those tendencies make her occasionally fail to consider alternate paths or points of view. That means that what she needs most is someone who will make her consider those alternatives. Someone who will be direct, talk her out of mental spirals, and keep her focused. A voice of reason, if you will. Tikki is perfectly suited to that role. She is not the kind of kwami to sit passively by. Plagg, on the other hand, would just encourage Marinette along the path of glorious chaos or let her do whatever she wants so long as he gets his cheese. While I think that could be genuinely fun to watch, it's not really benefiting Marinette much and this ask appears to be treating the Kwamis as potential mentors, so I will, too.
Adrien is a little more complex. Given his rather depressing home life, I can see why someone would want to pair him with loving Tikki over more-detached Plagg, but I'll explain why I think that Plagg is the better fit IF you actually let him mentor.
Adrien is a passive follower. He never fights for himself and he bows to authority at the drop of a hat. While those traits are arguably strengths for his role on the battlefield, they're not great for him in his day-to-day life. There's nothing wrong with being more passive and more of a follower, but he needs to learn that he can make his own choices, too. The best way to do that is to give him the kind of mentor who doesn't just hand him the answers. Someone a little chaotic whose style is subtle pushes and not just handing him a possible path to take because Adrien would absolutely just take the suggested path. Plagg is perfectly suited to taking on this style of mentorship and it is a crime that the show never let him shine.
Example scenario: Adrien feeling left out in season four. (Note the following is a very rough draft)
Adrien: I feel like Ladybug doesn't need me anymore. She keeps calling in other heroes! Tikki: You need to talk to Ladybug and tell her how you feel! Ask her when she's free to meet up! Adrien: Okay, what should I say? Tikki: Tells him what to say.
This is solid advice, but Tikki is just handing Adrien an answer. He's probably not going to learn from this and may even flub up his talk with Ladybug without Tikki walking him through it because he's just doing what he's told and not coming to this path on his own. Contrast this to Plagg in his ultimate form (by which I mean mentor Plagg, not eldritch horror Plagg):
Adrien: I feel like Ladybug doesn't need me anymore. She keeps calling in other heroes! Plagg: And you're left watching from the sidelines every time? Adrien: No, not always. Plagg: So she's sharing the cheese now? Giving you slices instead of the whole wheel? Adrien: yeah, I guess. Plagg: why? Adrien: what do you mean why? Plagg: why'd she start sharing? Adrien: I don't know. Plagg: Huh. Too bad. If only there was a way you could find out. I guess it will remain a mystery. Adrien: (annoyed) Ladybug knows! Plagg: And? Adrien: And... I guess I could ask her? Plagg: I mean, if you started sharing my cheese, I'd be demanding answers! Adrien: I'd never share your cheese! Plagg: You promise? Never? Not even if you were starving? Adrien: Well, I mean, I guess I might if it was an emergency or something, but I wouldn't share it without a good reason! Plagg: And Ladybug's different? Adrien: What do you mean? Plagg: She does things without a good reason? Adrien: Of course not! She's brilliant! She always has a plan! Plagg: Interesting. Might want to keep that in mind for your little talk. Adrien: (after a thoughtful pause) So you think I should talk to her? Plagg: Is there another way for you to find out what's going on? Adrien: No. Plagg: Then why are you bothering me? Sounds like you only have one option!
Note that Plagg never gives Adrien a clear answer here. He just asks questions in a bored manner and lets Adrien think things through. He's guiding Adrien to a specific answer, but making Adrien really think about it, better prepping him for the coming talk. This mentorship style would drive Marinette crazy, but I think it would do wonders for Adrien! The difference is that, in this situation, Marinette probably already knows what she needs to do and is just avoiding it while Adrien genuinely needs help realizing that he can speak up. This doesn't mean that Adrien should never get direct, clear advice, I just wouldn't make that the standard as it's not helping him with his passivity.
All of this is a big part of why I love Plagg so much. That little cheese gremlin is just brimming with potential and it saddens me greatly that canon will never give it to us. They gave him the perfect personality, they just missed the fine details of how that personality should function as a mentor.
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gideonnavtheninth · 1 day ago
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A battle to see if I can actually get to the book at this point, but man... I do love to dive into the houses! y'know how it is. Back on the topic of the fifth house!
Alright, so we sure did look into that heart thing..
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.. a while ago, but, always be with the knowledge that no matter how long I break for, the analysis gears go marching on. Now, if I could finish these analyses before ATN... regardless! We're gonna SOLVE Koniortos court, and then make our way to the sixth ! (hopefully, within this one day, but who knows how the wind blows.)
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My good buddy, a google search ending in "meaning" garnered me
raised dust, flying dust
as a meaning for "Koniortos" and that it's deemed this within the bible so okay, boom, step one of finding what that means is done. The bigger questions is HOW it means. (<- pretend I made sense here)
So, where's dust used IN the bible?
Well, again, my friend "biblestudytools.com" comes in clutch, and we can find some results for usage there.
Dr. Miall Edwards leaves me with a handful of leads, which in turn I leave for you, my readers, to enjoy at your leisure!
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Now, a couple things really stick out to me here! first off, "(Genesis 3:19 - Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return)" sets some things off for me. Edwards says that this is used figuratively for the grave, or mortality, which really fits here in my opinion. I mean, we know they're specifically speakers to the soul, to that dust! Unlike many of the other necromantic specialties, which deal with the matter, the fifth deals mainly with that mind (the sixth house would be offended if they weren't so busy carbon-dating things) Also, probably not very vital, but we do see a Paul reference! Casting dust in the air to express their wrath against him, which. I feel like I am stretching a little, but I could see something about going against the natural order of lyctorhood resulting in some sort of rage against Paul, primarily from Jod? I mean I assume he would be a little pissed off at any tainting of his perfect lyctorhood, seeing how he talks about any other half-baked or imperfect lyctor (Anastasia deserved better!!!) Now, the first half of this drafted post has been sitting in waiting for...... a really long time. and I had HOPED to keep the 5th house analysis to just 2 posts but we're looking like we might need a third to get to their names! But, hopefully absence makes the heart (<- hehe) grow fonder, and we will all appreciate the return of my elaborate TLT meta posts. If only!
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itshermocrates · 1 day ago
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Some thoughts on Vander and Silco's relationship
I already talked about this when Arcane S1 first came out, but now that the show is over and we got to see a different reality where everyone has a good ending (except for Vi I guess) I want to bring back my Silco x Vander thoughts
So yeah, vanco ?? silder ??? post
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Even if in Arcane S1 there’s some sort of parallel between Jinx/Powder and Silco + Vi and Vander, in my eyes those two were made for an old man yaoi story
Now that we have seen Jayvik’s evolution and that glimpse of them together in a “better future”, I realized that Vander and Silco (+ Felicia) could have something similar to what was happening initially with Jayce and Viktor (+ Mel)
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Two best friends working together for a common cause, one hopelessly in love with the other while his partner can’t see ―or doesn’t want to recognize― his own feelings. Since I already have a Jayvik analysis in my drafts, I’m going to focus on Silco and Vander
This will be half a theory - half a fic + I also posted this on BlueSky so yeah, if you see it there it was also me lol
[Pinning, Unrequited love and love confessions that go wrong ahead]
I think Silco and Vander were the perfect duo back in their youth, together they had the brains and the strength, using both charm and cold logic to make people eager to follow them. What Silco lacked, Vander was able to provide and vice versa. Together they were the greatest leaders Zaun could ever ask for.
They not only completed each other like two puzzle pieces, but also shared a bond that had been nurtured since childhood. They had been facing hardships and Piltover’s aggressions since they were little kids, so it was natural that the years of friendship brought them impossibly close.
Some even said that they could have entire conversations without exchanging a single word.
At some point Silco developed a crush on Vander, how could he not? Despite his strength and sometimes scary appearance, Vander had always been the big sunshine boy who was looking after him. That urge to protect and take care of others seemed to be part of his very essence, and if someone benefited from this, it was his best friend.
Of course, they needed to fight and get dirty in the deepest hellholes of Zaun, but even when Vander got his knuckles drenched in blood, Silco could only see the kind man with bright eyes and a dream for a better life that Vander truly was.
Silco really thought that this new beginning for them was only possible because Vander was there with him, since when hope seemed completely lost, when the circumstances took another member of their little family, Vander always remained firm in his stance. They would find a way, they would fight back, they would keep pushing forward and they wouldn’t stop until they finally had the future they deserved.
Oh, wasn’t he convincing? Always the beacon in their times of need, who else could lead them out of their misery?
Vander’s kindness was disarming, and his light was so bright that Silco couldn’t help but fall in love with him. He loved him so deeply it made him feel sick, but he could do nothing about it. Vander had been in love with Felicia for almost as long as Silco had loved him, and even if she wasn’t really interested in him, there was no way that man could get over his emotions.
Just like Silco himself couldn’t make his own feelings go away. He pinned for years, forcing himself to hide how he felt so nothing changed between them and he didn’t lose his best friend. He had to protect their friendship, but, above everything else, he had to protect their dream of a free nation for Zaun.
Silco pinned and suffered in silence until he couldn’t take it anymore, until his unrequited love felt like an open wound badly infected, moments away from killing him. Then, and only then, he confessed.
Vander didn’t make a huge deal out of it, he was understanding and visibly confused. It was an awkward situation, but he could be nothing but kind, even as he broke Silco’s heart. Of course, he didn’t feel the same.
Or maybe he did, but he was too blind to see it, too infatuated by the idea of a future with Felicia to give a shot to a real future with him.
Vander had used a very familiar word to excuse his lack of introspection, one that served him as a shield while unknowingly harming Silco as if it had used the sharpest of blades.
“Silco, you’re my brother…”
They used brotherhood a lot to describe their relationship. Their found family, their friends, their allies in the Zaun revolution and even the fucking pilts, they all could see how deeply they cared for each other. And every time that was the reason they assumed to be behind their bond.
No one could ever deny the love in their eyes, the protective gestures, the smiles... It was obvious, but everyone assumed that what they shared was a blood bond. For Silco it was much more than some stupid liquid running through their veins, what they shared had been built over years of companionship, years of pain and struggle, blood was fucking nothing in comparison. Their souls were connected in a way no one could ever imagine or understand.
And Vander knew this. He knew how strong their bond was, but he hadn't really asked himself if what he felt for Silco was something more than brotherhood. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do if it wasn’t the case either, but he didn’t go as far as to truly consider it.
Vander didn't know how to react to Silco's confession, he didn’t want to hurt him or change their world forever. He was happy as they currently were, it was easy to live with Silco as a brother, but he didn’t know what was waiting for them if he ever allowed himself to analyze his own feelings.
Because of this, and completely unaware of the pain he was causing, Vander uttered that seemingly harmless word that Silco couldn’t stand anymore.
Brother.
The softness in his tone didn’t make it any less devastating. The pain in his eyes, as he knew how badly he was breaking Silco's heart, didn’t make it easier to hear.
The countless "I love you"s he pronounced after that, reassuring that even if it was not the same feeling, Silco was still one of the most important people in his life didn’t soothe the agony of his reopened wound.
None of that mattered.
Because he didn't feel the same as Silco.
The same word that once had been forced on them was now stronger than anything he had built together.
Silco didn't want to feel that pain, he couldn't allow it to stay inside his chest, not when it was so profound.
So he decided to leave The Last Drop. It would be only for a couple of days, to distance himself a little from the source of his pain and try to stitch close that damned cut.
During that time, alone and completely heartbroken, he focused on thinking of ways to achieve the goal they had been fighting for since they were teenagers. The Zaunite revolution and Zaun’s independence. He ignored his pain and used all his anger to plan their next move in their fight against Piltover, thinking of new ways to finally defeat their enemy.
It was during those days, blinded by the pain of his aching heart, that he understood they could only win against Piltover if they showed their true nature to the world. He knew by then that they needed to be more aggressive in their methods and destabilize, not only their government, but also their peace.
Let their own people know what monsters they had for leaders.
Let the people of Piltover suffer the same pain they had suffered since the very moment the City of Progress came to be.
The fight had turned into a way for him to forget his own suffering, and in his anguish, provoking pain to others stopped feeling wrong at all if that meant they could get closer to their goal of freedom.
It was at this point where the conflict with Vander started. Suddenly, the word "brothers" didn't quite fit them anymore, it seemed too caring for them. Now it was a word pronounced in a low voice, and when it was Silco the one saying it, his tone could only express disgust. He rolls his eyes as if the word was some sort of sick joke he hated to voice out loud, a reminder of what could never be.
Silco’s pain is a heavy weight preventing them both from going back to what they once had, and seeing this wounded Vander every single time his friend reminded him of his rejection. This, and how differently they started to approach their fight, made them step further and further away from the other.
And when they saw each other during important meetings, Silco threw the word “brother” extremely carelessly, always with the intention to wound Vander instead of calming him and expressing how much he still loved him.
It had turned into a word that neither of them could ever forget, and that would hunt Silco until the end of his days.
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It had turned into a word that neither of them could ever forget, and that would hunt Silco until the end of his days.
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[There's still a lot of resentment in Silco's expression, and in this scene before saying brother, Silco rolls his eyes. The man was PISSED]
In conclusion, I think "brother" was Silco and Vander's equivalent of Jayvik's "partner" and I bet Viktor was pissed as hell everytime he heard someone reffering to him as Jayce's partner AND JUST THAT, for both scientific pride and his hopeless crush on Jayce Talis.
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