#this is now a dream that can never happen

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch7. if u wanna get groceries

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 7/x

ᰔ words. 10.3k

a/n. hiii my ihm darlings!! i don't have much to say in this beginning author's note haha but i have some author's notes at the end if you want to read them. but anywho hope you enjoy this chapterrr :)

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Ovulation is a very scary thing.

You can imagine many great women have had their lives greatly affected by this phenomenon. 

This biological release of an egg into the fallopian tubes, simply desiring to be fertilized.

Women who have had their hearts set on their dreams, aspirations, full speed ahead towards the finish line on the other end,

Only to be dragged back by–

You shudder to even mention.

Attraction to a man. 

So horrible.

So insane.

So humiliating.

And yet so–...

So natural.

Unfortunately.

You’re pretty sure Sabrina Carpenter has a song about it.

This is what you think of as you lean over the kitchen island, perched up on your elbows as you eat a peach, staring straight ahead at a certain fake husband who is seated on the couch. 

He’s looking at the TV, watching some SNL skit he didn’t get to finish last weekend, tilting his head side to side with his grey sweatpant clad legs stretched out onto the coffee table in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He’s got a can of Celsius he’s swirling around with a loose grip, his elbow up on the cushion for a more lax resting state (which unfortunately also flexes his bicep very sexily from the positioning), and he doesn’t really seem particularly amused by what he was watching. And for some reason, it was hot.

You tilt your head to the right, watching him like a predator from across the hall, chewing down on a particularly juicy piece of peach that bursts its juice in your mouth, and you curse the fact that all you can think about right now is sex.

Sex.

When was the last time you had sex?

You postulated a little over a month ago when you and Choso were still together.

Granted, you’ve been too busy and overwhelmed and overstimulated with all the recent happenings of late to provide your own self with any sort of relief.

And God, it was showing.

Showing in the way that, no matter what, you can’t seem to shake the idea of wanting to sit in Gojo’s lap and be the second reason he never gets to finish watching that SNL skit. 

Maybe it will help.

Maybe sitting in a man’s lap right now would heal you.

You set the now naked seed of peach down on the counter before straightening yourself up and walking around the kitchen island towards the living room. Gojo’s eyes don’t flicker to you until you’re well in his periphery, and when he looks up at you, he straightens himself up on the couch with curious wide eyes and drags his feet off the coffee table to plant his feet on the rug.

You pull your grandma nightgown up to your knees so that you can sit in his lap, surprise evident on his face as he watches your every movement before you’re comfortably seated on him with your hands on his shoulders.

“Fuck me,” you tell him.

“Wh–” he stutters, “I’m sorry, I could’ve sworn you just told me to fuck you.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” The heels of your hands press into his chest further to the point where it has to hurt. 

“Is this a prank,” he asks as his hands fall to hold your hips on reflex.

You sigh, shifting around on his thighs. “Can you just do it already before I change my mind?”

“Wow. That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright. I’ve changed my mind.”

You push off of his shoulders and stand up on one leg, ready to get up and away from him to find some other way to satisfy your desperate desire for a penis, but he reaches out to grab your wrist.

“Heyyy wait wait wait,” he says, pulling you back into a seat on his lap. “Why do you want to have sex all of a sudden?”

You exhale slowly, twiddling with your thumbs as you look at him. “You said it yourself the other day,” you say, “good way to relieve stress.”

“And you’re not gonna kill me afterwards?”

“Umm no promises?”

“Look, as much as I’d like to take you up on the offer, a part of me thinks you’re making a…rash decision here.”

“Oh my fucking god who cares if I am?? Maybe I just wanna fuck for the sake of fucking?? What’s the big fucking deal??”

“The big deal is that, knowing you, you’re not going to speak to me or look me in the eye for three weeks if I let you go through with something you’re not a hundred percent on.”

Your shoulders sulk a little. You thought this would be an easy yes, where he tears your nightgown off and then ravishes you whole on this couch with every primal caveman instinct that’s encoded in his XY chromosome DNA. This was supposed to be spontaneous and sexy…not a candid conversation.

The thought flashes through your head that maybe he thinks that you’re just trying to use him.

“I want to have sex with you,” you clarify. And then a pause. “I think.” You pause for a moment again. “I’m, like, pretty sure.”

He slides you back to where you’re sitting closer to his knees than to his groin, and then fully leans back onto the couch before tucking his hands behind his head like he was physically putting himself in cuffs to prevent himself from touching you any further. “Tell you what. Let’s circle back in an hour, and if you still want to, then sure.”

“I cannot believe how diplomatic you’re being about this.”

“Well isn’t this whole thing between us a diplomatic agreement? That’s what you said to me when we got fake engaged.”

“That–” you blink at him, not expecting those words to eventually be used against you, “...whatever.”

“Also, what happened to the no sex rule?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He grins and leans forward, both of his elbows settling onto the top of the cushion behind him, and you’re proud of yourself for only staring at his biceps for 0.000034 seconds before meeting his line of sight again. 

“Are those rules just suggestions?” he asks with a stupidly teasing look on his face. 

You purse your lips together, skin feeling warm suddenly as you try to push him away by a palm to his sternum. But then you realized something. A fundamental rule of biology. The woman never chases. 

You smile at him, cheeky in a deceptive way that’s meant to scare him, and it does seem to alarm him when you push him back onto the couch rather forcefully. His hands fall to hold your hips again as he looks at you with round eyes, and you scoot forward on his lap, to where you’re almost sitting right above his groin. 

“Hey–” he says, like a warning. 

Like some awful romantic comedy, you’re drawing the tip of your nail down the front of his chest seductively, leaning forward so he catches the faint scent of the perfume you spritzed onto your skin in the morning, and you can tell it’s working from the way he tips his chin up in interest. You innocently “shift” in his lap to get comfortable, and see his throat bob when he swallows hard from the feeling. The finger that’s been running down the soft linen of his shirt trails up until it runs through the hair at the back of his neck, and he’s pulling you closer to him now by a rough grip on your hips. His breathing picks up, eyes somehow wild yet calm as he looks at you with a set jaw, and you try your best to maintain a sultry expression as you tilt your head down at him while strongly fisting at the longer strands of his hair that fall short at the nape of his neck. He shifts underneath you, sinking further into the couch, his breathing fast enough to where you can see the rise and fall of his chest, his gaze finally dropping to your lips as he parts his own, and he briefly runs his tongue over his bottom lip before–

Before the doorbell rings. 

You both blink at each other.

You don’t even realize how close you two were to making out until you realize you can’t even see the tip of his nose anymore. 

“My, uh,” he starts, voice sounding gruff so he has to clear his throat, “my wood just came.”

“Y–” you glance down at his lap, “your wood just what?!”

He leans away from you, sinking his back into the cushion and pointing over his shoulder with a thumb towards the door. “The cedar planks I ordered to finish my woodworking project. Pretty sure they just got dropped off.”

You blink at him, releasing the grip you still had on the hair at the back of his head, your arms moving to weakly rest on his shoulders instead. “Oh.”

“I’ve gotta go sign the delivery.

“Okay.”

“Sometime today, preferably.”

“Alright.”

“Can…can I head to the door? Is that allowed?”

“...I suppose.”

His fingers that were still resting under your butt in a strong grip push up gently on the flesh to prod you off of him, and you (reluctantly) swing your legs off of his lap then slump down onto the couch indignantly beside him, twiddling with your thumbs as you watch him get up off the cushions with a small grunt from the push of his palms on his knees. And then he heads to the door.

Continuing to assess your cuticles with the tuck of your chin towards your collarbone, you hear Gojo talk to whoever was at the door. Another masculine voice. Sounds younger, probably younger than you. Delivery boy. Gojo makes easy conversation with him, some buddy-buddy diction that’s entirely lost on you, and you hear the other man laugh. And the fact that you feel equally as possessed to want to fuck the delivery man makes you realize you need to put yourself in a cage the next time you feel like this.

You hear the door close along with the metallic click of the lock, and you peak your head up over the top of the couch to look at Gojo, who is leaning a giant cardboard box that looks really heavy against the wall. He then exhales, dusting his hands off and he’s stretching his neck from side to side again.

He glances over his shoulder to find you still looking at him.

“You woodwork?” you ask him.

“Yes.”

“Wait. Is that the noisy thing you do at six in the morning while I’m trying to sleep after a night shift?!?!”

“It’s not that noisy,” he says, leaning back onto the wall and crossing his arms. Then he grins. “Want to see what I’m working on?”

“No.”

“Oh come on.” He jerks his head towards the kitchen leading out to the screen door of the backyard. And then he’s shuffling his feet off into that direction. “Humor me for once.”

You slide off the couch onto the floor, grumbling something to yourself before you stand up onto your feet and shuffle your feet across the hardwood floor to follow him, the hem of your nightgown sliding across the surface.

Gojo pulls the screen door back and you step out into the pleasant afternoon. It’s sunny, with crisp air that settles on your senses, the casted shadows of clouds that slowly pass over the grass reminding you of your childhood, or perhaps of simpler times.

You step into the flip flops you see near the shoe mat, and they are nearly twice the size of your feet. Gojo opts for the dustier pair located behind the grill and then he walks across the grass of his backyard towards the shed tucked away near the side of the house. You’ve always been able to briefly see this shed from one of the windows in your house, but you could never see what went on inside. 

He unclasps the metal lock on the wooden door of the shed and pulls it open with a creak. You peer inside, the smell of wood shavings and some other rather comforting chemicals hitting you almost instantly. You also sneeze. And then sneeze again.

“Bless you,” he says, and when you glance at him, he’s smiling at you before he takes a step inside. You cross your arms and rub your elbows, feeling feeble in your ditsy nightgown as you step into a space that looks far too industrial for you. 

“See?” Gojo says once you’re fully inside the shed with him, drawing your gaze from the dusty ceilings towards the covered structure in the center of the workspace. He pulls the blue tarp back, revealing something square-looking. “It’s a coffee table.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you tilt your head to assess it. “Oh. It’s–...it’s actually quite nice.”

“Yeah.” He knocks on the surface with his knuckles. “It’s pretty sturdy. I’ve been looking to replace what I’ve got in the house for a while now. And–” he straightens himself up again, pushing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “That wood I just got delivered is black walnut. Stunning stuff. I’m going to use it to finish the corners and the cabinets.”

“Ahhh,” you say, expressing interest. I mean, you were intrigued by his many strange hobbies. How can you explain this…you suppose after many years of working, sleeping, eating, and taking care of your mom, it's somewhat pleasantly disorienting to find yourself in the middle of a normal person’s life. Someone who has time to woodwork in his free time. Endearing. It was kind of endearing. 

“I’ve gotta flip it over though,” he says with a sigh, “I fucked up and forgot to build the base first.”

You lean back on one of the cabinets behind you that was level with your hip, and you watch Gojo for a moment as he bends down to assess all angles of the table before he grips the underside of it with his hands, the strength of his grip evident in the strain of the veins running up his arms and disappearing into the short sleeve cotton of his shirt. 

But he glances up at you before moving it. “Can you stand over there?”

“Huh?” You blink at him.

“Don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Oh,” you say, and realize you were standing in quite literally the exact zone of potential danger. You make a mental note to work on your survival instincts. 

You lean off of the cabinet and step off to the side. 

You watch as he begins to lift up on the table, his biceps flexing with the movement, oh and that grunt that leaves his lips once he’s got it at the angle he wants hits you somewhere you wish it didn’t. The sight of him leaning over, letting out a slow exhale as he slowly sets the table down on its side over the cushioning mat had you in a trance. 

Once he’s satisfied with wherever it’s at, he steps away from it and dusts his hands off. “Alright.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Got an hour to work on this.”

You nod at him.

He glances over at you. 

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

“Did–...did you wanna watch?”

“Nope,” you say, shuffling your slippers to the other side of the door. Because you fear that catching the sight of him all sweaty and disheveled from woodworking would get you into serious trouble today. At least you know when to call it quits.

In the hour that Gojo spends doing god knows what sort of manly sorcery in that shed, you get dressed into something that wasn’t a cozy nightgown much to your dismay, and head over to your house next door. You figure you could use this time to clean up the place a little so that you can take pictures for the house on Zillow. 

When you step inside the house, the nauseating smell of medication hits you. It’s a smell that you can only know if you’ve lived with it for years. Something artificial, something that smells–...well, sick. It’s a scent you associate with sickness. It hits you randomly sometimes with the patients that you treat at the hospital. Patients that smell just like your mom does. Something akin to a pill closet. You’ve always cursed the human tendency to assort semantics to certain senses, because then it only takes away all the healing you thought you had gotten through.

You walk down the hall towards your mother’s bedroom. You figured you’d start here first, since it would be the most difficult to clean for you. Her bed is set up neatly, exactly as you left it before she left for hospice three weeks ago. 

Her well-worn rocking chair sits near the window with the old knit blanket she made over twenty years ago draped over it. It faces the window instead of the inside of the house, which was a habit she always had throughout her life. Maybe as an art teacher, she always felt that whatever was outside was more intriguing than within. 

You run a hand by the sturdy wooden dresser covered in dust and scattered medications, along with all of your mother’s draped headscarves. She liked to change them every day, the pattern of each of them aggressively absurd and somewhat hypnotizing, but it fits for her age–that sort of clothing. Your mother used to have beautiful hair. It was something all her friends had always been jealous of. She made the decision to shave it all off rather than watch as it slowly detangled from her hair from chemo, and she claims to have stashed it away somewhere, but you know that she likely donated it instead.

When you make it to her desk, you see paint splattered over it with a rusted easel holding up a blank canvas. But there were swipes of paint across the palette, as though she were trying to find the perfect blend of colors, but failed before she could put brush to canvas. Beside her little art setup, you see a little sticky note with scribblings on it.

Morning tea

Medications- Gabapentin 600 300

Today is Thursday. Oct 16th

800 432 5555 call Dr Johnson 

Turn off the stove

At the very bottom:

- daughter. Nurse. She loves you

You suck a deep breath in, releasing it slowly.

This was an impossible task.

To stuff all of this away into boxes. 

All of this life.

You slowly peel the sticky note off the desk, folding it neatly before placing it into your pocket. Then you start with the canvas, the easel, the paint. Exactly as is, without cleaning anything at all, you stache them away into boxes. You wanted to preserve what you could, even if it was all for show.

By the time you finish cleaning out her desk, you feel winded from emotions. You decide to take a break and try to clean whatever was upstairs instead. Before you leave the room, you see another sticky note written behind the door.

remember ! wear your sweater, it’s cold today

And that’s when you start crying. 

.

.

.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

”Hey,” you say as you walk back into Gojo’s house in the early afternoon, holding up a digital camera that you found in the attic in your hand. “The upstairs of my house is cleaned out now, and I’m almost done with the downstairs part…just waiting on finishing one room. Can we start taking photos to put the listing up online?”

Gojo glances up at you from where he’s stood in the kitchen, tugging at his sleeves, and you just now notice he’s dressed up in a dark navy suit with a white shirt underneath. No tie. “Uhh yeah I can help you with it, I’ve just gotta go run a few errands and then we can do it when I get back?” He ruffles his hair a bit and you see that it’s slightly damp like he just took a shower.

“What errands?”

“Gas, amazon return, Costco. Maybe get a donut if I’m feeling like being a bad boy.”

“Ew. Also, why don’t you get gas at Costco?”

“It’s a little cheaper at Sam’s Club.”

You gasp. “You have a Sam’s Club membership??”

“Yes.”

“You’re a traitor.”

He rolls his eyes as he pushes his shoulders back to get better settled into his suit jacket. “I have a Costco membership too.” 

“Can I come?”

“What? For–...for the errands?”

“Yes.”

He blinks at you from the other side of the island, brow furrowing slightly. “Uh. Sure?”

You know it sounds silly to say, but not having to take care of someone twenty-four-seven has left you with little to no sense of purpose, and an even more intense feeling of loneliness. And as much as Gojo gets on your nerves from time to time, you’ve noticed that you’ve been…craving his presence lately. Or maybe a presence might be more accurate than any one specific person, but you can comfortably admit it to yourself that you’re a somewhat codependent person that enjoys being largely implemented into someone’s life. You’ve even started borderline nesting in his home. You bought two new fluffy throw blankets for his couch, set up a bowl of fruits at the center of the kitchen island, and stocked up on laundry detergent, even though he already had two backup boxes. It was driving you crazy. This feeling of having too much free time and personal space than what you knew what to do with.

And it had been a while since you went to Costco. The holy land for all adults. 

“Can I get this? Ohhhh what about this? Can we get this too? Wait. Wait. Brown sugar boba mochi?!” You hold the packet up into the air as if it were baby Simba in the Lion King, and then you turn to Gojo, clutching the bag to your chest. “Please?”

He exhales, leaning over the handle of the shopping cart and levels his gaze with you. “...no.”

You sulk your shoulders and sigh as you put it back.

He begins to push the cart down the aisle again. “You do realize that you have disposable income too, right?”

You trail after him. “No. I don’t. I’m in six figures of debt.”

He nods. “Fair.” And then he grabs a stray bag of brown sugar boba abandoned on top of the instant rice boxes then places it into the cart. 

You watch as Gojo makes his rounds around Costco, very diligently aligning all the items in his shopping cart and assessing the quality of each thing he crosses off his list before deeming it worthy of purchase. Much different than your usual Costco run, which involves a lot of chaos and sweat. And he feels very husband material like this. Breaking no sweat to put the garden fertilizer in the cart shelf meanwhile you would’ve pulled your back out trying to do the same if you were on your own.

As you two make your way through the store, you get stopped by the post-office man, and then the local judge, and then the elderly couple that runs the church's weekly Bingo nights. All greeting you politely with a quick exchange of words and usually a sweet regard for your mother’s health before passing on by. You keep having to introduce Gojo as your husband, and many of them already know who he is, despite the fact that he’s only lived here for a year, which royally pisses you off to great extents, but he’s a social whore so it makes sense. And then all of them coo sweet things like wow, what a beautiful couple and you’re so lucky to have each other and my oh my he’s very handsome and at this point you would pay someone twenty bucks to say something like well she’s a looker! good for you! to Gojo because you’re sick of him always getting the ego boosts. When asked where you guys went for your honeymoon, you both say “Greece–” “Maldives–” at the same time in typical unrehearsed fashion. One of the town locals even asks when the two of you are going to have a baby, and you almost snort your free sample of San Pellegrino out your nose.

Perhaps the only thing that keeps a little pep in your step is the fact that everyone greets you first before they catch the familiar sight of Gojo too. It’s a small thing to celebrate, but when you’ve lived in the same town your whole life, it becomes somewhat of a prideful and wholesome thing when the town librarian, local mechanic, and farmer’s market lady all stop you in your lovely little Costco stroll. It was all in a day’s work.

“Jeez, you’re hella famous, y/n,” Gojo says as he continues to push the cart down the aisle after you just got done catching up with the volunteer Fire Chief.

You toss your hair over your shoulder at him. “Yes. I am somewhat of a princess in this town.”

“Does that make me your prince?”

“No. You’re my filthy peasant.”

“Alright…I like where this is going…”

“Get your nasty degradation kink away from me, you perv. This is Costco. It’s the holy house of God.”

Once you two make it to the wine section, you stare at bottles of dessert wines and hear Gojo talking on the phone off to the side.

“Hey, Sana. I’m at Costco right now. Do you guys need anything? I already got Juno’s muffins,” he says into his phone as he places two containers of blueberry muffins into the cart. You eye the raspberry cream cheese strudels. “Huh? Cornstarch?....If I tried to look for cornstarch at Costco, I’d be here for three hours.”

“Satoru,” you say to him once he gets off the call, tugging at his sleeve, “could we get those Haagen Daz ice cream bars? They’re so good.”

“No,” he says, pushing the cart down the chip aisle before he grabs a bag of tortilla chips. “We can’t get anything that needs to be frozen or refrigerated. I’ve gotta go prep a house that’s in the area since we’re out this far. I’ve got an evening showing.”

“What?!” you exasperate, “I thought we were just going home after this!”

“I never said that.”

“I can’t believe this. I had been dreaming of grabbing those ice cream bars since you mentioned the word Costco back at home. You could’ve brought your little cooler thing that you keep in the garage.”

“Well, I didn’t know that you wanted to come with me,” he says. “My original grocery list had seven non-perishable items on it.” You both glance at the cart, which was almost entirely full of things that you put in there. Things that nobody ever needs. Like a bladeless desk fan and an electric wine opener.

“Ah,” you say.

He smiles, leaning over the cart handle again and pushing it forward again away from the chilly air of the cooler section. “Retail therapy?”

You pout a little. “I haven’t had the chance in years.” You glance at the cart as he pushes it. “I should probably take it all out now.”

“It’s fine,” he says, “I’ll get you your bladeless fan. And whatever the fuck those other things are.”

You stop walking, blinking blankly at his back as he continues to wordlessly push the cart forward. There’s about a five second delay before you finally start trailing after him.

By the time Gojo finishes loading everything into the trunk of his car as you merely stand by for emotional support, and then he comes back from the long trek of returning the cart, you’re absolutely winded. You’re not sure why, because again, you haven’t really done much all day. But God damn, you forgot how exhausting it is to be a regular functioning member of society that contributes to the economy on the weekends (you didn’t pay for anything).

Gojo wordlessly takes off from the Costco parking lot and just when you think he’s going to get back onto the freeway to get to this house of his that he needs to prep, he jumps into the parking lot of a small shopping area before he parks his car in front of a smaller grocery store. 

You give him a puzzled look.

“Hold on,” he says before clicking his seatbelt off, “gotta go get that cornstarch.”

“Wait—” you say, reaching out to grab him by the sleeve of his suit jacket as the most intense sensation of FOMO you’ve ever felt in your life overtakes all of your senses. “I’ll come with.”

He quirks a brow at you. You’re not surprised at his confusion. After all, you’ve been acting like some drug addict in withdrawal of social proximity to him all day long. But you’re at least glad he doesn’t express any further bewilderment and allows you to follow him inside the store like a duckling.

As Gojo veers off in the direction of likely corn starchiness, in a confident manner that would suggest he’s been to this store many times before, you meander about the aisles at your leisure. You get lost in the bustling colors of produce stacked neatly on top of one another, such that they could rival the great pyramids of Egypt. Not to mention, processed foods lining the wall right next to it. This was what suburban life is all about. Matter of fact, this is what dreams are made of. 

“y/n?”

Oh, fuck. That voice is definitely not what dreams are made of.

The opposite, actually.

Nightmares.

You hear that voice in your nightmares.

You turn on your heel to find none other than your ex boyfriend, he who shall not be named (Choso Kamo), standing right behind you as he holds a grapefruit in his hand, blinking at you dumbly with surprise apparent on his face. 

“Wh—” you briefly stutter before the automatic scowl settles onto your face. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m buying fruit.”

“For what?”

“What do you mean, for what? To eat, obviously.”

“I don’t know. I’m not convinced you wouldn’t try to fuck that grapefruit. Given you have low standards for what you stick your dick inside of.”

“Uh?…I’ve stuck my dick inside of you plenty of t—”

“Shut it!!!” you yell at him, then turn away with a wince on your face. “I didn’t think it through before I said it.”

“As usual?”

“You’re being a jerk. You know who I meant when I said that.”

“Okay. So, you don’t think things through before you say them. And I continue to deflect said things. Let me know when anything’s changed between us, y/n.”

You cross your arms at him menacingly and unwaveringly glare at him as a meek mother pushes her young son by the shoulders away from the two simmering adults having their savory conversation within the produce aisle. You’re about the snark out another comment but then the automatic water sprayers interrupt your flow. And also a scrawny employee drops a giant box of eggplant onto the ground before placing them onto the produce shelf.

“What are you doing on this side of town? You’re never out here,” Choso says as he sets the grapefruit back onto the stack.

“I don’t know. What are you doing here?”

“This is my new go-to grocery store.”

“Why not go to the Trader Joe’s that we always used to go to? It’s way closer to you.”

His shoulders sulk slightly at that.

Oh.

Oh.

So, he’s been driving an extra thirty minutes each weekend to go grocery shopping on the other end of town,

Just so he doesn’t have to run into you anymore.

“Look…y/n,” he starts, “it’s not that I don’t want to see you—”

“Choso—”

“It’s just that you accuse me of fucking inanimate objects everytime I do see you.”

“I literally do not care if you do or don’t want to see me.”

He narrows his eyes at you, his gaze flitting downwards to your crossed arms, something catching his eye.

You glance down at yourself, and you catch the glimmer of diamond underneath bright fluorescent light.

“Oh come on,” Choso grumbles, “don’t tell me you actually wear that thing twenty-four-seven.”

“I’m a married woman, Choso. It’s what married women do.”

He clenches his jaw at that, tense enough to cause a vein strain in his neck, his brows narrowing into contempt, but just before he can say anything else, an arm wraps around your waist and you’re being pulled back into a broad chest.

“She’s pretty, huh?” you hear Gojo say and you blink up at him with your chin tilted towards the ceiling, and you yelp as he possessively pulls you in closer to him as he establishes jarring eye contact with Choso with that same old easy grin on his face. “Thank god I’m the one married to her.”

Choso almost blows a fuse at that. “I know she’s pretty,” he says through gritted teeth, “for six years, I was the one that got to f—”

“Ahh!!! Sale on tomatoes!!!” you interrupt the crass and ridiculously toxic masculine energy in the air as you wiggle out of Gojo’s grip then run over to the pristinely stacked romano tomatoes, picking some of them up and holding them like precious commodities. “Maybe we can make some tomato soup with grilled cheese tonight, honey???” you say with a forced smile towards Gojo as you now hold fifteen tomatoes in your arms, a couple of them falling to the floor with a bounce as they roll away.

“HEY!! LADY!!” the scrawny eggplant stacking employee from earlier yells out at you. Some late teens kid with acne speckled across his face and shaggy brown hair scattered over his forehead, somewhat slick with either gel or grease. “I just set those up!!! YOU SQUASH ‘EM, YOU BUY ‘EM.”

“Sorry,” you squeak out, putting the tomatoes back onto the display somewhat haphazardly before grabbing Gojo’s arm and tugging him towards the exit. “Let’s get out of here, please.”

“Huh? I’ve still gotta pay for the cornstarch though,” Gojo says, hardly budging despite your best efforts to womanhandle him.

“No time for that, we leave now. They don’t have cameras here, anyway. I already checked.” You continue to tug on his arm, your body leaning at an almost forty-five degree angle towards the exit as you struggle to get some drag to his feet, but again, he doesn’t budge.

You don’t know exactly why you so adamantly want to restrict Gojo from interacting with Choso, but maybe a part of it was embarrassment. You didn’t want Gojo to find out what Choso did to you and what an absolute fool he had made out of you. It would hurt your pride.

“Isn’t this guy a cop?” Gojo asks as he points his thumb towards Choso. “And you’re telling me to shoplift in front of him?”

“Can you just be on my fucking side for one second?” you grit at him, yanking on his sleeve so hard you almost tear the cuffs out of the holes, and he finally sighs before relenting into a gait towards your general direction.

As you hug Gojo’s arm tightly to keep his momentum towards you, you walk backwards and send Choso a nasty glare. His eyes are wide, studying you and Gojo together as you get further and further away from him. And for a brief, brief, brief, ever-so-slight fleeting moment of love and familiarity and the sight of his dark hair curling at the nape of his neck and the memory of warmth when he used to hold you in his arms in bed on cold winter mornings, you find that you miss him a little. But only a little. You swear that it’s only a little.

Gojo still makes a pit stop at the register much to your pleading dismay, but as always he has zero regard or interest for your melodramatic outbursts, but at least he shoves the extra change from the purchase into his pocket in a somewhat timely fashion so that you two can head out the door in your artificial haste.

In the car, you quickly click your seatbelt on and then have to watch Gojo as he takes his time clicking his back into place and enter some address into his car. You see the ETA on the GPS, and how it shows that this address is roughly thirty-four minutes away.

Once he gets onto the freeway, your mind begins to wander back to seeing Choso at the grocery store and how the sight of him rattled you. You twiddle with your thumbs in your lap nervously, shift around in your seat, chew at the edge of your nail, and Gojo seems to notice this.

“You know, having lived in this town your whole life, I would think you’d be used to the discomfort of running into people you don’t want to see,” he says.

You sigh. “Yes. In theory. But with Choso, it’s–…it’s different.” You hesitate.  “It’s just that—” you try again before worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, “it’s just that, sometimes I don’t get him.”

Gojo is silent for a few seconds as he stares straight towards the road before he responds with, “What do you mean?”

“Like, he avoids me like the plague, and then begs me to go back to him, and then he pretends like I’m just a nuisance to him, and then when he sees me with you, he acts all—…I don’t know…all—”

“Jealous?”

You sink into your seat. “Something like that.”

“Hm. Yeah, to be honest, I don’t know. But you’re not wrong to find it strange.”

Feeling strangely validated in your feelings, you sit there twiddling with your thumbs and then glance out the window. There’s a silence that lasts maybe ten seconds before you say,

“Thanks for interrupting back there. Although, you don’t have to try to deliberately make him jealous anymore. Even though I know I literally asked you to do that. Which makes me a woman of severe psychiatric ailment. Of which I am slightly embarrassed about at the moment.”

“Nah,” he says as he turns the right onto the freeway entrance. When you look over at him, he has a smile on his face. “I like it. It’s never boring with you.”

Unsure if that’s a compliment or some shade of insult, you say, “and that’s a good thing?”

He shrugs, releasing one hand from the wheel and curling the other in a tight knuckled grip at the top of it as the car drives steady down the freeway. He rests his right elbow on the storage console. “Well, it’s different from what I’m used to.”

What are you used to? You so badly want to ask him.

But a flashback to his childhood bedroom at his parent’s house comes back to you.

Yearbook signatures, trophies, and photos abandoned underneath a bed.

You almost don’t even want to acknowledge that he has lived a life before you.

Was that self centered? Or perhaps childish? Or perhaps all in human nature?

You decide not to respond, instead directing your attention to the world outside the car window. The blades of grass dance across the shoulder of the road, all greenery following suit in the same swift motion. You watch as the land slowly turns from developed to more and more remote, yet still cozy and charming. Fields of green, vineyard arrangements, a wooden sign for a winery, a picturesque red barn house, a small cattle farm, an old town church with a bronze bell, hills of empty acres that are just begging to be touched by some great idea or civilization.

You’re privy to change in texture underneath the wheels as Gojo makes a turn onto gravel road about two miles after getting off the freeway. He drives up a hill, maybe a forty-five degree angle, with the crunch of rocks rubbing against the tread of the tires and you see a more distinct, purposeful arrangement of short decorative trees that line the properties of this narrow gravel road. They were large houses, sitting on slightly slanted hills that were all a part of a bumpy landscape that extends for miles. Some had formal fences, some had chain links, but all had expansive yards with no clear distinction of boundary, where the backyard could be the front yard too if only you had the imagination for it.

One house in particular catches your eye. It’s a pretty two story house with a detached garage or perhaps shed, painted in a dusky auburn with dark wooden paneling and structure. It sat near the top of this hill, the front yard being a steep upwards slope of grassy terrain that stretched for the full length of the property, about a hundred yards. The backyard dips behind the back of the hill, downwards into some territory you cannot set eyes on. But it’s stunning. It was gorgeous. Serene. With views of lush green surrounding its every corner. Intimately located, yet open enough to fresh air in which you almost feel one with the world. And in the early evening light, it looked like heaven.

You let out a slow exhale as you take in the sight that looks like a painting to you. There was something so romantic about a home. For as long as time, humans have enjoyed personifying objects, such as boats or planes or cars or  trains. But what could feel more of a living thing than a home?

You hear Gojo click his seatbelt off beside you and you glance over at him. You click off your own seat belt and open your door, stepping out onto the gravel road.

Gojo comes around the car and approaches you, holding a folder in his hand with papers you can only assume have information on the property listing. You also hear the jingle of keys in his pocket as he pushes his hand into it. 

“Got about,” he glances at his watch, “twenty minutes to prep. Oh, and if my clients ask, I’ll just introduce you as my assistant. And we’ll pretend that we have some sort of inappropriate workplace relationship. Just to intrigue them. It’ll make the house more memorable. Sound like a plan?”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever gets food on your table.”

You watch as he pushes a copper key into the rusted lock that was clipped onto the chains holding the fence together, guarding the property. He yanks it down once he’s unlocked it and then pulls the fence apart, opening the way to head up the house. It borders on a feeling of trespassing, but you trail closely behind Gojo as he makes his way up the grassy hill, reminding yourself that he has the clearance as a realtor.

You glance around the property a bit more. There’s a small pond in the dip of one of the smaller hills, fuzzy with moss and some small fish you can see snapping at the surface of the water. Off to the right of it, there are similarly moss covered stone benches, small and antique. Perfect to sit there and watch the sun set behind the house. And towards the left, a small gondola with arranged stained glass stepping stones. 

“Charming, huh?” Gojo says over his shoulder at you, and you realize he’s caught you staring at everything in awe.

Gojo makes it to the veranda after lengthy strides across the broad concrete steps that lead to the most stunning hardwood door you’ve ever seen in your life. He turns around to glance at you when he realizes you’re still stuck at the bottom of the steps, digging your heels into the ground underneath you.

“It’s–” you start, looking across the landscape while melancholy washes over you, “...I just can’t believe that someone gets to live here someday.”

He pushes his hands inside of his pant pockets, silent for a few moments. “Is everything alright?”

You look up at him, the question threatening to make the rawness in your throat burn even more. “Yes, I just–” you scoff at yourself a little before turning back to face the little pond, now further in the distance, “I just realized that I’ll probably never be able to afford a house in my life, so I’ll never really know what it’s like to have a realtor show me around a home I could potentially one day call my own. It’s something that sounds so surreal to me.”

There’s a silence that lasts for three seconds, and when you look up at him, his gaze is soft.

“Alright,” he says, jerking his head towards the direction of the door with his hands still lax in his pockets, “let’s take you on a tour of this one, then.”

You blink up at him, heart beating a little faster. “O-...Okay.” And you hop up the stairs to meet him at the top. The fragrance of wild roses and lavender brush past your senses as the leaves sway with the breeze. 

The moment you enter inside, you’re greeted by a faint trace of vanilla lingering in the air. The foyer is warm, inviting, with soft oak floors that creak ever so slightly with each step you two take forward into it, proving the life that it’s lived. To your left, there’s a spacious living room that glows with the golden light of the early evening sun that has started to gently make its descent from high up in the sky. Filtering through sheer curtains, touching your skin from afar, you glance down at your arm and the glow of heaven that’s been imprinted on it. 

Gojo walks further into the living room, pulling the curtains back a bit and then opens one of the windows by pushing up on it. A small draft reaches you as you walk towards him. Off to the right in a corner is a fireplace, the mantle adorned with wilting candles and creased old books.

“Is it wood-burning?” you ask Gojo.

He nods his head. “Can easily convert it to gas if that’s something you’d like better.”

There’s a sense of joy in your chest at the way he continues to play along, pretending as if your opinion truly matters–as if, just for now, you were a serious contender to make this place your home. 

“No,” you say, tracing a finger over the dark wood of the mantle, collecting withered dust. “I like it better like this.”

As he leads you into the kitchen, set your eyes on the marble countertops that meet soft sage cabinetry, the window behind the sink overlooking the rolling landscape of the backyard. You stand on your tiptoes to get a better view of what’s down the hill, and you see a small trickling creek that flows down the valley. Your gaze diverts towards the countertops and you see an elegant collection of mismatched china.

Spinning on your heel, you find Gojo leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you inspect every inch. “When were these appliances last updated?” you ask, running your hand across the oven handle.

“About fourteen years ago.”

“Ah, they’re a little old.”

He smiles at you. “So the tolerance for vintage charm ends with kitchen appliances?”

“Charm is cute,” you say, a little cheekily as you move on without him towards the staircase, “but not when the house burns down because of an oven gas leak.”

He hums from behind you as he follows you, and you can hear the smile on his face through the sound alone. “You’re looking out for the right things.”

The staircase, with its dark wood railing and white balusters, curves gently upwards into the second floor. Just like your own home, the third and first steps creak beneath your feet. You always loved the sound, although you know most people attempt to fix such things in a house. For you, it felt like each step had a story, and some were very vocal about never being forgotten. 

The upstairs hallway is lined with more windows, filling the space with the same golden glow that now dances across the soft, tapering wallpaper that has begun to peel around the edges slightly. Your feet wander on their own with a sense of grace that seems to have taken hold of you. 

The first bedroom you stumble across is small, but still enchanting. The bay window has a small reading nook with cushions piled up on the surface, inviting the image of lazy afternoons spent lost in books as the world beyond the glass panes flutters in the wind. The queen-sized bed in the center of the room is minimally dressed and faces an oak dresser that was leaning slightly away from the wall in a crooked fashion. 

The room across from the first bedroom appears to be a study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are bolted to the walls and a vintage writing desk sits by another window where the changing light of day turns the room into a living painting. Your mother crosses your mind. And how much she would’ve loved this window. You could picture her setting up her easel and canvas here, painting away with strokes that could threaten even the beauty of the view outside the window. You think about how much joy that would’ve brought to her. 

In that same trance, you walk down the hall to the end with Gojo following behind you. You push through the set of double doors that lead into the master bedroom. It was spacious, yet intimate, with vaulted ceilings and a four-poster bed draped in airy linen curtains. Sitting across from it is another fireplace surrounded by two picturesque little chairs. One with a square backrest colored a dark burgundy, and the other with an oval backrest colored a pinkish opal. Between the two was a small table that had a stack of a few books. 

The attached en-suite bathroom appears timeless, with a clawfoot tub resting beneath a wide, arched window that offers the view of the rolling hills in their entire glory. The marble vanity has vintage brass fixtures that reflect the soft glow of the chandelier that hangs from the ceiling, one that takes the shape of the roof of the house. 

You hear tapping on the window to your right, and when you glance over there, you see a tree branch bothering the surface due to the wind. 

Your eyes also catch the faint bordering corner of wood beyond the frame of the window.

With wide eyes, you turn to Gojo and point in that general direction. “Is that…?”

“The balcony,” he says, then nods, “it’s connected to this room.”

He leads you out onto the wooden platform, the floorboards warm under your feet from the early evening sun. It stretches out about ten feet and wraps around the entire back end of the house, with easily the most breathtaking vantage point you’ve seen thus far. An entire view of the creek that disappears into the valley, the image of dancing wildflowers on distant rolling hills, the sun that continues to glow in the distance, and a gentle breeze with the faintest hint of salt, as though from a distant ocean. It felt like its own quiet little world. A place where time slows, and you can just be as you are. It was difficult to put into words, but you had never felt more at peace in your entire life.

Gojo leans over the sturdy yet worn railing as he glances down at the grass near the foundation of the house. You come up beside him, loosely curling your hands into a grip around the rusted metal.

You see him turn his face to you in your periphery, but you continue to stay staring ahead.

“So…what do you think? Can you picture yourself living here?” he asks you as a soft brush of breeze passes by. 

“Well–” you start, but then a sobering thought flashes through you, “wait, Satoru, what happened to your clients?”

“Oh, yeah,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket to glance at it, “they texted me about ten minutes ago that they weren’t going to make it.”

“You should’ve told me. We could’ve left.”

“Well, you seemed like you were in some sort of trance while you were looking around. I was scared to interrupt it.”

You breathe in deep and then let out a slow sigh, your shoulders dropping slightly. “Mhm. The house is beautiful. And, yes, I could picture myself living here.” 

More than just that. It was like a dream house. The one that a person would see in fleeting memories right before they pass, as it holds all of their most beloved ones. That ethereal, it was. 

He hums softly. You look over at him and find him blinking slowly. The wind brushes through his hair, ruffling it up gently, to where you could see the blueness in his eyes a little more clearly. That, too, was ethereal. 

“Satoru,” you say.

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

He continues to stare at the horizon. “Sure.”

“Where did you live before you moved here?”

“New york city,” he easily tells you.

But the answer surprises you. “R-Really?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Really long.”

“Mm. You don’t seem like it.”

“Like what? An asshole from the city?”

“Mhm. Just a regular asshole.”

He laughs. You feel the rumble of it from the way your shoulder was pressed up against his arm. 

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask him. But the question was not one that you had thought to say. Rather, it felt as though it was placed on your tongue by someone else.

You feel his shoulders rise slightly with the deep breath he draws in as he leans over the railing a bit more. “I don’t know. It’s hard to say. I still own a place there in downtown Manhattan,” he says, “but I don’t really plan on moving back there ever. So I was thinking of selling it and getting something out here instead.”

“Oh?” you say, “like what? Where?”

“This,” he says, pointing to the wooden panels you two were standing on, “this house.”

You blink, caught between surprise and something deeper. “This house?” you echo, your voice quiet. 

He nods, his fingers tapping lightly against the railing. “Yeah. Although, I still show it to people if they’re interested. It’s been on the market for over three years though.”

You let your gaze drift over the balcony, the way the light softens against the weathered wood, and suddenly, the house doesn’t feel the same. Like it carries more weight somehow. Like it feels more real, more alive. And maybe that’s what makes a house a home–the intent to belong in it. 

"You see that greenery over there?" he asks, his arm stretching out as he highlights an area in the distance with his hand, "aaaaall the way down there?" Now pointing at the creak.

"Mm," you squint, "uh-huh!"

"Believe it or not, those are all avocado trees."

Your eyes widen and then you look at him. "No way."

He smiles. "Yeahhh. Three-point-four acres of 'em. And they're all a part of this lot."

Your smile matches his equally as nerdy one. "Wow I bet you loooove that.

"I do," he grins, and then gratuitously sights, "all I can eat guacamole 'til the day I die."

You snort.

"Yeah, anyways, that's why no one wants to buy this house," he says, "guess how much it costs to water them per month.”

"Mm, per month?" you look up to the golden sky, "a few thousand?"

"Try a hundred-and-fifty thousand."

"What–...I beg your finest fucking PARDON?!?!"

He laughs. "Yeah that's usually the reaction I get when I end a tour of this house on that note."

“That’s so insane…what’s the point of buying the house, then?”

"Avocados are hard to grow, they can be finicky, but all the land on this lot is extremely fertile," he says, "and if you can import the produce, it actually ends up being pretty lucrative." He points across to the dip in the hill behind the creak. "You could turn that place over there into some kind of ranch, too. Or a wedding venue, and rent it out. I don't know. The property has a lot of investment value. But the house itself is a bit dated. Would need some work."

"Like a fixer-upper on HGTV,” you offer for the conversation.

"Yeahhh. Something like that."

"Mm," you hum.

"Y’know, I was on HGTV once."

"What?! There's no way."

"Yup. House hunters."

"Bullshit. I would've known. I have seen every single episode since I graduated college."

"Oh, well, this was back when they still had Design Star on. I was like twenty-four or something. Fresh new realtor."

"Oh right. I was still in college then. I forgot that you're ancient."

He gives you an irritated side eye.

"So...will you be fixing up this house?" you ask him. His hobby of woodworking starts to make a little bit more sense.

"Maybe. I don't know if I'm too young to be thinking about retirement yet...but that's kind of what I was thinking of turning it into. A dream retirement home."

"You're definitely not young. Don't worry about that."

He gives you another irritated look.

"What happens to your other house, then?" you say. "The one next door."

“Hmm," he muses, "I'll probably stay there another year or so and then rent it out eventually."

"You don't want to settle down there? Raise your kids there?" you blurt out. You immediately wince a little at the forward question, but wasn't that something people thought about when thinking of a house? Do they not imagine filling it with their own hopes and dreams? Do they not picture their spouse sitting on the porch outside, swinging with the wind? Do they not picture their children's laughter down the hallway? 

A shiver runs down your spine. You glance over at Gojo, who continues to stare forward towards the horizon, His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he's deep in thought staring out into the landscape as the golden sun begins to turn purple in the sky, casting a dimming glow on his face.

And you wonder. You briefly wonder what a home must mean to him, after having to witness his parents perish in the flames of the one that housed his childhood. 

"It's a nice house," he finally responds to you, "but a part of me wants to live faaaaar away from everyone and everything someday." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he can already tell how contradictory you find that sentiment to be. Mr Grew Up In New York City wants to live in a quaint little cape-cod-esque agriculture farmland property miles away from major civilization? what was it about the city that changed him so much? “Just be at peace, you know. Plant a million more avocado trees out here in the middle of nowhere, and not have to worry about their devilish spawns dropping all over my cute neighbor's herb garden.”

You flutter your eyelids, the comment catching you off guard, before your entire posture softens. "Satoru...it's ok. I'll move my herb garden."

"Oh, you thought I meant you? I was talking about seventy-four year old Barbara to my right."

You sulk your shoulders and roll your eyes, turning away from him to face forward towards the landscape again.

He laughs. "I'm just teasing."

You glance over at him again, and there's that same distant stare he casts over the greenery in the distance. 

"I can't believe your dream in life is to become a farmer," you say.

"Ehhh. It's honest work." he exhales slowly. The sun is now sitting on the hilltop. "It's just a dream, anyways. Just a dream. I'm still allowed to have those, right?" It was asked with genuine curiosity. 

"Why are you asking me for permission?"

His eyes hood ever so slightly, a dip in his expression you can't quite discern. but it's evident in the way his gaze off across the horizon dampens. "Hm. I don't know."

You shiver a little as the evening wind brushes past, and Gojo catches sight of the movement. you mentally curse yourself, because you know that you've just cut this moment short.

"It's cold," he says, "let's get inside."

You try to think of ways to stay here. Ways to lengthen this moment. Ask him for his jacket and make some teasing comment about how he's not a gentleman. Or lie and say that you're not cold at all, that you run warm when you know all your life you've always had cold hands and feet. Or just tell him that you don't want this moment to end. Tell him you want to see the sun through its sunset. Tell him how you never want to step foot off of this house ever again.

"Okay," you whisper. 

And he leads you back inside, down the stairs, and as you stand out on the veranda, at the grassy hills towards his car, you implant this memory in your head, this feeling of standing on this home and dreaming as if it were yours. Before all it becomes is exactly that, 

Only a dream. 

.

.

.

.

.

[end of ch.7, ‘if u wanna get groceries’]

songs of the chapter:  groceries by mallrat  margaret by lana del rey

a/n. thanks so much for reading! this was a fun chapter to write, especially the house sequence. i think it’s mentioned in the chapter somewhere, but yeah…i just think there’s something so romantic and melancholic about a home :’’) i guess that’s a recurring theme in ihm, with reader’s childhood home holding the memories that her mother has lost of her, and then ihm gojo losing his parents to a destructive house fire, and also him being a realtor, and also reader planning to sell her house, and then the dream house in this chapter. it’s been fun breathing a bit of life into these different settings themselves. ah i also decided i want to include little “song(s) of the chapter” to the end of these! just as something kinda fun to do. i’d say these are songs that inspired me to write certain scenes within the chapter, or songs that i listened to a lot while writing the chapter, or songs i could picture playing during the ending credits if this were a tv show xd. but yeahhh!! also just a way to share music bc i love music lol.  big thank you to my beta readers mirl, leni, and ayelin for helping me out w parts of this chapter n giving me motivation to write it <33 i appreciate you guys sososo much!! i really attribute a lot of my writing motivation towards them, as i’ve been really busy but been able to write these lengthy chapters bc of their support.  i did kinda rush parts of this chapter just because i wanted to get it out on the weekend, so i apologize if there are errors or mistakes of if anything’s a little confusing or sudden. tbh i did want to spend a tiny bit more time on it but, that’s ok. fuck it we ball also! i just wanted to say a quick thank you to all of my readers and those that have stuck around for so long with me or maybe newer readers who have interacted or become invested w my works recently… i know that i am so slow w updates and sometimes inconsistent w it as well, life just gets so crazy for me and it’s a struggle to find proper time to sit down and write, and i wish soooo badly to put out chapters faster, but yea easier said than done haha. but all of my readers who continue to engage with lil ol’ me even despite all of that really means a lot to me, more than i can say :”) i still face self doubts so often w my writing, i’m halfway convinced i’ll never be satisfied w my craft, but the little interactions i have w everyone really make my day and push me forward to write even when it’s hard and i realized i haven’t really said a proper thank u to u guys for that as of late. plus i know jjk manga has ended and also i took a hiatus n also tumblr has lowkey been fuckin me over on the algorithm too lol etc etc i definitely have noticed i’ve lost some readers n engagement along the way, which i understand is natural n just a part of being a long fic author however daunting that may be, but i just really wanted to say a thank you to those who continue to be here irrespective of all of that. i appreciate everyone who sees value in my works enough to read them, follow up w them, interact w them, share them, like them etc. especially w ihm bc sometimes i feel so bad for the slow burn and the yap haha i’m sure some of you may be privy to the fact by now that this story will be very long and also so much more than just the romance. but…i find confidence from you all to follow my vision and i’m really grateful for that.  very likely that the next chapter is in ihm gojo’s pov :0 very exciting and makes me a lil nervous. for some reason i find his pov somewhat intimidating to write for loool. but hopefully i’ll pull it off.

much love!! there will be a delay in getting this chapter up on ao3 and also adding it to the masterlist etc bc i'll be away from keyboard when this posts from my queue, but everything should be updated by the time i'm back home tonight :) see you all in the next one <3 -ellie

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[c0ffeejelly1]

Manhandling him

Multiple character headcannon

Authors note: UGH pls this whole things was for jokes bc I can’t really be that ask to make something I feel is good. Teehee. Also I can mischaracterise all I want okay let a girl dream pls. (POST-TIMESKIP!!)

Warning: man it’s like the smallest hint of the nasty freaky stuff

“Babe, you got something on your face. Let me just…” You reach out to your boyfriend, making him look your way by gripping his chin firmly while you flick away a bit of ‘glitter’ from his cheek. “There you go.”

Strike one.

That was just the beginning of your strange behavior today.

“Hey baby, c’mere I wanna kiss…” you call him over from the other side of the kitchen counter, only to yank on his collar and pull him in for one hell of a snog. “Seriously, you have no business looking this good today.”

Strike two.

Just what was up with you today?

You just got home from work, and as he’s about to sit up to see you, you suddenly push him back down onto the couch, mumbling something about how much you “missed him”.

Strike three.

You run your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to your lips, but then you pause to check out his face.

Perhaps you took this prank too far…

The type to be oddly into it

“…are you hard?”

This snaps your boyfriend out of his thoughts.

He’d never ever ever thought he could find himself in a situation like this. this is the kind of stuff you see in movies, right? I mean, come on!

Just picture how mortifying it is to be turned on from someone mistreating you! It’s pathetic!

He can’t just blurt out, ‘oh hell yeah I’m hard’ in response to that question—why would anyone even think to ask that? What can a guy do in a moment like this except deny it?

“What? N-no!…” He glances away, feeling the weight of your intense gaze. “…maybe?”

When you raise an eyebrow at him, his mask crumbles entirely. There’s no use in pretending.

You’ve already seen right through him, leaving him no option but to retreat into a shadowy corner and disappear.

“Yeah.” He responds, his voice tinged with disappointment. “I…I am.”

Maybe it’s because of the way you handled him like he was nothing that made him so bothered.

Maybe it was the way you looked so desperate to have him that did it for him.

Either way, he’s discovered something about himself he never knew he ever had.

And make no mistake, you were going to exploit this discovery to the fullest.

“Have I told you how much I love you babe?” You pull back from his face after practically devouring it as he stands there, grinning like a lovesick fool, dishes still in hand.

“I think you should tell me more.”

“Wrap up with those dishes, and I’ll give you a demonstration instead.”

Be ready for one hell of a night cowgirl. Wink wink

Charcters: serizawa, armin, EREN, REINER, ukai, ATSUMU, Osamu, Gojo, CHOSO, leviathan, SATAN, DIAVOLO, IIDA, denki, tamaki, CHILDE, Cyno, sanji, LAW

The type to think you’ve finally gone crazy

you call out to him, noticing he seems lost in his phone. Yet, oddly enough, he flinches slightly every time you speak.

This reaction occurs whenever you draw near him, as if your voice startles him, even when you're just a breath away. It’s not that he dislikes your voice; rather, it feels like he’s a bit intimidated by you now.

What happened to the confident guy who was with you just two days ago? Why does he seem to be tiptoeing around you like a child with a fragile toy?

“Y/N…is everything alright?” He approaches you cautiously, maintaining a bit of distance, trying to balance his interest with a hint of hesitation. “You’ve been…um, I just wanted to check—are you upset with me?”

“Upset with you?” You set your phone aside, raising an eyebrow at him. “Why would I be upset? Did you do something wrong?”

That’s the very question he’s grappling with. Your passionate touches and fervent kisses have left him bewildered about your feelings.

Are you so enamored that you can’t help yourself, or are you retaliating for something he might have done? Suddenly, a thought strikes him.

“…If this is about how intense things got last night, I’m sorry, but you did ask for it when I warned you I wouldn’t hold back—” His words are cut short as your hand swiftly covers his mouth.

“No! No that’s—just no. It was a prank babe, a trend I saw online” you say, removing your hand and placing both on his shoulders. “Last night has nothing to do with today or any other day.”

“Not even you complaining about being sore?”

“Not even me complaining about…wait I never did that!”

“Yeah buts it’s easy to tell.”

Charcters: REIGEN, giyuu, giyomei, JEAN, KAGEYAMA, hinata, kuroo, OIKAWA, AKAASHI, geto, NANAMI, Solomon, IZUKU, Diluc, LAIOS, zayne, LAW (Sowy I can see him as both)

The type to also manhandle you

Did you honestly believe you could manhandle him without facing the same treatment in return? Come on this is your boyfriend we’re talking about, In fact, I think he’s thrilled that you can boss him around so effortlessly.

So thrilled that he makes it into a competition

“Okay let’s see who tackles the first person on the bed.” His eyes shine with enthusiasm as he confidently places his hands on his hips. “If I win I get to have my way with you, and if you win, you get to have me have my way with you. Deal?”

You pause for a moment to process his words “…uh, how is that fair?”

“What do you mean?” he replies, brushing off your concern with a grin.

“I think it’s perfectly fair. No matter the outcome, you get a nice little reward, right?” His voice dances with mischief as he nudges you playfully with his elbow, clearly trying to elicit a reaction.

You roll your eyes at him, feigning annoyance, before relenting, “I guess it’s not so bad..”

“Exactly! Now, I’m going to count down. Ready? 3…2…” Before you can fully grasp what’s happening, he lunges at you, tackling you onto the bed before he even reaches 1.

“H-hey! That’s cheating, you can’t do that!” But your protests are ignored, your boyfriend already having you wrapped in his warm embrace, his face buried against your neck.

“This is what you get for how you’ve been treating me today.”

“What are you talking about?” You pause for a moment, though you suspect he’s finally caught on to your little scheme. “You mean me kissing you like any normal woman would with the love of her life?”

“No. Just you touching me all weirdly…”

“Don’t say it like that you make me sound like a perv.”

“Maybe cause you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“…”

“…”

“I’m not.”

Charcters: RENGOKU, tengen, connie, NISHINOYA, hinata (yes again), kuroo (YESSS AGAIN), BOKUTO, TENDOU, MAMMON, DENKI (twice and what), kirishima, ITTO, rafayel, LUFFY

The type…yeah you ain’t doing that

Screw everything I just said in the intro. If you genuinely think you can manhandle this man and succeed. You’re crazy.

“Hey, come here, you’ve got something—” The moment your hand nears his face, he seizes your wrist, staring at you as if you’ve just committed a serious offense.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh…I’m trying to like get the little speck of glitter off your face.”

“We don’t own glitter?”

“Dust then?” He shoots you a skeptical glance.

“…sure.”

So that was an absolute fail…

But you’re not ready to throw in the towel just yet. No way! You just need to bide your time until nightfall, when he’s all soft and cuddly. That’s when you’ll make your move.

As the evening unfolds and you’re prepping for bed in the bathroom, you catch sight of him reaching for something in the cupboard above you. This is your moment. The time to pull him in close and—

SMACK

“The hell? What was that for?” He rubs his forehead, clearly taken aback by your sudden move.

Who knew kissing your boyfriend could be this complicated? Somehow, you ended up colliding headfirst into him, and now he’s clearly fed up with you.

“That wasn’t how it was supposed to go…” you say with a shy smile, nervously scratching the back of your head. “You alright?”

You gently move his hand away from his forehead to check for any damage, and to your surprise, he lets you.

Wait a minute… you actually moved his hand, and he’s okay with it? Is this manhandling? I think it’s manhandling. It’s manhandling.

“…I did it.”

“Did what?”

“I touched you!”

“??”

Pls stop confusing this man he’s already tired enough.

Charcters: dimple, akashi, MIDORIMA, aomine, sanemi, KAGEYAMA (yes again), TSUKISHIMA, iwaizumi, TOJI, LUCIFER, bakugou, AIZAWA, sylus, ZORO,

[gluttonousgoddess]

As a simple example, that 8 glasses of water thing was a lie spread by scientists that were partnered with Gatorade. Just drink when you're thirsty.

Diamonds and bacon are in a similar boat. People love them mostly because of advertisements. That's why diamonds cost so much, too! Now, granted, gems are pretty, and bacon tastes good, but the ads did more harm than good.

And cutting calories doesn't work because calories are just how much energy it takes to boil it in water, and your body runs to use whatever nutrients it can when it has a deficit. It's not uncommon for it to eat at your muscles and other soft tissues instead of fat. As ironic as it is for someone like me to say, the best diet for losing weight is a balanced one. Sugar is the main issue, btw, not fat. In fact, fat is healthy for you, gets turned into lipids which can be beneficial for brain health. Now that doesn't mean you should just eat fat, it's all about balance and moderation. Grease is in a similar vein, it's not quite the best for you but a bit here and there won't kill you. And frankly, a bit of a belly is good for humans, it protects the body from bludgeoning and slashing damage. Sure, it'll hurt like hell, but you're more likely to get a punctured innards or have them fall out if you are thin than if you have some fat blocking the way. The main danger is the oily fat that surrounds organs, not the kind that covers your body. External is fine, internal is dangerous.

Then there's the BRAT diet. While it is easier on your digestive system, it can actually make diarrhea WORSE because the food is so soft it leaves acid left over. Same with grapes and meal substitute drinks. Especially meal substitute drinks! Liquid diets in general do this, but these are the worst because you drink enough to fill your stomach, prompting it to generate acid...for something that is pretty much already digested...I think you see the problem.

Everyone knows cold helps with swelling. Problem is, swelling is important for recovery, and putting ice on it actually slows recovery down. You actually want to put warmth on it! You want more blood to the area, because it brings nutrients and cells that fight infections.

As well, everyone knows to use IcyHot, right? Wrong, the chemicals used to make that work, especially the stuff that directly puts it on your body like the rollers, actually damages your skin and can lead to skin cancer!

And then there's Red 40. A synthetic chemical that also gives cancer!

Everyone knows you have to cook meat. Problem is, the smoke and char that can cause leads to cancer too. Not the meat itself, though. And I still don't trust any meat that isn't well done. Way too risky. You do know there can be germs inside the meat, right?

Everyone knows vaping is supposed to be a safe alternative to smoking. Problem is, water vapor in the lungs can easily lead to mold and infections. And the nicotine is so concentrated it's actually worse than cigarettes!

And my personal favorite, everyone knows Pokemon Gen 1 was held together with duct tape and dreams, except the glitches actually occur due to them using things to make other things happen. For example, having the name "Old Man" show up is done by storing your name in the town Pokemon tables. Those get reset when you enter a new route. But the area by the islands are coded to be water tiles within the city in the English versions. Not an issue, just program an encounter table for them...oh, right, since it's an English oversight, there was never an intended table. Really the easy fix would have been to extend the routes to include those edges. But yea, the reality is that the games did so much with what they had that hiccups occur. Same with Gen 2, that's why you can get a Celebi by using Beat Up, same index number. Gen 3 they got enough space to not have to be bleeding edge, so their glitches are from things interacting in ways nobody expected, like Glitzer Popping.

So yea, there's nothing wrong with fact checking "common knowledge", because we learn new things all the time. Common knowledge could easily be lies, or misunderstandings, or assumptions.

[goldfades]

once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

Seven months since you had packed up the life you built and left Cincinnati behind. Seven months of unlearning the habits of loving Joe Burrow, of waking up without him, of forcing yourself to stop expecting a text that never came. Seven months of figuring out who you were outside of being his.

And now, just when you had finally settled into this new version of yourself, life was pulling you back.

Back to Cincinnati. Back to the city that still had pieces of you scattered all over it. Back to him.

It wasn’t about Joe.

You had spent months proving that to yourself, and you weren’t about to start unraveling now. This was about you.

About the job offer that had landed in your inbox three weeks ago, the kind of offer people in sports media fought years for—an on-air analyst role with The Ringer, covering the NFL, sitting at the same table as some of the most respected voices in the industry.

It was the dream. Your dream.

And you weren’t about to say no just because it happened to be in the same city where the ghost of your old life still lingered.

So, for the first time in months, you packed your bags for yourself. Not for a man. Not for a relationship.

For you.

But still, as you stared at your suitcases lined up by the door, heart pounding just a little harder than you wanted to admit, one thought lingered in the back of your mind:

What happens when he sees you again?

--

Joe spent the summer in places that never felt like home.

Hotel rooms, penthouses, beach houses that weren’t his—always someone else’s space, someone else’s idea of a good time. The kind of places that smelled like overpriced perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

And for a while, that was the point.

His teammates told him this was what life was supposed to be like.

“You’re 27, bro. You should be living.” “You’re Joe fucking Burrow. Act like it.” “Man, you wasted all your good years locked down.”

That last one made his stomach twist. Because it didn’t feel wasted.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he let them drag him to Miami, to Vegas, to private clubs where the rules didn’t apply to men like them. He let women press into him, let them murmur in his ear, let them take his hand and lead him places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

To fill the silence. To drown out the memories. To stop thinking about you.

So, he drank.

Not recklessly—never sloppily—but just enough to take the edge off. Enough to let the vodka burn its way through his chest and dull the parts of him that still felt too raw.

He spent the nights doing what everyone told him he should—wrapped up in women he barely knew, letting them touch him, letting them call him baby in a voice that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes, in the blur of it all, he almost let himself believe he was having fun.

But then morning would come. And he’d wake up in a bed that wasn’t his own, sheets tangled, a warm body beside him that felt wrong.

She would still be asleep, breathing slow and even, and Joe would stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing down on his ribs. It was always the same.

He’d lie there, his head still heavy from the night before, and tell himself this was good for him.

This was healthy. He was moving on. He was living. He was making up for lost time.

But then she would shift beside him, mumble something sleepily, and for a split second, he would forget where he was. For a split second, his body would expect you.

His arm would twitch, muscle memory almost pulling him toward you—except it wasn’t you.

It never was. And in that moment, when the reality of it came crashing down, Joe had never felt more hollow.

So he would slip out of bed. Pull on his clothes. Leave before she woke up, before she could reach for him, before she could make him feel even emptier than he already did.

Then, like clockwork, his phone would light up with a text from one of the guys.

Round two tonight? Another night, another city, let’s run it. Burrow, we’re not letting you sit this one out.

And every time, he would hesitate. Every time, he would think about saying no. But then he’d think about what saying no meant.

Silence. Loneliness.

A bed that really felt empty. And worst of all—thoughts of you.

So instead, he would type out the same thing he always did. I’m in.

And just like that, another night would begin. Another night of pretending. Another night of trying to convince himself that this was good for him.

That this was better than thinking about the one person who used to make him feel whole.

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

It was the one time of year where the entire world faded into the background—where it was just the two of them, preparing for battle in the way only they knew how. Training camp, preseason, the long, grueling days where his body ached and his mind buzzed with too much information—none of it ever felt as heavy when you were there.

Because you had made it easier. You always knew what he needed before he even had to ask.

You knew how to blend his smoothies just right—protein-packed but never too thick, not too sweet, not too chalky, just enough banana to hide the bitterness of the greens he hated but needed. You knew how many calories he needed to maintain weight, which meals gave him the best energy, when he needed something light and when he needed something hearty. You knew when he was too sore to get off the couch, and you’d already have an ice pack in one hand and a heating pad in the other.

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

Preseason was hell. Not just because of the training, not just because every muscle in his body burned by the time he got home, not just because he was still trying to prove he was fully back from the injury—but because this was the first time he was doing it without you.

For the past seven years, the start of the season had always meant you.

It meant waking up to you shaking him gently, telling him his morning shake was ready, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before he even opened his eyes. It meant coming home to meals that were already planned, already balanced, already exactly what his body needed to recover. It meant you running through the nutrition plan with him, tweaking it when necessary, doing the math so he didn’t have to think about it.

It meant structure. It meant routine. It meant you making sure he was okay, even when he was too stubborn to admit when he wasn’t.

Now, none of it was there. And he felt it more than ever.

--

The moment he walked into his house after practice, exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. His body was done—his legs sore, his back aching, his head pounding. All he wanted was to throw his bag down, take a shower, eat, and crash.

But instead, he just stood there. Because for the first time, he realized how much there was to do.

You weren’t there to remind him to drink his recovery shake. You weren’t there to make sure the fridge was stocked with what he needed. You weren’t there to have a meal ready so he didn’t have to think about it.

And fuck, he had never thought about it. Not once. Because you had always done it.

Joe sighed, rolling his shoulders, heading into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open with an empty, lifeless hum, and his stomach sank at the sight.

Nothing was prepped.

There were random ingredients, sure. Leftover takeout. Some eggs, maybe. A couple of protein bars shoved in the back. But nothing was ready. Nothing was measured, planned, easy.

And that’s when it really hit him.

You weren’t just gone. You had been holding his life together.

He shut the fridge, pressing his hands against the counter, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt too full and too empty at the same time.

For years, he had been able to come home, sit down, and just be.

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

Now, he had to think about what to eat, had to plan it, had to cook it. He had to wash the dishes after instead of finding them already cleaned. He had to remind himself to stretch properly, to ice his ankle, to foam roll before bed.

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

Because you had done it all. Because you had loved him enough to do it all. And he—

Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head like that could make the thoughts disappear. Like it could make the guilt settle.

But it didn’t. It never did.

So he grabbed a protein bar, ate it standing up, and stared at the empty kitchen like it was mocking him. Like it was reminding him of everything he lost.

--

The morning you left Columbus, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the kind of lingering summer heat that stuck to your skin. It felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself knew this wasn’t an easy goodbye.

Your best friend stood by the trunk of your car, arms crossed, shifting her weight like she was trying not to say something sentimental that would make you both cry.

"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

No. Not even a little.

But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. You were sure—about the job, about the opportunity, about the fact that moving back to Cincinnati was the next step for you.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified.

Because Cincinnati wasn’t just another city. It wasn’t just a place on the map.

It was his city.

It was where you had built a life with Joe, where every street held memories, where every turn would remind you of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You took a deep breath, reaching down to scratch behind Larry’s ears as she sat in her carrier, blinking up at you with wide, judgmental eyes. “Guess it’s just us now, huh?”

Your best friend let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, if she could talk, she’d probably tell you this is a terrible idea.”

“She doesn’t need to talk. She’s been staring at me like I ruined her life since I put her in there.”

“Because you did ruin her life. She was thriving here.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching to peer into the crate. “I get it, Larry. You’re a city girl now. But you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her tail. You took that as reluctant acceptance.

Your best friend leaned in, her voice dropping. “For real, though. If it gets to be too much—if you get there and you feel like you can’t do it, like it’s swallowing you whole—you call me.”

You looked at her, something tight forming in your throat.

You had spent the last seven months healing in this apartment, in this city, with her. She had seen the worst of you—the nights you couldn’t sleep, the mornings you barely got out of bed, the moments when you swore you would never go back to Cincinnati, to that life, to the person you used to be.

But here you were.

And you weren’t sure if you were proving yourself right or setting yourself up to fail.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled, reaching forward to wrap you in a tight hug. “Go be great.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, held on a little longer than necessary, and then let go.

It was time.

--

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

Larry had settled into the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded in irritation but otherwise calm, curled up on the blanket you had thrown there. The GPS said you had just over an hour to go, and the closer you got, the more your heart pounded.

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

You were going back to Cincinnati, to a city that used to feel like home, but no longer did.

Going back to the restaurants you used to love, the streets you used to walk, the stadium that still felt like an extension of Joe himself.

Going back to a version of yourself you had spent seven months trying to bury.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

Maybe you should turn around. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe you had done all this work just to unravel the second you saw him again—because you would see him again. That was inevitable.

You sucked in a breath, reaching for your phone, scrolling through your playlists with one hand until your thumb hovered over a title that made you pause.

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play.

The first beat kicked in, and the song filled the car, the steady rhythm drowning out the anxious thoughts spiraling in your head.

“I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

You huffed out something that was half a laugh, half a scoff.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers against the wheel as the song pulsed through the speakers.

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

So you sang along, let the music wash over you, let the lyrics be a reminder that you had already survived the worst part.

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

It was the kind of week where you moved on autopilot, where you unpacked boxes without really thinking about it, where you got up early, dressed professionally, walked into work like you belonged there—even when people looked at you like you were some kind of open secret.

You knew what they were thinking.

Knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear.

That’s Joe Burrow’s ex. Didn’t she used to be at every Bengals event? Wonder if she got the job because of him…

You ignored it.

You ignored the careful glances, the way some of your co-workers hesitated before talking to you, like they weren’t sure whether to bring him up or pretend they didn’t know anything.

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

So you held your head high, settled into the studio, studied film, took notes, prepared for your first on-air segment like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into your work, into the statistics, into the plays, into the debates about teams and formations and Super Bowl contenders.

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

And that was when the silence hit you like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t Columbus, where your best friend was always there to fill the quiet. Where you could crash on the couch and vent about your day. Where you could talk about Joe without every conversation feeling like a weight pressing down on your chest.

This was alone.

For the first time since the breakup, you were truly alone.

And God, it was loud.

The absence of Joe wasn’t just in the city itself—it was in the routine, in the things you used to do without even realizing they were because of him.

Like how you still woke up too early, your body trained to match his schedule, expecting to hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, making coffee before heading to the facility.

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

Like how you caught yourself walking toward the fridge with the muscle memory of preparing his post-practice meal—only to stop halfway when you remembered he wasn’t coming home.

Like how you reached for your phone when the Bengals played their first preseason game, fingers hovering over Joe’s contact, because for years, your first instinct was to text him after every game.

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

You were missing the you that existed when you were with him.

The version of yourself that felt certain—who knew her place in the world, who belonged somewhere, who mattered to someone.

You had spent months finding yourself again, carving out your own identity, telling yourself that you didn’t need him to be whole.

But now, back in Cincinnati, back in the place where he existed so loudly—

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

So you curled up on the couch, pulling Larry onto your lap, listening to the faint echoes of the city outside your window, and let the loneliness settle in.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

--

The first game of the season was electric.

The stadium roared with life, packed with thousands of fans wearing his jersey, screaming his name, riding the high of the first Sunday of football like it was a holiday. The air was thick with anticipation, the adrenaline thrumming in his veins like a drug, the kind of high that made everything else fade into the background.

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

Where every snap, every pass, every perfectly executed play made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he could silence the doubts, the guilt, the quiet gnawing ache that had followed him around since the summer.

By the time the final whistle blew, and the Bengals secured their first win of the season, he was buzzing.

His teammates clapped him on the back, Ja’Marr pulling him in with a grin, shouting something in his ear that was lost in the deafening noise of the stadium.

Joe was smiling. Laughing. Letting the moment consume him, letting it drown out everything else.

And then, out of instinct—out of years of routine—he turned to the stands.

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

After every win, his eyes found you first. No matter how crazy the stadium was, no matter how many cameras were flashing, no matter how loud the world got—he always, always found you.

You, standing there in the family section, wearing his jersey, waiting for him with that soft, knowing smile. You, with your hands cupped around your mouth, cheering louder than anyone else. You, who had been there since before all of this, since before the world knew his name, since before he was anything more than a college quarterback with big dreams.

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

The stands blurred, the celebration around him suddenly too loud, too suffocating.

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

And still, somehow, some way, he had forgotten.

For the first time in seven months, he had let himself exist in a space where you were still his. Where you were still waiting for him, still there at the end of it all, still his person.

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

And in your place, in the section where you used to stand, where you used to belong—

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

She was standing there, blonde hair perfect, wearing a Bengals hoodie that was probably brand new, clapping politely as she smiled down at him.

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

Because Katie wasn’t bad. She wasn’t anything, really. Just another part of the life he had built in your absence. Something easy, something light, something that should have made him feel better but didn’t.

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

She didn’t know what to say to him after a loss. Didn’t know how he liked his breakfast in the mornings. Didn’t know the exact way he liked his shoulder massaged when the soreness became unbearable.

Didn’t know him like you did.

And for the first time since convincing himself this was what moving on looked like, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

The celebration around him felt like static, like background noise in a life he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.

Because winning used to mean everything.

But tonight, standing in the middle of the field, looking up at the stands and seeing her instead of you—

He had never felt more hollow.

--

For the first couple of months back in Cincinnati, you told yourself you were thriving.

You said it like a mantra, like if you repeated it enough times, it would become real. You made new friends—real friends, not people who only saw you as Joe Burrow’s ex, not WAGs who looked at you with thinly veiled pity, not reporters who were too polite to ask what really happened.

They were normal. Kind. Fun. The kind of girls who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, who invited you to wine nights and didn’t bring up Joe once. With them, you could pretend that Cincinnati wasn’t laced with ghosts of your old life. You could breathe.

You picked up new hobbies.

You took a pilates class, went to farmer’s markets on Sundays, tried baking even though you burned half the things you made. You started running again—not because Joe had told you once that he liked how focused you looked when you ran, but because you liked the way it made you feel.

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

You threw yourself into your job, memorized rosters, studied plays, made sure you knew everything about the game so that when you sat in that studio, behind that microphone, no one could say you got this job because of him.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, you really did feel like you were thriving.

But then, one afternoon, it all came crashing down.

—

It was a normal day at work. Normal segment. Normal conversation.

Until it wasn’t.

You were on air, talking through some Week 4 analysis, debating quarterback performances with your co-host, when he said it.

Casual. Offhand. Like it wasn’t about to shatter you completely.

"Well, I guess we can trust your take on Joe Burrow—you did have a front-row seat for a long time."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Your stomach clenched, a prickle of heat rising at the back of your neck.

You forced a laugh. A quick, easy, I'm completely unbothered laugh.

"Guess so," you said, brushing it off, moving on like it was nothing.

But inside, you were shaking.

Your hands under the desk. Your breath. Your entire body.

You spent the rest of the segment in autopilot, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to focus on the words, on the script, on anything but the feeling of your past creeping into a space that was supposed to be yours.

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

You barely made it to your car before it hit you.

The unraveling.

You collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached, and then—

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was months of holding it together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending you had rebuilt yourself from the ground up—only to realize you had been balancing on a fault line the entire time.

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

You had spent so long trying to reclaim Cincinnati, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just a remnant of Joe Burrow’s life—that you could exist here, in this city, in this job, as your own person.

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

And right now, in this moment, you weren’t sure if you were anything without him.

Because Joe was the only person who had ever truly known you.

He knew the way your nose scrunched when you concentrated, the way you got irrationally angry when you lost at board games, the way you never finished a drink, always leaving the last sip untouched.

He knew your moods before you did.

He knew how you got quiet when you were sad, how you hated crying in front of people, how you avoided confrontation until you couldn’t anymore—until it bubbled over in sharp words and slammed doors.

He knew things about you that you didn’t even know about yourself.

Like how you sometimes clenched your jaw in your sleep when you were anxious. Like how you had a habit of counting your steps when you walked, not even realizing it.

Like how, right now, you would be breaking down in your car, gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely and utterly lost—and the only person who could make it better was him.

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

--

December used to be your favorite month.

The lights, the music, the warmth of it all. The way the whole world seemed to slow down, wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft hum of Christmas songs playing in the background.

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

His birthday, tucked right in the start of the holiday season, had always been something sacred to you. It was your thing—the one time of year where you could spoil him without him complaining, where you could go all out, where you could make sure he felt as loved as he made you feel every other day of the year.

You had never held back.

You would spend months planning—picking out the perfect gifts, arranging surprise dinners, making sure every little detail was right. One year, you got him that limited-edition Rolex he had been eyeing but never pulled the trigger on. Another year, you rented out a private cabin in the mountains for just the two of you, knowing he needed to escape the chaos of football for a few days.

Last year—God, last year—you had thrown him a surprise party with all of his friends and family. He had kissed you at the end of the night, hands cupping your face, murmuring against your lips, How do you always know exactly what I want?

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

You put up the tree in your apartment, even though it was smaller than the one you used to decorate with him. You bought yourself Christmas candles, filled your space with the smell of cinnamon and pine, played holiday music when you cooked.

But it all felt wrong.

Because December had always been his month, too. It wasn’t just the holiday season—it was the anniversary of the last time you had ever been his.

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

It had been cold, the city wrapped in the kind of sharp, biting winter that made everything feel harsher. And in a way, it had been fitting—because that night, when Joe had walked out, when the door had shut behind him, the warmth had left your life, too.

And now, a full year later, it was still gone.

His birthday came and went. You didn’t text him. Didn’t even let yourself think about what he might be doing, whether he was happy, whether he even thought about you at all.

But your body knew.

You woke up that morning feeling it like a weight in your chest, like something pressing down on your ribs. You didn’t check your phone, didn’t open Instagram, didn’t give yourself the chance to see what the world was saying about him.

Because it wasn’t your place anymore. Because you weren’t the person celebrating with him.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times you told yourself that you were okay, December would always be the cruelest reminder that you weren’t.

That you had once been his world. And now, you were nothing.

You spent Christmas with your best friend, and it should have been nice. It was nice. Warm. Cozy. The kind of Christmas you had always loved.

But it wasn’t his family.

It wasn’t his mom, who had always pulled you into a hug the second you walked through the door. It wasn’t his dad, who would slip you a knowing smile when Joe snuck a hand around your waist at dinner. It wasn’t his brothers, teasing you like you were already part of the family.

And it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Joe, pulling you against him on the couch, wrapping you in one of his hoodies, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. It wasn’t his voice murmuring, Merry Christmas, baby, in the quiet, sleepy warmth of the morning.

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

So, you smiled. You opened presents. You drank hot chocolate and laughed at dumb Christmas movies and let yourself pretend that this was enough.

But when you got home that night, alone in your apartment, staring at your Christmas tree that suddenly felt too big, you let the truth sink in.

December without him was unbearable. And you weren’t sure if it would ever get easier.

--

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

The past year had been a cycle—of loss, of healing, of learning how to be you again. But tonight? Tonight, you felt like you had finally gotten there.

You had put effort into your outfit, just because you wanted to. You weren’t dressing for anyone but yourself, weren’t trying to impress Joe or prove something to anyone. You had slipped into a sleek, fitted black dress, let your new friends style your hair in soft waves, even wore that deep red lipstick that had always made you feel untouchable.

And when you stepped out of your car in front of the restaurant, that new Chanel bag resting effortlessly on your shoulder, you felt good.

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

Or at least, the version of you that wasn’t still haunted by him.

--

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing you—it was how he saw you. It was the way you walked into the restaurant, laughing at something one of your coworkers had said, your smile easy, effortless, real. It was the way you carried yourself, exuding that same quiet confidence that had once made him fall for you in the first place.

And God, you looked good. Not just good. Stunning.

Like you had stepped right out of a dream, wearing that black dress like it had been made for you, your hair falling in perfect waves, that red lipstick making his mouth go dry.

For a second, Joe forgot how to breathe. Because this was the first time he had seen you in a year. And somehow, you looked okay.

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

Because the last time he had seen you—really seen you—you had been crying. You had been begging him to fight for you, to stay, to want you enough to make it work. And now, a year later, you weren’t the woman who had walked away from him, heartbroken and lost.

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

Your coworkers were leading the way to your table, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your heart light in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. You were okay. You were doing this. You were thriving.

Until your stomach dropped. Because suddenly, you felt it.

That indescribable feeling—the one that came when someone was watching you. And when you turned your head, your breath caught in your throat.

Because he was there.

Joe.

Sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, not alone. You blinked. Your heart lurched. Your ears started ringing. He had a girlfriend.

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from some blonde—long hair, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

Not when you were still here. Not when you had spent the past year rebuilding yourself just to survive the loss of him. And now, in a single second, everything inside you cracked.

You felt sick.

Not because you wanted him back. But because, for the first time, you were faced with the reality that he had built a life that no longer included you.

That the man you had once known better than anyone—the man you had loved with everything you had—was now sitting across from another woman.

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

Watched the way your face fell, your eyes widening slightly, your body stiffening like you had just been punched in the stomach. And suddenly, he hated himself.

Because you looked like you—strong, composed, pulled together—but in that brief second, he saw it. That crack in the armor. That hurt.

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t moved on.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Yeah, Katie was nice. Yeah, she looked good on his arm. But she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he needed after a bad game, didn’t know the songs that made him think of home, didn’t know that he couldn’t sleep with the TV on because the noise made his brain race.

She wasn’t you.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that this was right—that you were the past, that this was his future—he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Because seeing you here, standing across the room, looking like this, feeling like this, made him realize something.

He didn’t want this life without you. And for the first time in a year, Joe felt something worse than heartbreak.

He felt regret. And Joe could feel Katie watching him.

She had been talking—something about how the steak wasn’t as good as the place she went to in LA—but he hadn’t heard a word. His eyes were locked on you.

On the way your body tensed, on the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face before you smoothed it over like it was nothing. On the way your fingers twitched at your side like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Like you wanted to run. And fuck, he hated that.

Hated that he was the reason you looked like that. Hated that even after a year, he could still hurt you just by existing. Then he felt it.

Katie’s hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep, nails digging in slightly as she pressed herself closer. She knew.

Of course she knew.

He hadn’t talked about you much—at least, not in detail—but she wasn’t stupid. She knew you had been important. That you had been in his life for longer than most people had even known his name.

And now, here you were. The ghost she had probably been waiting to meet.

"Joe," she said, sweet but pointed, her voice breaking through his haze. "You okay?"

Her fingers squeezed his arm. He barely resisted the urge to shake her off. He was so close to losing it.

He could feel his patience hanging on by a thread, could feel the way his body was coiled tight, his chest aching with something he didn’t want to feel.

Because it was his late birthday dinner. His friends were here. He was supposed to be happy. But all he could think about was you. And how you were standing there, looking like that, looking like everything he had ever wanted and everything he had already lost.

He pulled his arm from Katie’s grip as casually as he could, pretending to adjust his watch.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because every second that passed, the more wrong this felt. The more suffocating the entire situation became.

The dinner had already been irritating—his friends were drunk, the restaurant was too loud, and Katie had spent half the night making passive comments about how he never posted her, about how she just wanted to feel special.

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

The sounds of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the faint hum of music in the background—blurred into nothing, white noise against the sharp, singular reality of you.

Standing there. Looking like that. And worse—looking like you didn’t need him anymore.

That realization settled deep, lodged somewhere between his ribs, pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.

His fingers twitched in his lap. His knee bounced once before he forced it to stop. He was trying, really fucking trying, to play it cool, to keep his face neutral, to ignore the way his body had tensed the second he saw you walk in.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this—unexpectedly, in a crowded restaurant, after a year of living separate lives. He had told himself that when it happened, it wouldn’t matter. That by the time he saw you again, he’d be fine. That whatever you two had been, whatever had been left unsaid, whatever this was, it wouldn’t affect him anymore.

But he had been wrong.

Because seeing you now—standing there in that black dress, your hair falling over your shoulders in that soft, effortless way he used to push his fingers through when you were tired, your lips painted that deep shade of red that had always driven him insane—he felt like his entire body was betraying him.

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

Because for a split second, before his brain caught up, before reality sunk its teeth into him, he had expected you to walk toward him.

Like you always had. Like you were supposed to. Like this was still your moment, your ritual, your life together.

And then, just as quickly, he saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, the way your lips parted just barely before pressing into a tight line.

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

Because he had spent years learning you, memorizing you, knowing every single tell, every little habit, every reaction before you even knew you were having one.

And that? That fucked him up the most. Because it meant this hurt you, too.

It meant you weren’t indifferent. It meant that even after a full year, he still affected you. And that should have made him feel better.

But it didn’t.

Because the way you had reacted wasn’t the way you used to. There was no fond exasperation, no teasing smirk, no warmth in your expression.

It was shock. Discomfort.

Like you didn’t want to be here. Like he was the thing making you feel sick.

And the worst part? He knew he had no right to be hurt by that. Because he had done this. He was the one who had walked away first. He was the one who had let you go.

And yet, even knowing that, even with the weight of that truth pressing down on him, he still felt something ugly coil in his chest at the thought of you not caring at all.

At the thought of you moving on without him, just as much as he had tried—and failed—to move on without you. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, and then—Katie.

Katie, who was still gripping his arm, nails pressing into his sleeve like a silent claim, like she knew. Like she could feel the shift in his body, the way all of his attention, all of his focus, had zeroed in on you.

And then, as if to confirm it, she pulled herself closer, her chin tilting up, her lips curling into something sweet but firm.

"Joe," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the restaurant, "you’re all tense. Relax, baby."

Joe clenched his jaw. Because now? Now, it wasn’t just about you being here. Now, it was about this.

About the fact that he had spent the last year convincing himself that this—Katie, this relationship, this new life—was what he needed. That this was how he moved forward. That this was the best thing for him.

But the second you walked into the room, it had all come crashing down.

And when Katie pressed even closer, her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers curling into his, something in him snapped. Not visibly. Not obviously.

But he felt it.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even the first time since the breakup, he wanted out.

Out of this night. Out of this restaurant. Out of this version of his life where you weren’t in it.

But his friends were here. His teammates. People were watching. So instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, casually slipping his fingers from Katie’s grip under the guise of adjusting his watch.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because when he glanced up again, when his eyes found you across the restaurant, he saw the moment you turned to your coworkers and muttered something under your breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Saw the way you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself, before turning on your heel and walking toward your table like he wasn’t even there.

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

--

You had spent a year healing.

A year rebuilding yourself, re-learning how to exist outside of him, re-training your mind to stop associating every little thing with Joe Burrow. A year convincing yourself that you were okay, that you were better, that you had made it through the worst of it.

And then, in a single moment, it all shattered.

Because he was here. Not just here—here with her.

You felt it before you even saw him. That undeniable shift in the air, the creeping sensation of familiarity that made your breath catch in your throat. And then, when your eyes finally landed on him—on Joe—it felt like something inside you cracked open, raw and bleeding.

Because he wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. And it wasn’t just that. It was how he looked.

Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the past year hadn’t touched him the way it had ruined you. Like he had moved on so seamlessly, so effortlessly, while you had spent sleepless nights trying to pick up the pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

Not the kind of happiness you had memorized—the quiet, real, content kind that came when he let himself breathe around you. Not the kind of happiness that was soft and easy, that came from forehead kisses in the morning and whispered inside jokes.

No, this was performative.

This was the kind of happiness you pretended to have when you were trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.

And yet, even knowing that, even recognizing that this wasn’t real, it still hit you like a knife between the ribs. Because while you had spent the last year trying to be better, trying to move forward, Joe had spent it trying to erase you.

Like you never existed. Like the seven years you had spent together were just some forgettable chapter in his life, one he could close and move on from without looking back.

And that? That was unbearable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your palms damp as you curled your fingers into fists under the table. You felt like you were spiraling, like you were seconds away from breaking right here, in the middle of this crowded restaurant, in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.

You refused. You had spent too long putting yourself back together just to fall apart now. So you inhaled sharply, forcing a small, tight smile as you pushed your chair back.

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

You nodded, already reaching for your bag, voice light, too casual. “Yeah, I just—ugh, I think something I ate earlier isn’t sitting right. I’m gonna head out.”

They nodded, accepting the excuse easily, offering quick well wishes as you grabbed your things and turned for the door. And you didn’t look back.

Not once. Not even when you felt the weight of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when every single step felt like it was dragging you further away from the life you had once lived with him.

Not even when, for the first time in a long time, you realized that no matter how much you had tried to heal, there were some wounds that time just couldn’t fix.

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

It happened fast. One second, you were there, and the next, you were gone, slipping through the restaurant like you couldn’t get out fast enough. And fuck—fuck, he hated that.

Hated that you looked right at him and then turned away. Hated that you had left, just like that, without even acknowledging him.

Like he was nothing. Like he had never existed in your life, either.

It made his hands twitch, made his jaw tighten, made his stomach coil with something sharp and awful and unbearable.

It made him move.

He barely heard Katie calling his name. Barely registered the way his friends were still laughing, still drinking, still living in a reality where everything was normal.

Because nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal since you had walked out of his life. And for the first time in a year, Joe didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push it down. Didn’t try to convince himself that he was fine. Instead, he stood up, threw some cash on the table, and went after you.

Joe pushed through the restaurant doors just in time to see your taillights disappear into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

And it felt like he was right back there again—standing in the middle of your living room, hands shaking, heart in his throat, watching as you begged him to just say something. Just fight for you. Just be the man you needed him to be.

But he hadn’t. He had let you go. And now, a year later, he had done it all over again.

His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight, his pulse was hammering so loud in his ears that he barely heard Katie calling his name behind him.

But then she touched him—her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice dripping with confusion and irritation.

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

He ripped his arm away so fast that she stumbled back a step.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice was rough, raw, his body vibrating with something he couldn’t contain anymore.

Katie scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I am serious. You just humiliated me in there! You followed your ex-girlfriend out of a restaurant when I was right there—on your birthday dinner, Joe."

She said it like it mattered. Like any of this fucking mattered. Like this wasn’t the single worst night of his life. Like he cared.

Joe let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face, feeling like he could burst out of his own skin.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," he muttered. "You knew. You always fucking knew."

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

"That this—us—was nothing." His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His hands were shaking, his chest felt too fucking tight, and suddenly, everything came out. "You knew I was never over her. You knew you were never—never fucking her."

Katie flinched like he had slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.

Because he never said it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged the fact that he had spent the past year trying to force himself to be okay, to be normal, to be the guy who could move on.

But it had always been bullshit. It had always been a lie. Because he had been living in a fucking delusion thinking that he could be with someone who wasn’t you.

And now? Now, he was standing outside a restaurant, watching the only woman he had ever truly loved drive away from him again, and he felt like he was being ripped in half.

Katie’s eyes were burning. She was angry, but worse—she looked humiliated.

"You are such a fucking asshole," she spat. "You let me think—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Joe."

He barely reacted. Because nothing she said, nothing she could say, would make him feel worse than he already did.

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

"You need to go," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the Uber app with shaking fingers, ordered her a ride, and barely looked at her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away.

She scoffed. "Seriously? You’re not even gonna drive me home?"

Joe clenched his jaw, staring down at the pavement. "I can’t."

And that was the truth. Because if he got in his car right now, he knew where he was going.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember putting the car in gear, didn’t remember making the turns, didn’t remember how his foot even got on the gas.

One second, he was standing in the cold outside the restaurant, and the next—

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

The one he only knew about because of some casual conversation in the locker room, when one of his teammates had mentioned running into you near downtown.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t thought about coming here. But his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his breath was uneven, and he was here.

His knuckles were white. His mind was blank. His heart was breaking all over again.

And for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow didn’t know what the fuck to do.

--

Joe stood outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he understood.

All of it.

The songs, the poems, the movies that had once felt dramatic, exaggerated, over the top. The grand gestures, the desperate pleas, the kind of heartbreak that knocked a man to his knees.

Because this—this—was the lowest he had ever been.

Worse than losing a game. Worse than getting injured. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. Because he had lost you. And he couldn't live like this anymore.

Couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that he had moved on, that he didn’t miss you every single second of every single day. Because the truth was, he did.

He missed everything.

Missed the way your voice sounded in the morning, still laced with sleep, soft and warm and home. Missed the smell of your shampoo when you curled against his chest. Missed your laugh, your stupid little quirks, the way you always knew exactly what he needed before he even said a word.

He missed loving you. And he missed being loved by you.

Because no one—not Katie, not any of the women who had tried to take your place, not a single person in the past year—had ever come close to what you were to him.

And maybe it had taken him too long to realize it. Maybe he had been too fucking stupid, too proud, too scared to fight for you when he should have.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

So before he could talk himself out of it, before the fear could win, before he could convince himself that he had already ruined everything beyond repair—

He knocked.

The sound echoed in the quiet of the night, and for a second, all he could hear was the deafening thud of his own heartbeat.

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

Standing in front of him, still in that black dress, your hair a little messier now, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had spent the last hour doing exactly what he had been doing—falling apart.

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

And before you could say anything, before you could slam the door in his face, before you could tell him to leave—

He broke.

“I—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It all came out—rushed, jumbled, messy, barely coherent, but real.

“I can’t—fuck, I don’t even know where to start. I—I don’t know how to make this right, I don’t even know if I can, but I have to try because I can’t—” His breath hitched, his hands shaking at his sides, tears burning his eyes as he forced the words out. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep waking up without you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been since the second you walked away.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

But Joe couldn’t stop. Because if he did, if he gave himself a second to think, he might break down completely.

So he just kept going.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he choked out. “I—I should have fought for you. I should have been the man you needed. I should have—fuck—I should have never let you think for a second that you weren’t the most important thing in my life. Because you were. You still are.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t even try to stop it.

“I miss you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I miss you so much that I don’t know how to—how to breathe without you. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His throat was closing up, his chest heaving, his heart fucking shattering, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to show you how sorry he was.

But he couldn��t.

Not yet. Because this was your decision now. So he just stood there, completely open, completely raw, completely yours, and waited.

Waited for you to slam the door in his face. Waited for you to tell him that he was too late. Waited for you to break his heart all over again.

But there it was again—that ache.

That deep, unbearable, all-consuming ache that only Joe Burrow had ever been able to pull from you. That had always been the problem, hadn’t it? That no matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you had tried to move on, he was still Joe.

He was still your Joe.

And now, he was standing in front of you, breaking apart at the seams, giving you everything he should have given you a year ago. His eyes were glassy, his breath uneven, his entire body taut like he was waiting for you to destroy him.

And you could have.

You could have slammed the door in his face. You could have walked away, left him out in the cold, given him a taste of his own medicine.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you had never stopped loving him.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before your mind could catch up with your heart, you stepped forward and pulled him in.

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

A sharp breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face into your hair, his body sinking against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for so long—like he had been starving for this.

His arms circled you, strong and desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go, like he needed to hold onto you to keep himself standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracked and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as your tears finally spilled over.

Because fuck.

This was the first time in a year that you had felt this. The warmth. The safety. The rightness of being in his arms.

You hated how good it still felt. How much you still wanted it.

Joe tightened his grip, his arms pressing you closer, his body trembling slightly as he mumbled more apologies, more I should have fought for you, I should have never let you go, I should have never—

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

And for the first time in a year, you really looked at him.

His face was different. A little more tired, a little more worn, his jaw sharper, his cheekbones more defined, but his eyes—his eyes—were still the same. Still that impossible shade of blue, still holding that same intensity, that same Joe-ness that had always made you weak.

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

All the months of heartbreak, all the lonely nights, all the pain—it all blurred for just a moment. Because the only thing that mattered was him.

And then, you let him inside.

Joe looked around, taking in your apartment, the newness of it, the little things that weren’t his, that weren’t yours and his.

And then, finally, you both sat on the couch.

There was no space between you—his thigh pressed against yours, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to speak.

Because if he was here, if he was really going to do this, he needed to hear everything. He needed to understand what he had done.

So you told him. You told him everything.

“You broke me, Joe.” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “You really, really broke me.”

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

“I spent months—months—trying to figure out what I did wrong,” you continued, your throat tightening. “Trying to understand why I wasn’t enough for you. Why you couldn’t just try. Why you let me walk away when I was begging you to fight for me.”

Joe’s head dropped into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was uneven, like he was barely holding it together.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheek. “I had to learn how to exist without you. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Joe let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your hands gripping your knees. “Because while I was trying to survive losing you, you were out there—” You hesitated, shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. “You were living. You were drinking, partying, fucking around with people who weren’t me. You had a girlfriend.”

Joe flinched, his jaw tightening. “She was nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

You blinked, breathing through the sharp ache in your chest. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I haven’t thought about this moment a million times,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I have. But if you think I’m just gonna let you back in, like none of it ever happened, you’re wrong.”

Joe sat up, nodding, his hands clasped together tightly. “I don’t expect that,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t expect anything. But I—” He let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched.

Joe turned to face you fully, his knee bumping yours, his expression desperate and real and so fucking raw.

“I never stopped, not for a second,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I could live without you. I thought I could move on, that I could distract myself, that I could convince myself that I made the right choice. But I didn’t.” His hands curled into fists. “I ruined the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

Your chest felt like it was being squeezed, your body so tired of carrying all this pain.

Joe swallowed hard. “I will do anything to make this right. Anything.” His eyes were pleading now, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “But you have to tell me how.”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, your fingers twisting in your lap. And then, finally, you said it.

“You have to try.”

Joe nodded instantly, like there was no hesitation, no doubt, no fear left in him. “I will.”

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m not just gonna let you back in.” You met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside you. “I need you to prove that you mean it. That this isn’t just guilt, or nostalgia, or regret.”

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Joe. I’m not gonna be your safety net. I’m not just something you can come back to because you’re lonely. I need you to prove that this time, you’re not gonna leave when things get hard.”

Joe shifted forward, his voice so sure, so certain.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in a year, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to fight for.

The next few weeks felt new.

Not in the way falling in love for the first time does—full of naive excitement, full of the rush of this is forever without ever questioning what forever actually means.

This was different.

This was love with edges, love with history, love that had been broken down to its very foundation and rebuilt with hands that knew how fragile it was.

You and Joe didn’t fall back into old habits, didn’t slip into the comfort of what once was. Because what you had before hadn’t worked, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

You weren’t together every second of every day. You weren’t just Joe’s girlfriend anymore. And maybe that was exactly what you had needed all along.

Joe never stopped trying.

He took you on real dates again, ones that weren’t just convenient dinners after practice, but ones he planned—a private table at your favorite restaurant, a weekend getaway, tickets to that concert you had mentioned in passing months ago.

He brought you presents—not extravagant, expensive gifts, but things that showed he listened to you. The signed first edition of that book you’d been searching for, the rare vintage jersey you casually mentioned once, the perfume you used to wear back in college but stopped because you thought it was discontinued.

He gave you space when you needed it. And when you talked, he listened.

Really listened.

And that gave you hope. Because this? This was the old Joe.

The one who had loved you before the fame, before the pressure, before the weight of the world had sat heavy on his shoulders. The one who had once promised you the world and had meant every word.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, he would keep that promise.

And Joe had never been happier.

He hadn’t realized what he had until he lost it. Until he spent a year trying to pretend like life without you was still life at all. And now that he had you back, he would never, ever lose you again.

So he did what he should have done the first time.

He showed up for you. For everything.

For your job, which he saw now wasn’t just something you did, but something you loved, something you were good at. He watched every segment, sent you texts after each one, grinned when you debated your co-hosts on-air like you were born for this.

For your hobbies, the ones you had picked up when he wasn’t around—reading late at night, running at sunrise, perfecting your French braiding skills just because you could. He watched you bloom into a version of yourself he hadn’t seen in years.

And he realized—this was you.

The you that had existed before the NFL, before the noise, before the expectations. And fuck, he had missed you.

Not the girlfriend who had once made his life so seamless, so easy, so comfortable.

But you.

The woman who never let anyone take her for granted. The woman who had built a life outside of him. The woman who had once loved him enough to let him go when she realized he wasn’t ready to love her the way she deserved.

Joe had spent years thinking he wanted someone who fit perfectly into his life. But the truth was, he didn’t want a trophy wife.

And you had never wanted to be one.

He wanted this. You, with your own ambitions, your own life, your own dreams.

And now, he had you back. Not because you needed him.

But because you had chosen him.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worth that choice.

--

Three months had passed, and somehow, this felt normal again.

Not in the way it once had—not in the suffocating, all-consuming way where your life revolved around Joe and his schedule.

This was better.

This was right.

And tonight, for the first time in over a year, you were his date to an NFL event. The NFL Honors, to be exact. The kind of night that used to feel like pressure, like you had to be perfect, like you were a reflection of him rather than your own person.

But not this time.

This time, it was just a date. A night out. A moment to celebrate him and everything he had fought to reclaim this season.

You would have been excited, had it not been for the fact that you were currently doing your makeup in a moving vehicle.

“You’re gonna stab yourself in the eye with that thing,” Joe mused, eyes flicking to you in the passenger seat as you struggled to apply mascara.

“I wouldn’t have to if someone had given me more time to get ready,” you muttered, carefully swiping the wand through your lashes.

Joe scoffed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Are you kidding me? You literally had hours. I was ready thirty minutes before I even came to get you.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back for another coat. “Yeah, well, some of us have more to do than just put on a suit and fix our precious curls.”

Joe smirked, barely holding back a laugh. “You love my curls.”

You ignored him, reaching for your lip liner, only to fumble and drop it between your seat and the center console.

“Fuck,” you hissed, shifting to try and reach it.

Joe took the opportunity immediately. “Damn, you that excited for tonight?”

You groaned, pressing your head back against the seat in defeat. “Joe, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he mused, one hand on the wheel, the other casually adjusting his watch, looking way too pleased with himself. “All dressed up, sitting next to me, getting flustered… You sure it’s the event you’re excited for?”

You turned to glare at him, your face already burning, and the second he saw it—that blush—he grinned.

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Joe reached over and gave your thigh a small squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel, still grinning. “Yeah, but you love it.”

And the worst part?

You did.

You knew he was going to win before they even announced it.

There had been a lot of speculation, sure, but there was no doubt in your mind.

No one had fought harder than Joe. No one had come back from a worse season to prove himself the way he had.

So when they called his name—Joe Burrow, Comeback Player of the Year—you barely heard the crowd over the sound of your own excitement.

You were on your feet in an instant, clapping, beaming, so proud.

And when he turned toward you before heading to the stage, his hand brushing against yours in a silent moment of acknowledgment, your heart clenched in the best way.

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

Joe took the stage, adjusting the mic, the gold trophy shining under the lights.

“Uh—wow,” he started, shaking his head slightly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

The crowd laughed, and he let out a small exhale, gripping the trophy a little tighter.

“I’m not gonna stand up here and act like this season was easy,” he admitted, his voice steady but raw, real. “It wasn’t. At all. I went through a lot—personally, professionally, mentally. And honestly? There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back up here again.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

You knew how much it had taken for him to get here.

Joe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But I had a lot of people in my corner. My teammates, my coaches, my family. And—” He paused, just for a second, and then his eyes found yours.

“And someone who reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

It was just a moment—a split second where it was just you and him in a room full of people.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting his weight, nodding once. “This is for all the people who never stopped believing in me. And to anyone going through something they don’t think they’ll come back from—keep going. You never know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Joe gave a small nod, turned, and walked off the stage.

And when he got back to your table, the first thing he did was lean down and press a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Told you I’d make it worth your time.”

And yeah.

He really, really had.

--

The night felt easy.

The way it always had, before everything got complicated. Before the pressure, before the expectations, before you had to fight for something that should have been effortless.

Now, it was effortless.

Joe was next to you, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pot of pasta while he rambled about the upcoming Super Bowl, going on about the defensive schemes and how the media was making too big of a deal about certain matchups.

Larry sat perched on the counter, her tail flicking every now and then, eyes trained on Joe like she actually cared about football, which was something Joe found endlessly amusing. He had already started referring to her as his cat, despite the fact that she had only tolerated him in the beginning.

“She loves me more than you now,” he had said just last week, smirking as Larry curled up next to him on the couch.

And you had just rolled your eyes. "Not a chance."

Now, standing here, making dinner in your quiet apartment, it felt like you had never left each other’s orbit. Like no time had passed at all.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You were just here. With him.

You turned toward the fridge, reaching to grab the parmesan, when you felt it.

A tap on your shoulder. Instinctively, you turned back. And everything stopped.

Joe was on one knee.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared down at him, frozen.

His hands were slightly unsteady, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet box. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his lips parted like even he couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

But his eyes—his eyes—were sure. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

Only love.

Joe exhaled sharply, running his free hand over his face before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “I had this whole plan. I was gonna wait until after the summer, do some big, romantic thing, maybe take you on a trip, make it perfect.” He swallowed hard, looking up at you. “But, uh—yeah. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

Joe’s fingers tightened around the ring box. “Because the truth is, I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took me back, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I bought this ring the week we got back together. I didn’t even fucking hesitate. Just walked into the store, told them exactly what I wanted, and bought it right there. Because I knew.”

Your chest ached.

Joe let out a small, nervous laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I knew the second I lost you that I had made the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I knew that I couldn’t do life without you, that I didn’t want to do life without you. And I know—I know—I have spent the last year proving that to you. But let me prove it for the rest of my life.”

Your vision blurred, tears spilling over as you let out a soft, choked breath.

Joe’s voice wavered slightly, his own eyes looking glassy. “I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we always planned. I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we should do. I want to marry you because I choose you. Every single fucking day. Over and over again. For the rest of my life.”

Your hands were trembling now, your lips parting as you tried to breathe.

Joe swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You are the love of my life. You always have been. And I am done wasting time.” His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers tightening around the box. “So, please, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and say yes.”

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, your whole body trembling, your face wet with tears.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Joe’s face broke into the biggest, purest smile you had ever seen.

And then you were falling to your knees in front of him, your hands grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that was everything—every promise, every ounce of love, every second of waiting for this moment.

Joe kissed you back instantly, his hands shaking as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, like he could never get enough.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his thumbs swiping at the tears on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in forever, you said it back without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

Joe grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before he could drop it, and then exhaled dramatically.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “That would’ve been awkward as hell.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as Joe pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, Larry watching in the background like she knew exactly what had just happened—

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

[nadvs]

first prize desire (one-shot)

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating mature 18+

summary your brother’s friend, rafe, is good at a lot of things. hiding his infatuation with you isn’t one of them. one night, you stop teasing him and finally give him what he’s been dreaming of.

tags college au where rafe and reader are varsity volleyball players. reader is a noncommittal f-girl. rafe is down bad for her. mentions of past infidelity. lots of angst and some light smut. not a happy ending.

» masterlist

note hello, i’m back!! a little while ago, i got an ask about a f-girl reader who’s been hurt in the past and is a little mean to rafe and i’m obsessed at the thought of him pining and lowkey being a simp for her?? this one goes out to my girlies with trust issues <3 divider credit.

You have to be doing it on purpose.

Rafe’s grip on his gym bag tightens as he steps out of the men’s locker room. The door shuts behind him with a heavy thud.

The girls’ team has the court now. You’re by the end line closest to him, only a few feet away as you stretch. You’re bent over with your back arched and he slowly paces towards the gym exit, his mouth going dry at the way you look.

The sight of you in those little shorts always throws his thoughts into a frenzy. Seeing your ass perched in the air like that makes him feel even more disoriented.

The varsity volleyball schedule is simultaneously the best and worst thing that has happened to him. Twice a week, Rafe steps out into the gym, exhausted from practice, to see you warming up, always tormenting him with how good you look.

You stepped into his life a few months ago at the beginning of the school year. His friend had mentioned that his sister would be starting college and that she plays volleyball, too.

The first time you came over to the house he shares with your brother and a few other guys on the team, he knew he was going to like being around you.

Until he got to know what a tease you are.

You stand up from your stretch, placing your hands on your hips as you look over your shoulder.

“Hey, Rafe,” you sing-song, your voice sweet as sugar. His hair is wet from his post-practice shower, hanging over his forehead. “Your hair’s cute like that.”

He was right. You are doing it on purpose. You knew he was there and you purposely put yourself on display for him like that, like a treat he knows he can’t have. For fuck’s sake. He’s never wanted a girl this bad.

Rafe’s lips flatten as he nods in greeting, stopping in his tracks. You’re not sure if the rosy tint to his cheeks is a product of a rough practice or a distressed blush from having seen you in such a suggestive position.

“Are you coming to watch our game tomorrow?” you ask, just loud enough over the voices echoing through the gym.

Rafe steps closer. You adore it about him, how he always looks like he’s been hinging on a opportunity to talk to you.

“Should I?” he asks.

“Sure. I know you like any excuse to look at me,” you reply with a shrug.

He scoffs, a mix of incredulity and amusement. He’s obvious about how bad he wants you, he knows he is, and that’s why it makes it ten times worse that you toy with him like this.

“You never watch our games,” he responds.

“I’m a busy girl,” you laugh.

He knows that. And he wishes he didn’t. He wishes he didn’t have to see you jump from guy to guy, snuggled up to a different one at every other party, never staying long enough to call any of them your boyfriend.

A couple of weekends ago, Rafe had been one too many beers deep. Pressed against the wall at a house party, he gazed at you through heavy lids and asked if you were ever going to find a guy you liked enough to actually keep around. You laughed and told him, “I’m not the commitment type.”

“I’ll see if I can make it,” Rafe says, because even though he’s a goner when it comes to you, he tries to keep at least some dignity intact and feign indifference.

“Hope you can,” you respond, smirking. His eyes go a little brighter. You know that means he’ll come.

You’re a whirlwind, a storm constantly passing over him, leaving him spinning. Time and time again, he gets just close enough to the edge of thinking he has a chance with you, and then you pull back.

Your flirty looks and dirty jokes are maddening and any time he’s tried to do anything about it, you’d say you’re not going to complicate things with your brother’s friend, especially when he lives with him.

Off limits, you’d once whispered in his ear at a party, but your body was pressed up against his so tightly that it didn’t seem like you wanted a boundary between you two at all.

Rafe’s name echoes from behind him. He turns to see your brother leaving the locker room, donning a confused expression.

“You leaving without me?” he laughs, walking towards him.

Rafe would never tell him that he purposely rushed out to get a glimpse of you.

⫘⫘⫘

The minutes before the start of a game is when you feel the most pressure. More than during the actual match. You know if you don’t feel proud of your performance, you fall into a funk nobody can pull you out of.

You rub your palms together as you wait for your turn in a spiking drill. The other team just arrived, warming up on the other side of the court.

You thought you didn’t mind these opponents all that much. Their team is usually weaker than yours. But they have a new player and seeing her familiar face makes your blood boil.

Rafe makes it to the gym after class, two sets into the match. It’s 1-1 and the air is heavy with tension. The gym is quiet as he settles in the bleachers, the thumps of hands hitting the volleyball rolling across the court.

You’re panting as you hurry around, dodging your teammates while never letting the ball hit the floor.

You look more stressed than usual.

He almost gets right up again to leave, irritated at himself. This is the crap a boyfriend would do; come watch your games, worry about the anger etched on your pretty face. Yet all he gets called is a friend while you entertain other guys right in front of him.

But then he smirks a second later when he sees you frustratingly mutter something to your teammate after the opposing team wins a point.

Rafe revels in seeing your temper come out. It’s cute. And it makes him feel better about his.

A few minutes in, though, he sees anger flare up in you like never before. A girl on the opposing team blocks your spike and seems to murmur something to you.

You fight back, loud enough for him to hear. You snap at her to shut up. One of your teammates holds you back. The ref blows the whistle.

It’s a misconduct foul. Something’s up with you and he doesn’t know what.

The rest of the game has an added level of intensity. It results in a loss for the home team. You’re wearing the disappointment in your expression.

Rafe decides to leave. You always take your sweet time after a match and he’s not about to make an even bigger fool of himself by waiting outside for a girl who messes with him for wanting her so bad.

But still, because he’s so pathetically into you, he texts you later on: rough game. you good?

You don’t respond.

⫘⫘⫘

The next day, Rafe hasn’t gotten over you ignoring him. He’s not really one to let go of things all that quick.

And he’s had enough. Of the teasing and the flirting and the indifference you have towards him while all he does is long for you. You have all the power and he’s sick of it.

It’s not hard for him to find the girl you’d argued with on the court. It’s a matter of searching on her college’s athletic department website, learning her name, and finding her on social media.

He chats with her, invites her to his house party the next night, and because it’s easy for him to get any girl to agree to hang out with him, unless she’s you, she accepts.

He can’t wait for you to see him with her.

⫘⫘⫘

You make it to the house the next night, showing enough skin that makes Rafe’s stomach grow tight. You nudge your brother’s shoulder in greeting, then shuffle closer to Rafe see him nursing a beer.

“Hey,” you say over the music. He towers over you, a crease between his brows. He wears everything on his handsome face, incredibly easy to read.

“You mad at me for not texting back?” you ask playfully, squeezing his forearm. “Sorry. I was in a shitty mood after that game.”

“Why?” he asks, reluctantly softening up. You hardly ever show him this side of yourself. You’re usually a few drinks in if you do.

“Did you see that girl I yelled at?”

He nods, Adam’s apple bobbing with a nervous swallow.

“I know her,” you explain, “and she’s not very nice.”

“You’re not very nice,” Rafe jokes.

“Then imagine how bad she is if I’m the one calling her that,” you say with a soft laugh.

“What’d she do?” he asks.

As expected, you wave a dismissive hand, rolling your eyes, blocking him out.

“Nothing worth repeating,” you reply. You bring your hand up to his bicep, squeezing the hard muscle. “Did you go to the gym today?”

Rafe’s eyes dart down to his beer, the attention from you another hit to his bloodstream, a dopamine rush he’s been missing.

“Hit a PR,” he replies.

“Wow,” you flirt. “We should go to the gym together. You’d be a good personal trainer.”

“You couldn’t handle me,” he replies.

You bite your bottom lip, smiling up at him. Nobody gets your heart racing quite like Rafe does.

And it’s why you stay away from him. Getting involved with a brother’s friend is already a bad idea just because it could get messy, but really, it’s the effect he has on you that scares you away.

You’ve been burned. The summer before college started, you discovered your serious boyfriend had never really respected you. You’re pretty sure someone’s first love always leaves a wound. But finding out they were cheating on you the whole time leaves a scar that never closes back up all the way.

“I don’t know,” you reply, pushing away your thoughts. “Pretty sure you couldn’t handle me.”

Rafe’s pink lips part as he looks down again. He shuffles in place so faintly that it’s nearly imperceptible.

“Not like you’d give me a chance to try,” he mumbles with a defeated smile.

No. You wouldn’t. Because the more you get to know Rafe, a man who at first seems hard and aggressive, but really just wears his heart on his sleeve, the more you can see yourself falling for him.

His intensity is overwhelming. It’s something you don’t see in most people. He’s a beautiful rarity of a man and you stay far away from any kind of real intimacy with him, because while you can hook up with other guys with no attachments, tangling yourself up with Rafe would make you susceptible to another wound.

“You know you could get any girl you want, right?” you say to him, voice gently dropping into a serious tone you don’t often use with him.

His phone buzzes in a staccato. He pulls it out of his pocket. Damn it.

“Hey, I’m here,” she says when he answers.

“You’re here?” he blankly repeats.

“You invited someone?” you tease. “And you’re standing here flirting with me? Shameful.”

You offer him a smile to show him you’re kidding around. The dull sting you feel from knowing he’s probably talking to a girl is a good reminder of why you keep him at an arm’s length.

It may not be reasonable to be a little annoyed, considering you’re always running around with different guys right in front of him, but you can’t help it.

Rafe hangs up, a tinge of regret pinching his chest. It took a few seconds with you to realize his spitefulness just fucked things up.

“Go get your girl,” you say with raised brows, stepping aside. “I need a drink.”

“Hey, it’s…” Rafe’s face pinches with concern, leaning to be closer to you. “Don’t be pissed off at me.”

“Pissed off?” You usually do a great job feigning indifference around him. You hope he doesn’t somehow see the crack in your armor.

“It’s that girl,” he replies. “The one from…”

“The game?” you say soberly.

Rafe hates the way your smile drops. The way your eyes search his face for an explanation.

“Whatever,” you reply after a beat. “Do what you want.”

It’s kind of a sick thrill to have the upperhand for once. He’s flustered when you tease, but now, your eyes are sharp with frustration, your lips turned down in a scowl that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is.

“You sure?” he says. You nod curtly.

“Not like I’m your girlfriend or anything.”

He’s sure you say it just to twist the dagger already lodged in his heart. It works.

⫘⫘⫘

Your stomach is in a knot. You’re at the back of the living room, purposely as far away from Rafe as you can be.

And she’s there, looking up at him with a sickeningly bright smile. The same smile she used on your ex. The same smile you’re sure she wore when she texted you how it’d been ‘weighing on her soul’ that she’s been sneaking around with him.

It was all bullshit. You know she was proud to play a hand in your heartbreak. She never looked torn up about it at all. If she did, she wouldn’t have provoked you at your past match.

Missed, she’d said mockingly. It took everything in you not to hit her.

Again, you’re inches away from doing it. Every minute she stays here, you get closer. You wouldn’t normally be angry at the woman your boyfriend cheated with if she didn’t know. If she was a stranger, she wouldn’t have owed you any loyalty.

But she knew. She was your friend.

You’ve been trying not to care anymore. You started this year with the intention to leave all the high school shit behind and have fun and not give your heart to a man. Not for a long time.

But seeing her brings it all back.

“What’s up?” you hear. You look up at your brother.

He knows how your relationship ended. When he heard what your ex did to you, he offered to beat the shit out of him, but no amount of revenge ever felt like it could undo your pain.

He never met your ex-friend. He has no idea who the woman Rafe is flirting with is.

“The music sucks,” you reply, wincing as the bass reverberates through the room.

“You always had shitty taste,” he replies. You crack a smile. It falls when you remember how he’d said the same about your ex, long before the breakup.

“I need a breather,” you say.

It doesn’t happen very often, so when you see worry wash over your big brother’s face, it jolts you a little.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just need to spare my eardrums.”

He huffs a laugh, gently pushing you as you step away from him.

⫘⫘⫘

Come upstairs.

Rafe stares down at the text from you, sent three minutes ago. He looks up at the girl he invited as she comes back to him, arm linked with a friend she’d called to join the party.

He’s stiff as they make introductions. Then he tells them he’ll be right back.

Rafe’s bedroom is lived in, but it’s not quite messy. Clothes are strewn across an open drawer and on the back of his desk chair, but his textbooks are neat on the shelf and his bed is made.

You turned on his dim nightstand lamp. You stare ahead at the calendar on his closet door, practices and games written in black pen.

You lean against the headboard, squeezing your fingers, teetering towards crying. It’s a sick joke to like a guy again just to watch the same woman enamour him.

The door opens with a soft click, music spilling in for a moment.

Rafe has dreamed of this, coming up to see you in his bed. But in his dreams, you’re not staring at him like he just massively fucked up.

He doesn’t say a word. He only looks at you with confusion.

“I take it back,” you say, sitting up. “I don’t want her here.”

“What?” he says.

“Tell her to leave.”

Hope warms his core. Are you jealous?

“It’s my house,” he answers flippantly, giving you the same blasé attitude you’ve always given him.

You scoff. He crosses the room and sits at the foot of his bed, the mattress sinking with his weight. He’s never heard this thinness in your voice before.

“Can you just do it? Please?” you say shakily.

“What happened between you two?”

“You know what?” you scoff frustratingly, swinging your legs over the edge. “Fuck it. I’ll just go.”

“Stop,” he says sternly. “Tell me.”

He may have never seen you this vulnerable, but you’ve never seen him this mad. At least, not at you.

You thought Rafe had a soft spot for you. It hurts that it doesn’t seem to be there anymore. But then he sighs, head tilting slightly as he takes your hand.

“If you– you…” he begins, words fast and tumbling together. You’ve noticed he stammers when he’s on edge. “If you need me to kick her out, then, fine.”

“Really?” you say.

He sighs your name in exhausted resignation, looking up at the ceiling. You’re not jealous. You just really don’t like this girl. It has nothing to do with him and that hurts.

He nods in response. He knows you know he’d do anything for you.

Despite your instinct telling you to call an end to the conversation, the warmth of his hand on yours is piercing. You look down at your lap, turning his big hand over, calluses on his fingertips similar to yours from volleyball.

He gazes at you, his pulse picking up as your eyelashes stay low over your eyes, blinking quickly.

“I had a boyfriend,” you say quietly. “He cheated on me. With her.”

Rafe’s body goes cold. The irritation he was feeling has been replaced by biting guilt. He would’ve told her not to even bother coming in if you had just shared the truth.

“I didn’t know,” he murmurs. The shame is worse with every second that passes. He got what he wanted; he hurt you. And he hates himself for it.

“Yeah,” you say. You find his eyes, bottomless seas of blue. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

“I don’t want it to be like that,” he admits. “And I make it pretty damn obvious.”

You look down again, huffing a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, you do,” you reply.

You’ve always felt a sense of control over Rafe, but it’s chipping away, pieces being taken from you and given to him. You shouldn’t have opened this wound. Because now, you just want to smother it with temporary bandages.

Rafe’s jaw tenses as he watches your hand on his. Silence settles between you, your breaths heavy, the music muffled.

He’s not sure what’s next.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say.

“I won’t,” he rasps.

“Not about that,” you say. “Well… yeah, about that. But I meant about this.”

You shift to straddle him, the backs of your thighs resting on his lap. He meets your eyes as your noses nearly brush together.

You lean in. His breath stops when your lips meet his.

His heart-rate skyrockets. Fuck. This is really happening. His hands find your thighs, fingers pressing into your flesh.

You gently grind up against him as your kisses grow hungrier, mouths opening, breaths shortening.

You take him in, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of his tongue, as your arms link around his broad shoulders. You already feel better, feeling him hold you and kiss you like this.

He’s getting hard. It makes fire swirl in your stomach.

“Tell me,” you whisper against his mouth, desperate to feel even better, “how bad you want me.”

“You’re all I fucking think about,” he admits breathily.

“Which parts of me do you think about?”

“Everything,” he groans. “Fucking everything.”

You wish he would’ve just said something physical to solidify this as the casual hook-up it is. You can’t handle it being more.

“We’ll keep this a secret, okay?” you whisper.

“I know.” Rafe kisses you again, willing to say anything just to keep this going.

You gently push his shoulders so he lies back. Clothes are clumsily shoved off, kisses grow messy, and once you feel all of him, your head swims with euphoria, blocking out the impending regret.

You stay on top to at least hold onto some of the control you have left.

He comes with a groan, clinging onto your waist with trembling fingers as if you’ll run away from him.

But you do run away. It’s over and you sit up and scramble to put your clothes on again, the high gone, the crash on its way.

“Shit,” you whisper.

Rafe’s smile fades, his chest heaving. He sits up.

“Why are you acting like you regret it?” he asks.

He wants to give you his shirt, stay in bed with you, trace his fingers over your skin and tell you how badly he’s always wanted you.

You look at him with furrowed brows.

“We can’t tell anyone.”

“You already said that,” he mutters. “It’s not like we have to give details, but… nobody’s going to lose their shit if we’re together. Your brother isn’t like that.”

“No,” you shake your head. “This was just sex.”

It’s not a sudden break. His heart cracks slowly. It’s a fracture, spreading through his chest. He’s empty.

“So, I’m just…” He scoffs, tongue jutting under his cheek. “I’m just another one of the guys you do this to.”

“Don’t,” you say softly. “I told you I don’t date.”

You did, but he thought he was different.

You stand, smoothing your hair.

“Because of one asshole?” he murmurs, angrily picking up his t-shirt.

It hurts that something you told him in a vulnerable moment is ammo now. He’s being harsh and you know you are, too, but it’s the last thing you need right now.

“Don’t bring it up again,” you say with a strain in your voice. “Any of it. I knew I…”

Your throat starts to feel raw as you pace past him towards the door, desperate to get home and be swallowed in your blankets. Alone. Like you should be. Not chasing temporary relief in hook-ups.

“What did you know?” Rafe says to your back, tone softened. His anger is gone. It takes one glimpse into your pain to erase his own. He just wants to make you feel better.

“I knew I couldn’t trust you,” you murmur, staring at the door handle. “I can’t trust anyone.”

You leave. You gave him what he thought he wanted most, but he can see now that this hollow version of having you is the last thing he’d ever want.

You’ve ticked him off your list. You’re done. He’s in your rearview now, a quick hook-up that you wish you didn’t have.

⫘⫘⫘

You’ve been home for less than five minutes when your phone buzzes with a text from Rafe.

Make it home okay?

You swallow hard and respond: yes. didn’t mean to freak out. friends?

Rafe chews on his lip as he stares at his phone. He hasn’t left his bedroom.

yeah, he replies. There’s no point in pretending he doesn’t want you, even if you push him back into the role he’d been playing before.

Fine. He’ll be your fucking friend. He already lost his pride long ago. But tonight is the first time he’s truly lost the hope he had in you.

(the end)

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[rafesangelita]

♡ deciding to take a ride on the ‘tunnel of love’ roller coaster at the annual valentine’s day fair, rafe happens to catch you before it starts, conveniently locking himself in next to you. annoyed, you tell yourself you’ll be out and away from the man once the ride is over but (un)luckily for you, it just so happens to break down, leaving you two stuck together until it’s fixed..

warnings: one sided enemies to lovers (reader is the one who can’t stand rafe lol), forced proximity, teasing, flirty banter, slight angst (just a teeny tiny bit, it’s literally almost nonexistent), light fluff

a/n: now presenting… ‘TUNNEL OF LOVE’ 🤍 my town just so happens to be having a valentine’s day fair.. maybe (hopefully) i’ll go!

link: VALENTINE’S DAY CELEBRATION ໒꒰ྀི｡- ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

wc: 1.4k

[7:57 PM] bestie ♡: it looks like kelce is going to take me out for v-day after all!! don’t wait for me, i’ll catch up soon, promise!

you had just bought an extra large funnel cake for you and your best friend to share when you read her text, your sugary sweet smile faltering as you took a seat at a nearby bench. “more for me, i guess..” you sighed, feeling a little bit silly at the fact that you sat here by yourself when everyone who passed you by was either in a group setting or hand in hand with someone who was most likely their significant other.

you picked at the fried goodness, not really feeling as festive as you were just two minutes ago. “yo, y/n!” you recognized the voice before you even looked up, your eyes immediately rolling as none other than rafe ‘insufferable daddy’s money’ cameron made his way over to you. ‘please let this be quick..’ you whispered under your breath, not sparing the man a single glance as he plopped down ridiculously close to you.

“what do you want, rafe?” he smiled when he heard his name roll off of your tongue, his muscular arm draping across your shoulders as his mouth dropped next to your ear. “can you at least act like you could tolerate me?” you scoffed, shrugging him off. “no, i can’t,” you finally looked at him, “because even that is too difficult to do.” he swallowed thickly, feeling slightly defeated before he went for the funnel cake that sat in your lap.

“i’m really not that bad, i’ll make you realize that soon.” rafe was also too confident and cocky for your liking— more reasons you could add to your seemingly never ending list as to why you think you two would never work out.

“i highly doubt that.” rafe was licking powdered sugar off of his fingers when you met his gaze again, your eyes flickering down to his tongue. the one thing that you couldn’t put on your list was that he wasn’t hot. anyone with eyes can tell you that rafe was insanely attractive, but of course, you’d never admit that to him out loud.. or so you thought. “you’re staring.” he smiled when he saw that your eyes stayed trained on his mouth, a smug expression taking over his features.

you blinked away, deciding you had enough chit-chat for one night. “in your dreams, ‘cameron.” rafe watched you get up from your seat, gladly taking the funnel cake you basically shoved into his hands. “why, thank you.” he took another piece, popping it into his mouth. you flashed him a fake smile before adjusting the strap of your crossbody purse. “i’ll see you around!” he called out, waving obnoxiously in your direction. “no you won’t!” you whispered to yourself, deciding to explore the fair a bit more.

little did you know conversation between you and rafe was far from over.

you walked around the fair grounds for almost fifteen more minutes before you had decided you were better off at home eating some greasy takeout and having a rom-com movie marathon in nothing but your comfy pj’s.

just as you were on your way to the exit, a flashing heart with the words ‘TUNNEL OF LOVE.. find your lover inside!’ caught your attention. deciding you’d at least inquire about it, you walked up to the ride operator and asked away. “excuse me! hi, i was just wondering what does the whole ‘find your lover inside!’ thing mean?” the woman lit up as if she had been dying to answer this question.

“so basically there’s another roller coaster coming from the other side, and once you two meet inside, the ride will stop for two minutes before coming back out to the respective entrances.” she explained. “so it’s like speed dating?” you smiled, the idea enthralling you. “yeah, that’s exactly it!” she nodded. you weighed out your options and decided a little excitement wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“i’m suprised you don’t have a line, how much is it to get on?” you took your wallet out of your purse as she replied. “if you have a full-access wristband it’s free, but if not then it’ll be five dollars exactly.” you handed over the small bill, smiling to yourself as she let you through the metal gate. “it looks like two people can fit in here—” just as you stepped in, rafe came running from the opposite direction.

“stop the ride!” he shouted, his chest rising and falling as he bent over to catch his breath. you blinked. “it’s not even on, you drama queen.” taking a seat, you were about to pull the metal bar over your lap before he shouted again. “i’ll give you fifty bucks if you let me get on with her!” you crossed your arms over your chest, not expecting the ride operator to actually let him in. “seriously?!” you gasped when he walked through, flashing you a wink.

“sorry!” she pushed the guardrail over you and rafe until it locked in place before starting the ride. “this will all be over in two minutes.” you glared at him, trying to scoot as many centimeters away from him as you could. “that’s fine with me.” he shrugged. he leaned back in the cart, red and pink flashing lights illuminating the space in which you two rolled into slowly.

rafe kept his eyes on you, watching as you avoided his gaze. “why don’t you like me? serious question..” you sighed, finally giving him your full undivided attention. you opened your mouth to speak but no words came out. “what?” you acted like you didn’t hear him the first time, wracking your brain for any kind of answer. he smiled teasingly, pointing a finger at you. “i asked you why you don’t like me and you can’t even answer me!” you waved him off, facing the other way to hide the smile on your lips.

truthfully, you didn’t really know who rafe was. like just by himself as an individual. you knew that his friends were all assholes though, including the one who your best friend was willing to drop everything for. “i hate your friends,” you started, “and you are who you keep company with, sooo..” rafe cleared his throat as the roller coaster came to a stop. the inside of the ‘love tunnel’ was lit up with baby cherubs along the walls, red hearts and fairy lights adorning the interior.

“me and my friends are very different from each other.. i think you’d be surprised.” you hummed, adjusting the pendant on your necklace. “maybe..” the other roller coaster cart strolled in from the other side, the seats empty. “i guess it’s a good thing that i tagged along, since you would’ve been all by yourself if i didn’t.”

you glanced over at him, his blue eyes standing out in the pinkish lighting. “..yeah, i guess.” rafe’s head shot up as soon as the words left your mouth. “you really think so?” he scooted closer, the action making you laugh. “don’t push it.” you warned him, in which he held his hands up defensively. “okay, okay!” rafe had this smitten look on his face as if making you smile was his life’s greatest achievement.

“so you told me why you didn’t like me, which is fair, but i want a real chance at proving you wrong. can you at least give me that?” rafe hesitantly rested a hand on your knee, the hopeful look in his eyes making your heart melt into a soft puddle of mush. “hmm..” you pretended to think, the anticipation making rafe’s leg bounce. “okay. only under one condition though..” rafe nodded frantically.

“anything.”

“tell me why you like me so much when i avoid you like the plague, and never seemingly look in your direction.. like ever.” the man next to you snorted. “you want me to go down my full list? ‘cause we’ll be sitting here all night—” just then, the ride operator’s voice boomed through the intercom speakers from inside the tunnel. “hi, i’m so sorry for the inconvenience, but we’re having some technical difficulties and my electrician guy says it’ll be at least an hour or two before you could leave. i promise to issue a full refund once you two are off.”

you and rafe looked at each other half concerned and half amused. “..so, you were saying?”

[zomboivex]

Getting personal for a moment. But I feel it’s important to share, anyways.

When I was married, everyone in my life gaslit me to believe I was terrible with managing my money. Any personal expensive was noted as frivolous and wasteful. Bought some fabric for my hobby of dress-making with money I earned from a bonus?

That could have been used for the water bill next month!

Had a $1000 bonus? No. That’s for the house mortgage that he didn’t let my name exist on even though I paid for majority of the renovations because he was content letting the kitchen sit in disarray with thick dust in the air. Causing me to have severe allergy attacks every day.

Called off sick?

How could you? We have bills to pay!!!!

Go through extreme harassment at work?

No. You’re making it up. It’s an excuse to take a day off and relax.

Ignore the fact that he called off regularly because he had headaches while I was shamed into going to work despite having the flu.

Set up a joint account where only I contributed to put money in for bills to pay. Because he would pay from his account. Then he’d constantly drain the joint account for ‘bills’ and then spend his money on who even knows. We had 2 maxed out credit cards in his name.

But this was so normal to me. Because I grew up like this. I grew up with my ‘support system’ telling me this is normal. Telling me that I am the problem.

And I believed it.

I believed that everything that was wrong was me.

I didn’t know he was $7,000 in debt until our divorce where he was demanding I pay it off.

I never did find out what he used that money on. I suspect it was on his gaming addiction and my alleged ‘best friend’ he was sleeping with.

When I finally got out of that relationship, I was in financial ruin. I had nothing in my name. At 30.

I lost everything. (Except for the car that I begged for him to let me take and 3 of my 4 cats).

I lost the house I lived in for years. It was all in his name. There was nothing I could do about it. Because we were ‘only married for 3 years’ despite being together for 10.

I had no furniture to take with me. Save for a couch. That I couldn’t actually take because I had no place to go. I was couch surfing or sleeping in my car at this time.

I lost my dream job because my ‘friend’ worked there as well. And while they were beyond accommodating to my situation, I could no longer mentally handle being there nor could I handle the hour drive once I did find a place to live.

$1000 down on a new apartment.

Car broke down a month later. $1000 down on a new car.

Said car was stolen twice. Can’t even begin to tell you how much money that leeched out of my savings.

$23,000 (with health insurance) for surgery due to appendicitis.

All in a year after divorce.

It was defeating. It was so fucking hard.

In a span of a year I went through multiple life crises events. I can feel how it physically changed my ability to process information. In a way, I’ve become ‘dumber’ because of it. I can’t hold onto information. I have a hard time reading and staying focused.

Only reason I was able to even financially get through all of that was because I had some money saved from a lawsuit at the job that was harassing me that I wound up winning after the divorce. That and I finally caved in and got a credit card (my credit score was good) and a couple of personal loans.

I’m still paying it all off. It has been so fucking hard.

And I’ve been going through waves of hating myself for being so naive to feeling terrible for what I’ve been through because I didn’t see anything wrong with what I experienced as it was happening. And I’m finally coming to my own form of peace with this. But it was hard.

I had been with him for 10 years.

I don’t love easily. But I did love him. Even if I showed it in odd ways. I wouldn’t have married him, otherwise.

And then when everyone around me said I was the problem, I believed them.

Even now, I have an incredibly hard time understanding when I am truly in the wrong with a situation or if my reaction to things are justified.

I didn’t realize I was being put through mental and financial abuse by so many people around me.

I wish I could hug me from a few years ago and let them know they are so strong for going through all of this. But that they shouldn’t have had to be so strong for so long.

I wish I could hug every woman on the planet that has been through anything where they had to ‘be strong’ to survive while thinking it’s normal.

Baby, it’s not normal. You deserve so much more in this world.

You deserve your own freedom and a support system that values you and lets you know when you’re going through actual bullshit instead of painting you as the villain.

To all the women out there who go through these things; I love you. I see you.

maybe i’m a joyless bitch but i actually do NOT think it’s funny to see women being like “the house is just in my husbands name” or “my husband makes all the money” or “i don’t even know who our mortgage is with” or “the only bank account/credit card is his and i get an allowance” like i do NOT find that cute or romantic and i am begging these women to Stand Up. you should at least be named on the deed to your house and the title to your car and the bank accounts even if you don’t pay for them/earn all the money. you can’t stop existing in the eyes of the law and the credit unions simply because you have a husband. if you’re raising his children and washing his socks half of everything he’s got is yours and it needs to be yours LEGALLY BY NAME. "he takes such good care of me :)" girl you are a PRISONER!! that’s all

[meazalykov]

under her wing

giulia gwinn x spanish!reader , mentor!alexia putellas x spanish!reader

summary: your mentor is concerned about your relationship with your club teammate

warnings: three year age gap, reader is 22, a suggestive mention if you squint

you never thought you would leave barcelona. it had been your home, your dream, the place where you trained at la masia for many years before debuting on the senior team. 

in 2023, when you won the champions league.. you ran into a bit of challenges. something that would not be fixed without a club change.

so… when the opportunity at bayern munich came, you took it. 

it was the right step for your career, but that did not make leaving any easier since alexia had been the hardest part of it. 

she was more than just a teammate…she was the older sister you never had, the one who guided you when you first arrived at barcelona.

when you told her about the transfer that summer, she had nodded, understanding yet saddened. 

“if it’s what you want,” she had said, her voice soft. 

“but i’m going to miss you.”  

you had adjusted to life at bayern faster than you expected. the girls welcomed you, the club supported you, and before long, you found yourself settling in.

you still talked to alexia, everyday even, you guys kept eachother updated about your lifes in germany and spain.

well, not too much, of course, since she was a rival now. it's just enough for her to know you were okay.  

then there was giulia.  

she had been your teammate first, someone you clicked with on the pitch almost immediately. you admired her leadership, her composure, the way she carried herself with quiet confidence. 

she was 25, a captain-like figure at bayern, the leader of her national team after popp. 

she was also the best thing to happen to you in a long time.  

you and giulia had only been official for a month. it was new, fresh, but something about it felt so different from your past relationships. healthier and safer like you were with someone who truly saw you. 

you had not told alexia yet…there had not been a right time, and honestly, you were not sure how she would take it.  

now, in march, you were on national break, back in spain, while giulia remained in germany. it was the first time since getting together that you would be apart for this long, but you both promised to keep in touch. 

and you did.  

you were always smiling at your phone. always taking pictures of your food before eating. always stepping away to take facetime calls in the bathroom.  

that last one had really set alexia off. 

she was not going to ask what you were doing in there on the phone with giulia, but she had her suspicions. 

now, the night before your match against portugal, she was going to get her answers.  

misa and aitana had just left the hotel room when she turned to you. 

“hey, y/n, don’t go to sleep yet. can we talk?”  

you blinked, confused but nodding. 

“of course.”  

she sat on the edge of the bed, watching you carefully. 

“are you dating someone?”  

your heart nearly stopped. 

“wh-wha-what? how do you know?”  

she let out a small laugh, shaking her head. 

“so i was right.”  

you sighed, rubbing your face. 

“was it that obvious?”  

“very,” alexia said. 

“you smile at your phone too much. you always take pictures of your food and the facetime calls in the bathroom? come on, y/n! you could at least wait until you got home to munich.”  

you groaned. 

“fine. yeah, i am dating someone.”  

she tilted her head. 

“who?”  

you hesitated. 

“giulia.”  

her brows lifted slightly. 

“giulia?”  

“yeah, giulia gwinn. my teammate at bayern. defender for alemania..”

you nodded, bracing yourself for her reaction.  

alexia knew giulia. she had played against her plenty of times, had seen her lead bayern with the same strength she had seen in other great captains like herself. 

however, her expression shifted into something more thoughtful, almost concerned.  

“hmm.”  

“what?” you frowned.  

she hesitated for a second before speaking. 

“it’s not a bad thing,” she said slowly. 

“i just… well… she’s older. not by much, but still… i just want to make sure you’re okay.”  

you crossed your arms. 

“do you think she’s too good for me?”  

her eyes widened, shaking her head immediately. 

“no! not at all. that’s not what i meant.”  

“then what did you mean?”  

she sighed. 

“i mean that you’re 22. you’re mature for your age, but i want to make sure you’re making smart decisions and that you’re with someone who treats you well, who understands you.”  

you relaxed slightly. 

“giulia treats me really well, ale. better than anyone ever has.”  

ale’s expression softened. 

“that’s all i needed to hear.”  

you felt the weight of her concern, the way she was looking out for you in the way she always had. 

it was not about doubting you or giulia…it was about making sure you were happy. and you were.  

before the conversation could settle, she smirked slightly. 

“so… tell me more about this relationship.”  

you groaned. 

“oh god.”  

“no, no, i want to know,” she teased. 

“how did this happen? who made the first move? if i had to guess, it was her. there is no way your shy ass made any first move!”  

you rolled your eyes, but a smile was tugging at your lips. 

“oh shut up! i’ll tell you but only because you’re going to keep asking if i don’t tell you.”  

and with that, you began to tell alexia the story of how you and giulia became girlfriends.

three months later.. the evening in valencia is warm, the sun just starting to set as you and alexia make your way toward the restaurant. 

you’re not nervous about seeing giulia…you never are. she is your club teammate and girlfriend who you see everyday back at home. however, you are a little anxious about how this dinner will go. 

alexia has been a mentor to you for years, almost like an older sister, and now she’s here to finally meet the woman you’ve fallen for.  

“you look tense,” alexia says, nudging your shoulder. 

“should i be worried?”  

“no,” you sigh. 

“i just want you to like her.”  

alexia smirks. 

“well, if she makes you happy, i’m already halfway there.”  

you step inside the restaurant, immediately spotting giulia at a table near the window. 

she stands when she sees you, her expression lighting up as you approach. 

when you reach her, she greets you with a soft kiss to your cheek before turning to alexia and extending her hand.  

“hallo, it’s nice to finally meet you properly, alexia,” giulia says, her voice warm.  

alexia shakes her hand firmly. 

“buenos dias, and same here. i’ve heard a lot about you.”  

giulia chuckles, glancing at you. 

“all good things, i hope?”  

“mostly,” alexia teases, sitting down while looking at you beside her. 

“i guess i’ll find out for myself tonight.”  

the conversation starts light and familiar.. football.

soon enough, alexia shifts gears, watching giulia closely.  

“so,” she says, swirling her water. 

“what made you fall for her?”  

you groan, burying your face in your hands. 

“ale, come on!”  

giulia laughs softly, completely unbothered. she looks at you for a moment, then back at alexia. 

“it was easy,” she says simply. 

“she’s loving and y/n is funny in a way that catches you off guard, and she’s so passionate about what she loves. she gives her whole heart to the people she cares about and i was able to learn that when she first came to munich.”  

you blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. 

alexia raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. 

“not a bad answer.”  

“what about you?” giulia asks, tilting her head. 

“you’ve seen her grow up. how has she changed?”  

alexia hums. 

“she’s always been talented, but when she first came to barça, she had this uncertainty about her. now, she knows who she is. she’s stronger, more confident… and she looks happy.”  

giulia smiles. 

“she makes me happy too.”  

there’s a brief pause, something unspoken passing between them before alexia leans back. 

“i like you,” she says finally. 

“you’re different from the people she’s dated before.”  

giulia lifts an eyebrow with a smirk, looking at you while she asks alexia, 

“how so?”  

alexia glances at you before answering. 

“you’re stable. you know what you want. you’re not playing games and have goals.”  

giulia squeezes your hand under the table. 

“yeah i promise there are no games,” she says softly. 

“just her.”  

alexia watches the exchange, then nods in approval. 

“good. because if you ever hurt her…”  

“i won’t,” giulia cuts in firmly. 

“i’d never do that.”  

there’s another pause, then alexia smirks. 

“then i have nothing to worry about.” she glances at you. 

“you got a good one.”  

relief floods through you, and you smile. 

“i know.”  

masterlist

guys I'm sorry for being inactive, got busy with school and kind of lost motivation for a bit. I'll be back to posting more (like usual) soon!

[euphoria-looney]

Idk if you’ve seen Nosferatu but I think a situation like that could totally apply to (Name).

Brief overview:

In Nosferatu, the main character Ellen grows up feeling lonely and isolated. She pleads for a supernatural being to arrive and comfort her and she wakes up ‘Nosferatu’ who makes her pledge herself to him fully. There’s loads of other stuff as well but I think this main idea would be interesting. Nosferatu in the movie is really, really old and ugly, but I think (Name) deserves a fit, hot vampire boyfriend/husband. But essentially he’s like a Vampire Count, aka Dracula.

How it’s play out:

(Name),as a young child, calls out for ‘Nosferatu’ (or whatever name the vampire will have) and he wakes up. He makes them pledge their complete loyalty to him for all eternally, essentially making them his ‘bride’. (Name) is comforted by him, but this connection fades as they grow older.

Then, when they turn 18, Nosferatu calls out for them in their dreams and travels to Gotham, keeping them in his manor. He’s basically a yandere in the movie anyway, so (Name) is kept quite weak and docile due to his mind control, spending most of their time doting on him or sleeping.

Now, I think it’d be interesting for the Batfam to react because the thing about Nosferatu is that the oath to him MUST be consensual, give or take MAJOR manipulation, but still, (Name) has to willingly go with him. So the Batfam have to come to terms with the fact that (Name) literally chose an obsessive, undead (but fit) vampire husband over them.

And ‘Nosferatu’ is NOT going to play fair if they try and take his bride. Literally no Dracula variant does.

I Asked For a Friend, But Got a Husband?

"I sense her in my mind, she's my collar" She's My Collar (feat. Kali Uchis)

So Much More. (Should I name this something new? Since it's a different AU?)

Special (?)

Divider Creds: @anitalenia and @qqmariztwsse

Being young, barely seen or heard, I could only busy myself with books. Even then how many books could I read before feeling that loneliness knaw on me?

Okay, dramatic I knew but who knew this one feeling would lead me to immediately get married by the age of eighteen?

I know how bad that sounds, trust me, I was the one who experienced it.

"What are you thinking about right now, honey?" I felt arms wrap around me.

Meet Elzire.

(Cred to this art and oc: @♱⋆༒︎Ren༒︎ ⋆♱/lcttuve)

"Nothing much," I replied looking through our mail.

How we met, well I believe it because of this, but don't take my word for it, I might just be delusional.

I had gone to the library and saw [D/D] she ecstatically waved to me before Damian pulled her away giving me a sneer. I waved that off and looked around before spotting a book that I’d never seen before. 

It had a blood red cover and the title ‘Forever’, curious, I opened it. It seemed like a child's story as they had short sentences and photos. It starts with a girl who, one day after being tired of being lonely prays to the gods of her world she doesn’t care who or what they sent no matter what they looked like or how they acted as long as they were her friends, and nice to her at least, she would be happy.

Then it happened, a boy her age descended to her and every day they would play before growing old together.

The end.

I put the book back before returning to what I was originally doing, studying for my next exam.

— 

It had been a good week since I read that fantasy child’s book, and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I went to the library at night when everyone was either on a mission or asleep and to my surprise the book was gone.

Someone must’ve thrown it out, there’s no reason to keep it here anyone.

I let out a sigh before heading back to my room and though I accepted the book was gone I couldn’t help but wonder, could I do that?

No, that’d be silly.

But…

It never hurts anyone to try.

“Please, whoever is out there, please accompany me and become the pillar I can lean on.” 

.

..

…

Welp I tried, back to sleep I have a piano recital tomorrow no time for these goofy beliefs.

3RD POV

 A figure descended into [name]’s room their black hair fluttered from the wind and their red eyes and fangs glistened in the dark of night, their hands like claws before stepping into the light a little more revealing a tall yet built man he looked angelic despite being a vampire that was friends with a demon, specially Barbatos.

He creeps a little closer to [name]’s room crouching to caress their faces. Making them blink open their eyes.

“... Am I still dreaming?” They question themself. Making the vampire chuckle holding their hands in his and asking.

“Do you mind becoming mine forever?”

“Woah, my wish worked… sure, why not.” He smiled happily placing one of their hands on his cheeks and relished in the warmth that their hand brought to his freezing complexion.

Before they had passed out.

He caught them before they could slam back onto their bed and gently laid them down.

“Don’t miss me too much.”

—

Holy crap what was that dream? 

Maybe I shouldn’t mind it. 

For the next few years, nothing changed except my dreams. Then I turned eighteen and it was out of pure luck that I met him, his name was Elzire.

We got married that same year after a few months of dating which I was totally against but then he convinced me and it hasn’t been like our marriage has been going great. I don’t like that he wanted me to be a stay-at-home wife.

Don’t get me wrong I appreciate him wanting this for me because he doesn’t want any workload on me but I just feel that it’s unfair for him.

Too bad the only payment he wants from me is to do simple household things but even that he just hires some housecleaning or helpers instead of letting me do it and when he comes home to get his pillow, it’s nice to play with his hair, might be better than mine.

Today again though I’m stuck at home and there’s nothing to do as I finished everything, it’s not hard when only two people are living in this house.

I went to look through the mail before finding a letter addressed to me.

It’s from Alfred, but I had never told him where I moved… It’s fine, this is Alfred we’re talking about.

“Dear young master, [name], 

How have you been? It's been 7 years since we last saw you or contacted you, I managed to get a glimpse of you and was able to deliver this to you.

Your family has long awaited meeting you again, if you could give them the chance to see you that would be lovely.

Sincerely, 

Alfred Pennyworth.”

I looked over my shoulder to Elzire before responding.

“I got a letter from my old butler Alfred, saying that my family would like to meet with me again.”

“So suddenly, darling?” He raised his eyebrow at that. Seems he was as lost as I was. I told him everything like he was my therapist so he knew too well himself why this wouldn’t make sense.

-

Despite my hesitance, I decided to go.

"Really Sweetie, you don't have to this isn't something that I would waste my time on, so neither should you." One hand on the steering wheel and the other holding my hand.

"Come on, El, I'm curious, 23 years of my life and only now do they care to see me. Wouldn't you also wonder why?"

"Wonder, not meet. but because I love you and I care for you we'll still go." He squeezed my hand a bit before softening his grip again.

We pulled up on the driveway and saw Alfred come out of the manor.

Elzire got out of the car first before opening the door for me, helping me get out.

I approached Alfred before bringing him into an embrace.

"Alfie, it's been so long." I pulled away before directing his attention to Elzire.

"This is Elzire."

"Pleasure to meet you, young sir." Alfred did his bow before leading us to the living room where the whole family was.

"[name]" [M/D] whispered, tears welling up in her eye, standing up and starting to approach me.

I smiled but didn't reciprocate the hug she was trying to give me.

"[name], we realized our mistake. it's time to come home." Bruce told me.

"Well, as much as I'm... grateful for that offer, I've already moved on and had a life, where you guys no longer matter or are related to me anymore."

"What are you-"

"This is my husband, Elzire. And I don't plan to leave him, for this."

Guys I quit on this if you couldn't notice the ending was rushed so badly, I'm so sorry to the one who sent the request I know this isn't what you would like but I kind of had a mind exploration, and now I have no idea what or how to write this request.

Maybe I'll rewrite this in the future but for now, this is the main result. If you were looking for a confrontation. It's kind of the situation of this Special.

Genuinely y'all could make your own or imagine this scenario. I have no idea what I'm doing anyway, thank you so much for reading this I don't think I'm tagging anybody on this and supporting other batfam authors, especially with all the hate that I've been seeing Luckily I haven't received anything.

Bye-bye, if anything is too unclear and grammatically wrong inform me!

Elzire:

(Cred to this art and oc: @♱⋆༒︎Ren༒︎ ⋆♱/lcttuve)

-ILoveeeMoney

[luckykiwiii101]

“RING RING! FAILURE’S CALLING…” “SORRY, YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER.”

| | THE 411 ON HOW TO NEVER FAIL AGAIN | |

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

ﾟ failure is an identity and a choice ࿐

✰ TABLE OF CONTENTS ✰

✰ FAILURE IS A SKIN YOU CHOOSE TO WEAR ✰

✰ WHY SOME OF YOU KEEP “FAILING” ON REPEAT ✰

✰ THE IMPORTANCE OF SELF CONCEPT ✰

Hey Upper East Siders. We hear failure’s calling, you keep picking up the phone, and you can’t seem to hang up. And since failure’s unheard of on the upper east side, here’s everything you need to know about why you’re a failure, and how to stop being one.

✰ FAILURE IS A SKIN YOU CHOOSE TO WEAR ✰

Want to know what the fashionistas of the upper east side are wearing? Well it’s certainly not what you’re wearing. And as we all know, you need a good sense of style to choose what to wear, and failure is the one thing that’ll never be in fashion. Especially not on the upper east side. Don’t mind me judging your outfit…I think I see your horns growing. First of all, start off by understanding that nothing is meant to be difficult for you. You’ve just made it difficult for yourself.

Luckily for you, outfits aren’t permanent. And you can change them quicker than S switches boyfriends. And failure, is merely a hideous outfit that you’re choosing to wear. And in the world of fashion, your outfit is who you are. Before I help you change your style, let’s find out why you’re such a failure. Can’t solve the problem without knowing the root of the cause first, right?

✰ WHY SOME OF YOU KEEP “FAILING” ON REPEAT ✰

Somehow, every time you tell yourself that you’re going to persist and manifest whatever it was that you wanted, you fail. But when you want a cup of coffee, suddenly you’re god. But when it comes to your dream life, you’re suddenly a pathetic, powerless human being.

Ever wonder why that is?

Guess. Ding ding ding. It’s because your standards are low. Painfully low. Don’t look so confused. Let me show you. “I want my dream life so I persisted and I manifested a dream about my desired life!! ” is that what you call…success? Just when I thought you couldn’t stoop lower! Here’s another pathetic example. “I persisted to manifest my desired face and my eyelashes grew!!”

Don’t get me wrong upper east siders, but you settle for the lowest of the low. And that’s why you never get what you want. You’ve conditioned “success” with small things. You associate success with only a fraction of the thing you wanted. And never the full thing. You’ve adopted the assumption that you can’t manifest “big” things. (There’s no such thing as big and small but you know what I mean). It’s simply not natural to you.

Another big reason you keep failing is because you’re used to failure, which has led to a lack of trust/faith in yourself. It’s almost second nature to you. A wise woman called the wizard liz once said, “how can you trust yourself, if you keep promising yourself things and you don’t follow through?”

Truer words have never been spoken. It’s almost as if you know you’re going to end up failing. You’ve promised yourself your dream life several times, and you’ve clearly failed every time, and now you’ve got little to no trust in yourself. You know what’s going to happen, again. And that cycle is never going to end. You’ve almost broken every link in the chain. Almost. You can’t conceive of a world where you have everything you want. You view failure as an option. You don’t identify with your real creator/god self who cannot fail. And that’s exactly the problem.

I’ve got a friend called self concept and she’s either the root of the problem, or the solver of it. *Ring ring*!! I think she’s calling…

✰ THE IMPORTANCE OF SELF CONCEPT ✰

As we all famously know, your self concept is your assumptions about yourself and the world around you. It is literally everything. Every little assumption you have about yourself. It’s evident in everything and I mean everything that you do or say. The way you treat others, the way you treat yourself, the way you experience the world and most importantly, your FEELINGS. Your feelings come from SELF. Feeling scared? That’s who you’re identifying with. The outer self is the only one who can feel such negative feelings about the law of assumption, never the inner/god self who knows their full power.

And if it wasn’t obvious by now, your self concept is buried six feet underground, along with everything you’ve ever wanted. I hope you didn’t get a recent manicure…I hear knocking on the casket you’ve buried her in.

If I wasn’t clear enough before, let’s point out what your self concept looks like. Your standards are low and you’re used to failure. Yikes!

Now that you know why you keep failing, you can finally put it to an end. Hang up with failure, success is calling. It’s time to change your self concept to someone who always fails, to someone who only succeeds.

You know exactly what i’m going to say…and it’s change your assumptions!!! Your self concept IS your assumptions. Change self = change self concept. Same thing. And as you already know, to manifest anything, you change self (changing your awareness to being the person who has whatever it is that you “desire”).

From now on, failure is unheard of for you, success is your new best friend. I hope you weren’t expecting a step by step guide. For something so simple. All you need is your mind. Stop feeling like a failure. Start feeling successful. Knowing that you’re successful no matter what.

Still feeling lost? Surprisingly, i’ll let you off this time, but after this, no more excuses. -> CLICK ME for the perfect self concept!

Success is calling and your hand is inches away from the phone. You know what to do. XOXO

- gossip girl

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL

[pronouncingitwang]

[ID: 8 screenshots of text reading

DOCTOR: What happened? AMY: Twelve years. DOCTOR: You hit me with a cricket bat. AMY: Twelve years. DOCTOR: A cricket bat. AMY: Twelve years and four psychiatrists. DOCTOR: Four? AMY: I kept biting them. DOCTOR: Why? AMY: They said you weren't real.

And this was where Amy Pond usually woke up - unable to make sense of this strange, unsettling dream about a mother she didn't have… about a memory she was sure couldn't be real. In a cold sweat, she reached for the glass of water by her bed, gulping at it. And then, as psychiatrist number three had taught her to do, she counted to ten. She had stopped trying to learn her psychiatrists' names. There was no point when they never lasted. And they never lasted because she kept biting them when they told her he wasn't real. Her raggedy man.

Remember that dog that got run over? I can still see the van driver cradling it and saying the same thing over and over, really desperately hoping that it was all going to be OK. Now here's Amy Pond, standing in the freezing ocean, hold- ing the dead body of her imaginary friend, and shouting at the sea to make him better. Yeah. If only my therapists could see me now.

[Living room] (The nice lady psychiatrist is looking at a painting of the moon and stars.) CHRISTINE: It's a lovely painting, Amelia. And what are all these? AMELIA: Stars. SHARON: Oh, Amelia. CHRISTINE: Tell you what, shall we go outside? [Outside the house] CHRISTINE: What do you see, Amelia? AMELIA: The moon. CHRISTINE: And what else? AMELIA: Just the dark. CHRISTINE: But no stars. If there were stars up there, we'd be able to see them, wouldn't we? Amelia, look at me. You know this is all just a story, don't you? You know there's no such thing as stars.

Amy's eyes were filling with tears but she blinked them away quickly. She knew that eventually she would have to tell him, but she didn't know how. Not without him thinking she was crazy, just like her psychiatrists and her aunt and the school counsellor. And she really didn't want to bite Rory when he was being so nice to her, and …

INTERFACE: Unexpected visitor. Welcome. Please seek assistance. (A Handbot is up ahead.) AMY: Hello? Hey. Oi, wait. (The Handbot turns and scans her.) HANDBOT: You are carrying unregistered bacteria. Please let me help you. AMY: No, I'm not from this world. Your medicine'll kill me. HANDBOT: Statement rejected. Do not be alarmed. This is a kindness.

'That's ironic. So, you just keep them locked up here?' the Doctor said. He sipped his tea. 'How moral and ethical is that?' Jackson set down his tea on one of the few empty spaces on his desk. 'They're here for their own good.' 'I've heard that before,' Amy retorted. 'No, I mean it. They're here for treatment.'

AUGUSTUS: At the age of six and announced that the new head teacher wasn't real because she looked like a cartoon. AMY: Shut up, Dad! RORY: Amy? AUGUSTUS: Amelia? AMY: Sorry, but shut up, please. There's someone missing. Someone important. Someone so, so important. RORY: Amy, what's wrong? AMY: Sorry. Sorry, everyone. But when I was a kid, I had an imaginary friend. TABETHA: Oh no, not this again. AMY: The raggedy Doctor. My raggedy Doctor. But he wasn't imaginary, he was real. TABETHA: The psychiatrists we sent her to.

/end ID]

amy pond + involuntary / coercive treatment

( the eleventh hour / the girl who tore through the universe by nikita gill / dead of winter by james goss / the big bang / the girl who tore through the universe by nikita gill / the girl who waited / apollo 23 by justin richards / the big bang )

[laambfuzz]

—- lunch munch club. ft schlatt. ᝰ

summary: watching porn late one night when you come across an interesting video. you're taken by surprise when you see the main male star is also the man who's streams you tune into almost daily.

— tags: smut, lunch club!schlatt, munch schlatt, mentions of oral, schlatt does purn (duh), open ending.. so we can expand upon this if we're interested.

authors note: hii! the two ideas i had originally can wait, because the lovely @fanficfox posted something about lc!schlatt doing porn and it struck me with inspo. so! everyone say thank you fox, and i hope you all enjoy! ♡

it's not uncommon for you to have some time to just yourself and the stash of porn videos that pop up on your twitter feed

twitter algorithm knows what to give you these days, which is nice. it saves you the hassle of finding a good account

but perhaps twitter knows you a little too well, when you're recommended a video of a guy eating a girl out

and you're intrigued of course, because who doesn't love that? especially when the camera is on her chest, helping entice you into the experience. as if it were you

the video is already a few seconds in by the time you click on it, and you're introduced to the scene with obscene moans escaping the girl

you can see her thighs tremble around the head in between her thighs, her free hand reaching out to run her fingers through the male's hair

you can hear muffled groans from in between her thighs, and you watch as the head moves back slightly, taking a breath

"god sweetheart, you taste so fuckin' good. could stay down here all night and take my sweet time with you."

that's when a shiver runs through your body, because oh. that sounded like.. and you supposed when you looked at the figure of the male, and the hair..

no. you were being stupid. of course you were. why on earth would schlatt of all people do porn. you know what he's like, he wouldn't

but oh, he would. and when he raises his head from beneath the girl's thighs with his lips glistening with her slick, you're frozen

it's as if your mind has short-circuited, because what the fuck?? you have so many questions; why was schlatt doing porn, why was he not making it subtle, why was he fucking good at it?

you don't have time to focus on your own questions, because your eyes are drawn back to the screen. you watch as his slim, naked body crawls up the bed, getting closer to the camera, licking his lips slowly as he groans

"words can't describe how good that was. need you to taste yourself, baby."

and with that, he's leaning over the camera to lock lips with the girl

immediately you close the tab. your whole being is flushed, and you feel hot inside for many reasons

you felt like you shouldn't have seen that, like you were.. intruding. which was stupid, he put this on the internet, there's nothing private about that

you decided you'd sleep it off. or that maybe this was a bizarre dream you'd wake up from not too long from now. anything but clicking back onto it

and yet only 10 minutes later, you had re-opened the tab

the next evening, schlatt is streaming and you try to watch it like normal. as if last night didn't happen

but you couldn't

now, every time he makes a suggestive joke or comment, you're transported back to last night

when he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck mid-stream, you remember how he looked doing it in the video, before he crawled towards the camera

when he licks his lips after taking a drink, getting the remnants of whatever liquid he had consumed from them, you can only see him licking the girl's slick off himself

you felt insane, like you couldn't act normal about it

and maybe it was part of the insanity, but it felt like he knew.

maybe you were just psychoanalysing his every move now, but you could've sworn he was never like this before.. he was

you decided to test the waters with a few donations littered throughout the night

when he has ordered food in and was wolfing it down, there were scraps and sauces across his lips

"are you always this messy? i thought you liked to take your time with things."

when he's reviewing a video and he's talking a lot over a particular section

"you ever been told you talk too much, or do people usually like that?"

or, when he's playing a poorly made hide 'n' seek game with fans

"i'm not sure you're as good at hiding things as you may think."

"oops, 'things' autocorrected in."

every time schlatt hears one of your donations come through tts, he feels a shiver run down his back

he knew his little side hustle wasn't exactly locked behind security, it was just.. out there

maybe he was overthinking it, reading too much into your donations for no reason

either way, he's noting down your name on a sticky note on his desk for next stream for.. reasons.

[star-suh]

Johnny, La Gente Está Muy Loca… WTF

Johnny Suh x Male Reader

cw: protected sex to bareback (remember do NAWT use oil based lube when you're using a condom), some impregnation kink disguised as silly jokes 😭

an: this is the best title i could ever think of ngl, like this is peak star-suh idk.

—

yn was in line waiting for the doors to open so he can finally witness a party with DJ JohnnyBe, he heard that all his parties are fun.

when they opened yn went straight to the bar to order something to drink, while he was waiting for the show to start he made some friends her and there.

“ladies and gentlemen please give it up for our guest DJ JohnnyBe” screams and claps of excitement flooded the room when the dj appeared. “hello everyone, i'm glad to be here and i hope i could make this night unforgettable for all of you” he winked, put on his dark glasses and blasted his first set of songs. the bass sounds make the floor vibrate. the music was intoxicating, DJ JohnnyBe indeed knows how to lit a party. during one of his last sets johnny removed his glasses, his gaze was adjusting to the bright colored flashing lights when he saw yn in the crowd. the guy was happy having the time of his life, something that made johnny smile and caught his attention too.

“excuse me, i’m going to the bathroom” yn whispered to one of his new friends and went there. “it was a magnificent night guys, thank you for coming here but i have to go now” everyone awwed, disappointed, wanting more of him, “but don't worry, tye part continues with the next dj”, everyone screamed in euphoria while johnny left and went to the bathroom.

yn was washing his face when someone entered the bathroom, “hey you're the happy boy that was on the crowd” johnny said with a happy tone. yn was stunned seeing him that close, his mouth was agap, thinking it was a dream caused by all the drinks he had tonight he said “fuck, you're so hot”. johnny was taken aback by this but then smirked, “well thanks” he replies.

yn realized it's not a dream, dj johnny fucking be was right there in front of him. his face became red like a tomato. “i-i'm sorry i think i-i d-drank a lot to-tonight haha” his flustered ass tried to brush it off. johnny places both hands on each side of tn cornering him against a counter. “you look so cute when you're flustered” both males made eye contact, one’s eyes showing how shy he was while the other's were fierce, as if a hunter had just hunted his prey.

“what's wrong party boy. what happened to that “fuck you're so hot” earlier comment, hmm?” at this point yn didn't know what to say he just closed his eyes but opened them again when he felt something poking at his bulge. it was johnny’s bulge. “see how horny i am, right now?, you should take responsibility for it” the low tone of his voice sending yn already to cloud 9, he moaned johnny’s name.

“hmm what was that?” johnny asked, his breath tickling yn’s neck. his lips ghosting his skin. he was desperate to feel johnny, he wanted him to touch him, obliterate him, rearrange his insides. “i’ve never felt this horny before for someone” yn confessed, feeling even more shy. johnny grabbed him by his chin so he can look directly at his eyes, “me neither” he said kissing the flustered boy…

johnny guided yn towards a bathroom stall while still kissing him, his tongue wxploring the other's mouth. “just put it in, i prep myself at home” yn said in between moans. “naughty” johnny heaved. he pulls out a condom from his pocket, unwrapped it and rolled it down his big thick shaft.

“wait” yn stopped johnny from putting in, “use this” he handed johnny a little bottle of lube that one of his new friends, conveniently, gave it to him as a ‘gift’ so he can have lots of fun tonight.

johnny applied and large amount of it on the latex and on yn's hole, he slapped it a few times on the entrance and slowly put it in, inch by inch. the sex was rough, with johnny using his hands to muffle yn's moans, something that was unnecessary due to the excessive loud music outside in the club. there were times were johnny instead made yn suck his fingers as if it was his dick. every time the dj thrusted deep a bulge formed on yn's tummy, “joh-johnny you're very deep”.

yn was pressed against the stall door with his eyes rolled back, johnny was stimulating his prostate continuosly and in return he was gripping hard on johnny's meat, “you're choking my little budy down there” he put his hand on the bottom's head pushing it even more harder against the door. a smile appeared on yn's face, he loved how rough johnny was treating him. “more. more. i need moree~”.

if someone were in the bathroom right now they would think that some rabid dog would be locked in the bathroom, with the loud strange sounds and the banging against the cold metal walls. but in reality johnny was there thrashing yn around the stall, there was not a pose left for them to try or a surface that they haven't touched with their sweaty bodies. missionary, against the wall, riding, with one leg up, johnny fucking him while still grabbing him. yn's hole was already obliterated but eager to receive more.

the smell of sweat, liquor and spit make them both feel dizzy, lost in the pleasure they both craved. hickeys littered all over their collarbones, necks and torso, hell even johnny made some on yn's thigh.

the euphoric feeling made them lost trace of time and their surroundings so much that yn didn't notice that johhny's dick felt warmer and warmer by time, he could feel every vein brushing against his walls. the same happened to johnny, he felt yn's insides warmer and how they hugged his little buddy even more than before. ‘woah, condoms nowadays make you feel like you're not wearing one’ they both said it in their minds. they didn't realize the condom broke and with every thrust it slowly went down johnny’s shaft sitting in the base of it.

johnny hugged yn tightly to impale his meat even more deep and harder, “fuck yeah please like that” yn whimpered, his body squirming in pleasure. “keep doing it like that. just a bit more. yes just right there” yn said to johnny who complied to the bottom’s demands. yn came, his torso being painted in white. his body spasm with every spurt of it. he was happy, he hasn't felt this way in years, this might be the best sex of his life.

“fuck i'm gonna cum” johnny grunted, he wanted to came on yn's face but he didn't wanted to stop feeling the warm insides of the guy so ge decided to just came inside the condom. little did he knew that he was, in fact, covering those insides with his white seed. “how does it feel to have a man's seed deep inside your hole?” johnny asked nibbling on yn's neck. “it feels sticky and so wet” yn slurred, coming back from his high.

the realization hit them both right there, “what do you mean sticky and wet?” johnny looked down seeing how the broken piece of latex was on the base of his shaft while the rest of it was inside of the other, bareback. “oh god i just bred you”, “oh my god you just breed me”, johnny and yn exclaimed in unison…

they both get out of the stall, yn walked awkwardly after all his hole suffered a lot tonight. staring at themselves in the mirror with a dumbfounded expression while fixing their looks and disheveled hair. “why are we acting as if you're gonna get pregnant” johnny joked, trying to lighten the awkward atmosphere.

“johnny, it … it was the first time someone came inside me” yn looked down feeling embarrassed but once again johnny grabbed his chin to make eye contact with him “then i guess i have to take responsibility for that baby on there” he caressed yn’s stomach. they looked at each other and then exploded in laugh, “dumbass” yn blurted out hitting johnny's shoulder lightly.

“you're way cool than it thought” yn confesses “and so wild in sex, my back side hurts a bit”.

“i also think you're cool” johnny replied politely too, “if you want, come to my hotel room. i know a home remedy to ease that pain” he gripped one of his ass cheeks, “the night is still young” he wiggled his eyebrows.

yn caught what he meant and said “oh yes of course, i would like to try it. besides i kinda want other of your babies inside me”. johnny kissed him in the lips and then in the forehead, “let's make a football team then”. they left the bathroom straight to the hotel room to chase that euphoric feeling again.

[kunareads]

get it over with

sukuna x reader

you break down, and he holds you together, no questions asked.

masterlist

wc: 1.6k

love letter to the emotionally stunted girlies <3

content: established relationship (sort of), hurt/comfort, nothing explicit, reader breaking down, he loves you so bad, soft sukuna

+++

i’m wondering why it keeps thundering

it’s late.

sukuna expects to find you in his bed, buried in his clothes, curled up like you always are. his apartment doesn’t feel right when you’re not here—when he doesn’t see the shape of you sprawled across his mattress, dreaming in the space that somehow became yours without either of you saying it out loud.

if you are awake, you’re waiting for him. lights dim, a movie playing, stretched out on the couch like you own the place. you always greet him the same way—some lazy remark about how long he took, how you almost fell asleep waiting, how he should be grateful you stayed.

(he never says it, but he is.)

but the apartment feels wrong tonight, like it’s holding its breath.

he almost trips over your bag, your shoes, abandoned in the entryway. the lights are off, the city casting long shadows through the windows.

he pauses in the doorway, gaze sweeping over the space, something tugging at his chest. at first, he doesn’t see you.

then he finds you. on the living room floor.

small, curled in on yourself, arms around your knees, head bowed low. your jacket is still on, halfway down your shoulders, like you meant to take it off but didn’t get that far.

he watches.

you’re never like this. you hold things together better than anyone he knows. you walk through hell without flinching, without showing anything but that sharp, steady ease you wear like armor. he’s seen you pissed, triumphant, reckless. he’s seen you exhausted, on the edge of something dangerous, close to breaking but never quite there.

but this is different.

he stands there, his arms loose at his sides, breath even. it’s not hesitation, just unfamiliar ground. he doesn’t know what to do with the way your shoulders shake, the way your whole body folds into itself like something’s crushing you from the inside.

(you look like you’re trying to erase yourself. he hates it.)

something heavy settles in his chest. it’s not pity. not discomfort. some other nameless thing.

without a word, he moves. he crosses the space, lowers himself to the ground beside you, and pulls you in. his arms slip around you, steady and certain, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

won’t you just rain, and get it over with?

you don’t move.

your weight against him is hesitant at first, like you’re not sure if this is allowed. like you’re deciding if you can take this from him. he notices it in the way you hover, how your body stays tense, how you brace for something that never comes.

(you’ve never really asked sukuna for anything that matters. would you, if you knew he’d give you whatever you wanted?)

his arms stay firm around you, one hand resting at the back of your head, the other wrapped around your waist. it’s not cautious, not careful, just solid. like this is normal, even though it’s never happened before.

you smell like yourself, but also like the cold. like wind on skin, like you’ve been outside too long and the night air is still clinging to you. he knows you do that sometimes—wear yourself out on purpose, walking for hours, chasing exhaustion, outrunning whatever’s clawing at you.

it didn’t work.

because now you’re shaking, breath coming too fast, whole body trembling against him.

he feels it hit all at once. the sharp, shaky inhale you take before your body caves inward, the sudden weight of you collapsing against his chest, the way your fingers twist into his shirt, searching, clinging. like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

you’re sobbing. hard.

sukuna doesn’t know if you even realize it. he doesn’t know if you care. you never let yourself break like this, not in front of him, not in front of anyone.

he waits for it to pass. hoping it does.

when you exhale—shaky, uneven, tired—he presses you closer, fingers curling into the fabric of your jacket like you might slip through his grip if he doesn’t.

something in his chest loosens when you don’t pull away.

he exhales too, slow and steady, trying to regulate you, trying to get you to follow. breathe with me. he doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. you always match each other this way.

you do now, too.

without thinking, he nudges his chin against your temple. a small touch. nothing, really.

but you feel it. he knows because you react—just barely, a fraction of a shift, but enough that he notices. enough that it does something to him.

he leans back against the couch, pulling you with him, guiding you down until your weight is fully against him, your head burrowed in his chest, his arms holding you steady, no space left between the two of you.

(anyone else seeing this would think they were hallucinating. you, breaking. sukuna, holding you together. sukuna doesn’t care.)

you need him. he knows, even if you never admit it.

i see you rolling it, let’s get it over with

your breathing slows first.

it’s not steady, not even—just less broken. the sharp, gasping sobs soften, unraveling into something quieter, tired, worn down by their own force. your tears still soak through his shirt, warm and damp, but they come slower now.

your body follows.

slowly, gradually, exhaustion dragging at your limbs, pulling you under like a tide. it’s like your bones have gone heavy, like you fought it as long as you could. you’re sinking further into him without even realizing it.

(you’ve been holding your breath for years. he remembers when you started. he should’ve seen this coming.)

sukuna stays still, patient in a way no one would expect from him. he doesn’t move, doesn’t risk disturbing the way you’ve practically melted into him. just lets you stay, lets you breathe. lets himself hold you like this.

the room is silent except for your breathing, the occasional hiccup from your chest.

your body loses its tension, but his mind won’t stop running. it won’t stop cataloging everything—how small you feel, how he should’ve known, how he should’ve done something before it got this bad.

this is the first time you’ve ever let him see you like this. the first time you’ve let anyone see you like this. he wonders if you’ve ever been like this at all.

eventually, you sag against him fully, exhausted, the last of your resistance slipping away.

sukuna exhales too, low and steady.

something about it feels like a truce.

he doesn’t let you go.

even though your sobs have quieted and your breathing has evened out, even though the room has settled into silence. he keeps his arms around you. not tight, not restraining. just there.

he’s not good at this kind of thing.

he doesn’t know what people are supposed to say in moments like this. doesn’t know how to string together the right words to make any of it better. doesn’t know what you need.

so he leans down, murmuring against your hair, lips brushing your temple.

“’m here.” it’s not meant to comfort you, not exactly. just to ground you. to remind you.

you shift slightly, your face still against his chest, your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt. when you finally move enough for him to see you, your face is flushed, eyes red and swollen, lips parted like you’re still catching your breath. his heart squeezes hard.

(he can see the wheels turning in your head. you’re already trying to stitch yourself back together. he wants to tell you not to bother.)

he doesn’t comment. doesn’t smirk, doesn’t mock. he just looks at you.

for once, he doesn’t have anything to say. for once, you don’t either.

it’s rare, this silence between you. he’s not sure if he likes it.

then, after a long moment, voice quiet—

”you done?”

a beat. room to say no.

it’s alright, we can roll in the clouds

you pull back first.

slowly, carefully, like you’re testing the movement. you sniff, avoiding his gaze, wiping your face with your sleeves.

sukuna lets you go, but not completely. his hands slide down your arms, slow and deliberate, settling at your wrists. his fingers don’t press, don’t hold. they just linger.

you clear your throat, shifting like you’re trying to find a normal that doesn’t exist here. “we can get up now.”

he doesn’t budge.

he just gives you this soft smile, looking way too comfortable, leaning back against the couch, watching you like he has all the time in the world.

“you first.”

silence.

neither of you move. you stare each other down for a moment.

you sigh, rolling your eyes, but you don’t pull away. instead, you settle back into him, easy, instinctive, like it’s nothing.

he feels it—the weight of you against him, the way your body relaxes back into place, the quiet trust in the way you let yourself stay.

it does something to him, the lack of hesitation.

you wouldn’t do this with anyone else. he knows that much.

(you let him hold you like this once. a lifetime ago. laughing against his throat, warm and careless and half-asleep, burrowing into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. he almost forgot what it felt like.)

he tilts his head down, presses a kiss to the top of yours and lingers there, breathing you in. he stays there longer than he means to. when he speaks, his voice is quiet, soft in a way he’d never admit.

“crybaby.”

“asshole.”

but you’re smiling now.

[amywritesthings]

I have to put all of these tags in a read more because when I'm telling you I have read them over and over to the point where I have teared up alsdfjkalsjdf peach you absolutely spoiled me with these reactions, you really did. This is every author's dream to see: a wall of text with many capslocks and screeching. If I was self conscious about my smut, then I am certainly no longer thanks to you!!!!

#the second and I mean the SECOND I saw ‘resolved sexual tension’ I started giggling like I fucking goblin #plus ‘nipple play’ Amy you’re trying to kill me #I’m on my period and you’re trying to kill me #idk starting with cradling her head when that’s the thing she hit and how he lost her?? I’m fine. I’m fine. #(I’m sobbing loudly) #instinctually you jump knowing he’ll catch you’ oh you’re out for blood ok #‘fighting or fucking. the odds are fifty fifty’ when I tell you I snorted #Hange’s got a bet pool going I know it #HIM CUTTING OFF HER APOLOGY I AM EATING THIS UP SO HARD AMY #the two of you know the language of violence so well but you know each other better is actually an insane line #Amy you always blow me away but THIS?? #it’s so tender and sweet and you can just feel the sense of *finally* #like yeah there are pieces still missing but they’re falling back into place and that’s what matters #YEAH JAMES CLIMB THAT MAN LIKE THE TREES YOU CRASHED THROUGH #‘do you think the others —‘ ‘I don’t care’ might be the hottest exchange I’ve ever read #god you catch his personality so beautifully. it’s such a treat to read your Levi #even if dirt was a sin apparently you were not. <- Amy I’m going to kill you /aff #tit lover Levi I love this song #HIM HOLDING BACK IM GONNA SOBB #he will never forgive himself for what happened I know it but he won’t let that keep him from what he wants and I love that so much #PINNING HER DOWN BY HEE HIPS WHILE SHE COMES I SWEAR I DROOLED #“our rule’ oh I would’ve cursed his ass out over that fucking three rule thing. now is not the time Levi!! #still remembering to use protection!! my conscious babies!! #‘I never stopped loving you’ hey what if I threw myself off a cliff?? dramatically #‘TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT FROM ME. IT’S ALWAYS BEEN YOURS’ #AMY WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO JUST WRITE BANGER AFTER BANGER #‘I’ll cum so fast’ yeah that’s the goal stupid. #oh he’s a babbler. #’let go. I’ll catch you’ AMY FUCK OFFFFF /aff #you’re killing me with this. the symbolism of falling as something good compared to last chapter and the start of the story

silver underground. | chapter 24

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 6.3k Summary: day 163 - continued.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - explicit smut, resolved sexual tension, oral (f!receiving), nipple play, body worship, fingering, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, protected piv sex, angst, mentions of death, sensuality Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

I feel... you.

The answer to your question you’ve been asking the moment you opened your eyes.

The clarity you’ve sought ever since you locked eyes with the captain of the Scouts.

I remember you.

Levi kisses you like he knows you, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

His sturdy hands flutter in a flurry, touching every part of you like he wishes he could have it all.

Chilled palms cup your face, cradling your head as if it's the most precious thing they've ever touched, before sliding down your neck; to the slope of your shoulder, dipping down your sides — pulling you closer, closer, until you’re airborne.

You’re not afraid of falling.

Not with him.

Instinctually you jump, knowing he’ll catch you. 

Your thighs clench around his waist as one strong arm supports your weight, unwilling to compromise the position of his other hand. It remains on your cheek, cupping your face to hold your kisses steady.

As the man stumbles forward, you hear the abrupt slam of the wooden chair go flying across the room, skidding to its side on the floor. 

It’s loud.

(Surely someone downstairs will hear.)

Hange, Moblit, Erwin — in a best-case scenario, those who stayed behind will be the only privy to the commotion.

However, if the entire squad has returned from the forest...

Well, there's no mistaking the shuffles and slams coming from Captain Levi's room.

Fighting or fucking; the odds are fifty-fifty.

He doesn't seem to care.

Honestly?

Neither do you.

(Too much time wasted on open secrets.)

With immense control and strength, he slowly lowers you both to the bed. The bed frame creaks in its age under the weight, but the mattress feels soft compared to the forest floor you crashed into mere hours ago.

Your back touches the ivory sheets, engulfing you in the scent of him. Something uniquely Levi; crisp and impossibly clean with a musk that’s making your mouth water. 

You’ve smelled it in passing the few times he’s passed you at headquarters — always at arm’s length, no matter how close you try to get — but now it’s bound to stick to your body, your clothes —

The way it used to in the Underground. 

The way it used to in this very bed.

His kisses are messy yet precise, focused on the feel of your mouth against his. When you let out a shaken breath and whimper, overwhelmed by his reinvigorated passion, Levi outright groans. 

The same arm once holding you up snakes around from under your back to meet its twin cradling your face, keeping you in place.

(As if you’d ever wish to leave.)

“I’m sorry,” you whisper between kisses.

“Don’t,” he replies just as softly, tugging at your lower lip with his teeth. “Not now.”

“But—”

“I don’t want your damn apologies,” he sighs, traveling south to pepper your jawline with short, chaste kisses. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

When he senses your hesitance, he pumps the brakes on his kisses and raises his chin to look you in the eye. The storm in his eyes has darkened to a damn near black.

His button-down hangs off of his bony frame, giving you a view of the expanse of skin beneath.

“Nothing,” he repeats.

Like he knows you want to fight.

(The two of you know the language of violence so well, but you know one another better.)

The protests, the pleas, the endless stream of begging dies on your tongue the second his thumb grazes your lower lip with reverence.

Emotion flickers across his face, gone as fast as it came, before he dives back in for another kiss — slower this time, the push and pull deliberate with reassurance.

This.

This is what your lips should be doing, not apologizing.

The message is received loud and clear: you tilt your chin to meet him in every kiss, hands blindly raising to run through the soft strands of his black hair. He exhales through his nose, the hot breath tickling your skin.

For the longest time, it’s all you do.

Kiss.

One for every day spent apart.

One for every fight you’ve ever had.

One for every memory you’ve yet to recall.

The puzzle has a frame, yet there are still missing pieces, destroyed edges, that may never return. Maybe he’ll never make peace with it, but knowing you were a stone’s throw away from death surrenders that grief into confetti.

There will be new memories to make.

(As the keeper of your heart, you trust his recollection of the details you can no longer recount.)

This life won’t be perfect, it never has been from the beginning, but so long as you have this — have Levi — then nothing else matters.

“I can hear you thinking.”

The first part of that statement is muffled by a kiss, but he pulls away to check in during this languid, yearning make out session.

Levi squints down at you, lips pink from exertion.

“I’m not,” you lie.

His eyes narrow further. 

“Fine. I am.”

“About?”

“About how badly I want you.”

The blatant honesty dissolves that narrowness in seconds.

“About... how you—”

With the strength harnessed by adrenaline, you push on Levi’s chest, hard, until he’s flat on his back.

The bed creaks again when you crawl on top of him, straddling his hips while your hands plant themselves on the soft flesh of his wrists.

Down; you push down, pinning him underneath.

Levi doesn’t tense. He simply stares above, allowing you to do this.

“Want you,” you clarify, “yes.”

His throat bobs, but his expression stays cool. 

“Are you sure?”

“Do I look like I’m hesitating, Captain Levi?” you challenge, leaning down to hover over his face.

His hands leisurely flex under your hold, as if to relax them from their clenched state. 

For a moment, doubt creeps in.

Even if he’s confessed, there is still so much time unspoken for; so much to talk about, so much that you have missed.

Maybe it’s too much.

The grip on his wrists falters. “Unless if you don’t want—”

With inhuman strength, he uses the light hold you have on his wrists to push up, setting you off balance.

As you waver he quickly finds the upper hand, switching your positions once more so he can pin your wrists to the mattress beneath.

“Don’t even try to finish that sentence.”

To make his point, he drops his head to your neck and plants open-mouthed kisses against the column of your throat. You can’t help but make a strained noise of desire, eyes fluttering shut from ecstasy.

From this vantage point, you feel it — the sheer tension in his hold on your wrists, how desperately he resists clenching down, how gentle he aims to be when he glides both of your wrists from the sides of your face to over the crown of your head.

Levi doesn’t tremble, not like you. He remains as calculated as ever.

His lazy, methodical kisses trail up your neck to your jaw to your mouth. Both of his hands work to carefully connect your wrist in an x-formation. Once satisfied by your compliance, he slides one of his hands over both to latch on, pushing them down — yet still giving you plenty of room to escape if something doesn’t feel right.

(For the first time in over six months, everything feels perfectly in place.)

Panting against his mouth to catch your breath, a floating thought comes to mind once again.

So you speak. “Do you think the others—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You follow his lead, tilting your chin up to meet him. “I do not fucking care right now, James.”

His candidness earns him a gentle giggle, and you feel the slightest shift against your lips:

A smile of his own.

You tap his hip cascaded by the disheveled fabric of his white button-down with your knee.

“Then take this off.”

The kisses cease at your request — no, demand — and Levi pulls away enough to stare down into yours.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Those beautiful gray eyes, stormy with droplets of blue — you realize the deep hurt in your belly is a pang of loss.

You say it before you can regret holding it back.

"I missed you."

His expression smooths with how earnest you sound beneath him, before clearing his throat.

“Which part?” he asks, voice slightly strained from the efforts of holding back.

You blink twice. "Which part?"

"Of me, yeah."

Searching his face, you decide to play along.

“Are you going to get mad if I say all of you?”

His eyes narrow. “Lazy.”

The flatness of his joke earns a genuine belly laugh from you. 

Levi lets go of your wrists to sit up, nudging your legs apart so he can wriggle out of the way. You easily comply, careful to leave your boots hanging off of the bed when you widen your thighs.

Stepping away from the bed, he bends over first to remove both of your boots, then his own.

Any other time he’d have a conniption over the dirt, the grime, that you’ve brought into this bed.

(If there was one thing to remember about your past, it was that people from the Underground City could still be just as clean as anyone else. So much time spent cleaning the endless grit from under your nails; an impossible feat.)

Even if dirt was a sin, apparently you were not.

He doesn’t even blink at the specs that may very well still be in your hair.

Instead he’s focused on watching your face as he unfastens the harness at his sternum, shrugging out of his own leather straps. Tossed carelessly to the floor, he rips off his dirtied cravat and ODM gear skirt next.

Pressing a knee into the mattress, he rejoins you on the bed to reach for your chest.

He hesitates, throat bobbing with fleeting uncertainty before he begins to slip the leather through its loop.

“Sit up for me.”

You acquiesce, sore muscles protesting the movement as you prop yourself up on your elbows.

He’s softer with his movements when it comes to your uniform, pulling it apart piece by piece, as if afraid one false move will ruin this dream.

It’s not a dream, you want to tell him. I’m right here. I’ve always been right here. I won’t be going anywhere ever again.

You don’t.

Can’t, not when you’re so mesmerized by the way he pauses at the first button of your shirt.

For a short moment he meets your gaze, studying it, before nodding once.

One by one, deft fingers unbutton your shirt until it’s hanging from your frame, revealing a chest band. All of the air rushes from his lungs in one swift woosh, until you realize—

The scars.

Shit.

The dreamy spell is broken, and soon you find yourself scrambling for something that will quell any negative emotion bubbling in his belly at the sheer sight of your body.

A part of you wants to cover up, act coy and switch roles —

But clever Levi, forever two steps ahead, dives right in to kiss the one of the many healing scars littering your body after the fall — the jagged line just above your left breast — with such fierce devotion that the gesture nearly knocks the damn wind of your lungs.

“Beautiful.”

The murmur is tattooed into your skin, invisible to the wandering eye.

“So—”

He unsnaps the bind.

“—fucking—”

Like a feral animal, his hand tugs once, twice, until it gives and unravels.

“—beautiful.”

Levi forgets himself when his eyes meet your breasts, and you see the way his pupils damn near dilate at the sight.

His lips part, slick from the way he licks between them, before he exhales one single curse like it's a prayer.

“Fuck.”

You stay perfectly still on your elbows, perched on an incline in his bed.

At a loss for words as he stares at your torso like it’s a work of art, your heart hammers in your chest as you telepathically plead with him to simply do whatever he wishes.

Anything he desires, so long as he moves.

Your voice dissolves to a whimper.

“Levi—”

“Can I?”

“Please.”

His own voice crackles like a spark readying a flame. You want to feel him, separated by the absence of muscle memory; to have his hands, his lips, scorched on your skin forevermore.

Levi gives into temptation and kisses south, his nose tracing in a straight line until both hands hold your breasts.

Hot sighs heavily flutter across your skin before those very lips kiss the rising bud they’d been seeking, causing your back to arch clear off of the bed. You whine, trying desperately to stay quiet.

Levi’s too busy worshipping the nipple in his mouth to chastise you for the sound.

His tongue swirls to harden it faster while his other hand massages the other breast, his calloused thumb rolling in the same direction.

Your nails dig into the sheets, anchoring your hands from clawing up his back.

“Levi.”

He hums around your nipple as his answer, its tone dismissive.

When you’re brave enough to open your eyes, you see that his eyes are completely closed — softened in an otherworldly ecstasy at the sheer feel of your body against his.

The sight shoots a dizzying amount of arousal to your belly.

When he switches it up and sucks, those eyes lazily open to stare up at you: a challenge to let him stay like this, to never leave.

He wouldn’t have to ask twice.

If this was your entire night, with Levi’s mouth on your chest while he lives in the memories of you old and new, then you’re inclined to say that there are worse ways to spend your time.

(No, you’re happy to say like this forever.)

Except a chill passes over your pampered breast as Levi kisses across it, abandoning your nipple to trail to the other side — 

Fuck.

“You’re going to kill me,” you rasp, too worked up to care if you sound wrecked.

“Won’t,” is all he replies as he dives back in, worshipping your body.

“Will,” you grit, trying your damnedest not to cry out from just how good it feels.

With one final kiss to your nipple, Levi detaches with mercy to shrug the pesky white button-down off of his shoulders.

The fabric joins the mounting pile of clothes on the floor, but his hands hesitate when they touch his belt.

His eyes notably flicker to your belt — a pause.

Deciding.

If it’s too soon—

If it’s too much —

No, you want to cry out. It’s not enough.

The words die on your tongue, possessed by the ghost that’s plagued your mind for months.

Instead you take action: sitting up on the bed, overly eager fingers tremble as they begin to unbuckle his belt, working at the leather straps crisscrossing his thighs and calves. 

“James.”

His voice is dying on his tongue; a singular syllable of surprise.

“Let me.”

You notice the way his abdomen tenses at your words as you tug the first belt from its loops.

“Are you s—”

“I said,” you slowly repeat, moving closer to kiss the trail of dark hair peppering just under his belly button. Levi exhales like he’s been punched. “Let. Me.”

Punctuating each word to show your seriousness, your eyes meet as he stares below.

Inch by inch, you press slow, meaningful kisses in his skin — first to the left, curving towards his hip. 

Your hands push down the trousers of his uniform pants, using the strength to drag the leather straps wrapping around his legs to fall with them.

Levi stands before you in merely white briefs, and there’s no hiding the immense arousal straining against the thin fabric.

The sight causes your breath to simply evaporate from your lungs, unable to stop staring.

From your peripheral you see the hand at his side flex then snatch into a fist to combat the desire to touch you.

He must feel guilt.

He must be so terrified that this moment will simply evaporate like the rest of your memories.

That you may have woken up, yes, but you can still fall back asleep.

You refuse.

“You can touch me,” you murmur into his skin, and Levi’s throat bobs. 

When he doesn’t move, you take the first at his side and systematically uncurl every finger.

He lets you.

Slowly, calculated, you raise his hand until it’s running over the crown of your head. His nostrils flare as he takes control, abandoning the guide of your hand to cup the side of your face.

A gentle thumb smears across your lower lip in reverence.

“I won’t break,” you tell him, knowing he’ll protest. Your voice drops to a hush. “I won’t.”

“I know,” is all he can reply — then your back hits the bed again, and he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed.

Levi disappears from your immediate line of sight, but you feel pressure on your hips: inch by inch, he’s undone the belt and buttons and yanked your uniform down your thighs, your knees, until they’re hanging at your ankles.

Oh.

One by one, he slips your feet from the pants and uses your ankles to widen your knees, bearing you to him at eye-level in just your white cotton underwear.

“Shit.” 

A feeble gasp escapes when his lips start at your left foot. 

You can’t see him, only feel him — he presses a tender kiss to your ankle then another just above it, creating a careful line up to your calf. His fingers gingerly curl around it to keep you steady as he ascends with his lips touching every single inch he can.

When he reaches your knee, you see it: the darkness in his gaze, how stormy his eyes have become, while making direct contact with you.

“Levi,” you moan, refusing to look away as he makes a point to stare at you while he nudges your left thigh further out to keep kissing it.

Stay awake.

Don’t forget this.

Don’t ever forget this again.

“Can I?” he asks, and you nearly miss the question in your intoxicated, aroused state.

You know.

You know exactly what he’s asking to do.

There’s no chance in hell you’d ever say no.

Wordlessly you nod, but Levi’s tongue darts out to taste the skin of your inner thigh. “Say it.”

(Fuck, when did he get so demanding?)

“Yes,” you exhale. “Yes, I want this. Want you.”

He doesn’t answer with words — a mere wanting growl takes their place.

Raven-black hair tickles your bare skin as he shifts, and strong arms drop to your rope under your knees.

With one swift tug, he drags you directly against his face, and the world becomes a myriad of brilliant colors.

Even if it’s a mere kiss to the cloth of your dampened underwear, you whine from the sheer desire flooding through your veins.

Maybe in another life, you would have teased him for his eagerness.

Maybe before the fall, you would have made him work for it, asked him to crawl to you, to beg.

Not this time.

You don’t have time to be coy, not when it’s been so long.

The tip of his tongue sensually drags up the center of your underwear, the slowness obscene. Your head slams back into the mattress with a soundless cry. 

The hot puffs of his breath tickle your inner thighs as he continues to swirl his tongue against the final barrier between you and his mouth.

“Please,” you beg, throwing all dignity to the wind.

He doesn’t seem to hear you.

Levi’s hands grip your hips firmly, keeping you in place as he continues to gather the taste of you on your panties.

When you have the courage to watch him again, you see that his eyes are closed.

Like he’s found some kind of paradise right here.

With you.

“Levi,” you whimper louder, voice terribly shattered, “Levi, Levi, please—”

His moans against your clothed clit damn near scrambles your brain.

Finally ending your torture, he pulls away to tug your soaked underwear down your thighs, your knees, until they drop to the floor of their own volition.

“Been dreaming of this,” he finally states, his voice several octaves lower and cracked. “The goddamn taste of you—”

He cuts himself off when he runs his thumbs down your folds, parting them with his thumbs.

If you weren’t so eager, then maybe you’d be embarrassed by how wet you were.

Dripping, really, from the way he worshipped your chest only minutes ago.

You almost scream when he dives in and kisses your clit, before his tongue languidly glides against it. By some miracle, you don’t.

His thumbs leave you in favor of holding open your legs for him as he feasts, refusing to allow them to close from the shock of the forgotten sensation.

With one hand grabbing the pillow above your head while the other threads through his hair, you’re unable to take your eyes away from how thoroughly he eats you out.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, and the vibrations of his groans of agreeance damn near take you out.

The captain’s tongue explores every atom of you as if it has navigated this journey more times than he can count; as if he knows you better than you know yourself.

Because a part of you can remember —

The things you like.

The things you don’t like.

The hazy desires that plague heated dreams at night.

Yet Levi reaffirms them, teaches your body language right back to you, as his eyes lift from his task to yours to watch you watching him devour you whole.

Mesmerized, you stare back.

His lips close around your clit and suck as if to challenge you to look away, but all you can do is tense your abdomen and moan, louder this time, while your eyes flutter.

Stay open.

Don’t ever forget.

Lips parted with shaken breath, you witness this man mercilessly pleasures you.

Stares, so he knows that you’re still taken by him.

Worships, so he can remember what it’s like to finally have you in his bed after so many months apart.

It won’t take long to fall clear over the edge.

Not at this rate.

But you don’t want it to be over.

“Wait,” you whisper, “wait, I’m almost — I want you in—”

The second syllable of that word is lost in a sharp cry to the ceiling when he abandons solely sucking on your clit to focus instead on flickering side to side, rapidly, ensuring you’ll come no matter how badly you want to fall into bliss alongside him.

There’s no chance you can stave it off.

Your climax, a damn near year in the making, approaches like a bursting star.

“Levi—” you breathe, higher pitched than usual. “Levi, Levi, Le—”

You can’t finish the next syllable before you're surging off of the mattress, and he shoves you down against it by the hips so you don’t hurt yourself.

The world morphs and shapes into brilliant bright colors in the back of your skull as you come, and you do your damnedest not to shout.

As soon as your moan reaches its peak, your hand manages to smack against your mouth, muffling the strained screech.

His tongue slows down, instead focused on leisurely catching your essence with his mouth.

Greedily collecting every last drop.

So he doesn’t have to dream anymore, you realize.

So he never goes without again.

Panting heavily, your chest rises and falls rapidly as you try to remember which way is up.

“Holy shit.”

That doesn’t even begin to describe how otherworldly you feel at this moment.

“Levi…”

When you finally open your eyes, you see him resting his cheek against the inside of your thigh, nose and mouth glistening with the essence of you.

You’re not sure who is more satisfied.

“You okay?” he asks, softly this time.

Hardly a whisper.

You nod wordlessly, but hold your hand out for him. “Please?”

“Please what?”

“Let me have you.”

A storm flashes across his expression as he stands from the floor, his knee coming to rest on the edge of the mattress.

You can tell he isn’t putting his whole weight on it, avoiding the creaking of the bed frame as he contemplates.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, his fingertips running up and down your thigh absently.

“Why?”

“Because it’s been a while.”

The wandering fingers travel up, toying with the mess between your legs. Your hips jerk from oversensitivity, and a ghost of a smug smile passes across his lips.

“And I’m not rushing this.”

“Why?” you repeat, this time in a whine.

“Like I said—”

He begins, testing the give of your entrance as his middle finger pushes its tip into you.

You sharply gasp, forcing him to instantly stop. Those gray eyes flicker to your face.

“—it’s been a while.”

“I don’t care,” you state. “I can take it.”

“Well I do, so deal with it.”

There.

That commanding tone reserved for his position as captain pokes through, and it shoots straight to your lower belly.

Rocking your hips to try and force more of his finger into you, you shake your head wildly.

“You do realize that the more —”

His fingertip eases out, causing you to cry out in frustration. “Shh.”

There’s only so much sanity left in your body to plead your case.

“It — ah — the more time we spend away from the others downstairs—”

“As much as I like hearing you talk,” he reassures, voice dropping to a husk of its former self, “I really don’t want to discuss the whereabouts of anyone else when I could have my fingers inside you instead.”

Then that same finger suddenly pushes.

One knuckle.

Two.

Your head drops back when he buries his middle finger into you, unapologetic.

His free palm drops to the side of your head as he hovers over you, easing you to relax as he pushes one finger in and out.

The fringe of his black hair falls over his eyes, his face flushed with inexplicable lust.

“Do you remember our rule?”

Do you really expect me to think straight now? is what you want to say.

Instead you keep your eyes on him as he fucks you on one finger, too tight yet not nearly enough. You maintain eye contact, scrambling for an answer.

“With what?”

When his finger curls, you have to bite your tongue not to shriek.

“C’mon, James,” he purrs, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit, “what’s my rule for you?”

Rules.

Rules, rules, rules—

Then it clicks, the puzzle piece unearthed deep from your psyche.

“Three,” you weakly whimper, realizing just what’s about to happen.

When we had our own place—

He nudges his index finger beside his middle finger, opening you up more.

You widen your legs with little shame, sinking into the sheets as this man thoroughly takes you apart in his captain’s bed.

—I always said I’d give you three.

“Think you can give me it?” he asks with feigned confidence.

You know what he’s really asking:

Is this too much?

Am I moving too fast?

Would this be taking advantage too soon?

The opposite; what he’s doing isn’t enough, because you know what you want.

You need to give him what he wants first before you reach your goal.

Belatedly, you nod emphatically.

“Good,” is all he replies in that baritone voice of his, before dropping down to kiss you when he curls his fingers again, relentlessly fucking you.

The kiss is maddening. Searing. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you try to keep up with the messy press of lips, all too eager to indulge in what it means to feel alive.

This.

This is what home feels like.

You never had to build it with nails and wood and insulation.

It was always in the person hovering above you, working you open with a sneaky third finger that causes a pathetic strangled moan to die on your lips the second his tongue dips into your mouth.

Relentless.

You’re so far gone that you don’t even realize you’ve already come a second time.

It’s Levi who pulls back, looking down at his hand as he keeps curling his fingers into you.

“Shit, already? Can feel you getting tighter– Fuck, James.”

Shaking from the less intense but no less amazing orgasm, you come silently on his hand as you melt into the sheets.

Stars blur your vision like the first snow of a winter.

Weightless.

Watching Levi pull his fingers out of you to immediately put them into his mouth, licking each digit clean, is an out of body experience.

Nothing to waste, nothing to lose — he relishes in the taste lingering on his tongue before you leisurely nudge him with your knee.

He’s still wearing his underwear, but his cock is practically ready to burst through the fabric. His hardness looks painful, the flush of his skin prominent against the ivory cotton.

“...do we still have condoms?”

Your voice is faint, an exhale at best.

His eyes widen briefly before his jaw clenches, and his hair flutters as he nods.

“Yeah. They… should be expiring in about two months.”

“But not right now.”

Levi considers your inquiry, searching your face. “Not right now, no.”

A moment of content silence passes, his eyes glued to yours.

You want to reassure him that you’re more than ready, that it’s been too fucking long since you’ve had him, that you need this more than anything you’ve ever needed in your life.

You can’t.

All you can do is beg, as you have this whole day.

“Please?”

His head drops in defeat, shoulders slumping.

All of the air leaves his lungs as he leaves your side to rummage in the nightstand by his bed, and you can see it clear as day on the hand that is still pressed to the mattress:

He’s trembling.

Sitting up on your elbow, you reach to gently place your palm over it. His attention whips back to you, first staring at your joined hands before looking back at you.

“Are you sure?” the captain asks, looking for complete and utter consent.

You open your mouth to respond, but Levi curls his fist over the condom foil and sits up taller.

His hand lifts the two of your hands together, switching their positions so your palm ends up on his cheek.

In a tender moment, his lips press a chaste kiss to its center.

“We can wait if it’s too much.”

You shake your head wildly. “It’s not too much.”

“You only just—”

“Levi.”

Exasperated, you crawl around him to slowly hike your bare leg over his hip.

Hovering over his lap, his eyes round when you snap the waistband of his briefs between pinched fingers. Instinctively his hand reaches to steady your bare hip.

“I know you have every good reason to worry that I could change my mind. That I could forget.”

He flinches, if only for a fraction of a second.

“But I never left you. I never stopped wanting to be near you. I never…”

Trailing off, you realize.

The words are right there on your tongue.

The image flashes through your mind: two kids just barely making sense of this cruel world, tangled together, when his whispered words tickled the shell of your ear.

Words that would change your life forever.

“I never stopped loving you.”

With a single blink, the lines on Levi’s weary face soften.

The captain’s throat bobs, swallowing the emotions that come with your confession. 

He speaks with a conviction unlike anything you’ve ever heard.

“...I never stopped loving you, too.”

Joy blossoms in the center of your chest as you lean in, capturing his lips in a kiss that seals the promise of forever. He kisses back just as eagerly, his hands leaving your body to push his underwear hastily down his hips. 

You hear the tear of a wrapper foil, feel the shuffling of his hands between your bodies, before lining up the tip of himself against your entrance.

You both stop.

Testing the give with a gentle nudge, you both let out a gut-punch exhale.

“Want you to set the pace,” he states against your lips, trying his damnedest to keep his voice from shaking. “Take whatever you want from me. It’s always been yours.”

Yours.

Nose to nose, you allow him to hold his hard and eager cock steady as you wrap your hand around the back of his neck for an anchor.

Levi lets out a shaken breath when you begin to sink, face flushed with sweat and arousal.

No going back.

(You never want to leave again.)

Inch by inch, you ease yourself onto Levi’s cock. Your eyelids flutter from the sheer ecstasy of finally, finally, having him inside you again.

The captain seated beneath you is oh, so focused, nostrils flared as he bites back a heavy groan.

Although it takes baby steps to get there — you rock your hips and fuck the tip of him, your body slowly relaxing enough to take up more of him — you eventually end up seated with your legs wrapped around his waist.

Levi instinctively curls a strong arm around your waist to keep you in place, looking utterly wrecked as he fully submits to your will. His brows are screwed tightly together, eyes struggling to stay open — to watch.

So you watch him, too.

When you lift yourself off of his cock and drag back down to the hilt, you both groan in harmony.

You can’t help it.

A smile bursts on your lips, stretched wide.

This.

This is where you’ve longed to be.

You roll your hips and ride your captain with reverence.

The room reverberates with the sound of skin against skin, your moans and his grunts, the squeak of a well-worn mattress on an ancient wooden frame.

To hell with subtly.

You don’t care who hears downstairs.

Once he has his own emotions under control, Levi memorizes your pace and begins to buck up in a thrust from below.

You gasp, and you see it: he smirks, his own confidence gaining on him.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, his words as finite as ash. “Fuck, there she is.”

The praise has your blood singing, burning, as you bounce on his cock with an urgency to bring him to his long-awaited climax — and your third. 

“I love you,” you tell him, earning a bitten-off grunt for him.

“Fuck, don’t,” he begs as he matches your pace, bringing himself deeper. “I’ll cum so fast.”

“Maybe I want that,” you tease.

“James,” he warns, pinching your nipple as punishment.

You can’t help but cry out, head dropping back. Levi takes the golden opportunity to lean in, kissing the column of your neck to mask his own needy moans.

The fingers once rolling your nipple as you ride him glide down your belly until they catch your clit, causing you to collapse into his chest. You whimper, and you can hear the utter filth against your ear as Levi picks up the pace.

“Love you.” You clench around him, causing him to hiss. “Shit, I love you so goddamn much. Feel so fucking good.”

“Levi—”

“I got you,” he promises, holding you up as he pounds into you from below. “Won’t let you fall. Gonna make me cum so hard, s’like you were made for me — fuck…”

He loses his train of thought as his fingers rub your clit in furious circles, desperate to get you to the same edge where he hovers.

Over and over you moan out his name, unable to even think straight as pleasure succumbs and fills every vein in your body.

From the way his rhythm is faltering, you know:

He’s close.

You’re not very far behind.

“I love you,” you tell him one more time under your breath, unable to say anything else beyond that and broken variations of his name.

His thrusts become more urgent as he answers between clenched teeth.

“I love you, too.”

“Let go.” 

You wrap your arms around his body to hold him close. 

“I’ll catch you, just let go.”

For what it’s worth, he holds on for a few seconds more. 

He gives you the performance of a lifetime as he thrusts up into you, running after his orgasm with a desperation reserved for you and you alone.

Then you feel it.

Levi grabs the back of your head and slams his lips to yours in one final, devastating kiss before you abruptly come around him.

Your muscles spasm and clamp down around him, milking him for all he’s worth before he’s moaning loudly against your mouth. 

He’s forced to fall off the deep end with you, coming inside you. 

You leisurely ride him through your joined orgasms until his hand comes to your hip, stilling your movements.

Eventually the fingers at your clit still, pressing against it to feel its erratic heart beat.

Forehead to forehead, the two of you stay here, catching your breath—

Refusing to part.

.

Author's Note:

taylor swift vc: it's been a long time coming...

If you've been around my blog for the last several months, then you know I got hit with the author curse (seasonal depression kicked my ass, my day job issued an RTO mandate, I was sick a few times, I have a surgery in late February) so the creative juices were not there. Apologies (and the biggest thanks!) to all who have been waiting so very patiently. To readers old and new, I am so grateful for your reblogs, comments, and inbox messages.

So I ask, after five long months away from you: how are we doing, Jevi Nation?

[babvc-au]

Alrighty Folks! The Time Has Finally Come!

Hopefully this is everything and i didn't miss any panels or doodles for this post, but here is almost everything about BABVC's comic sketches, wips, doodles, refs, and even scripts i never finished, plus more! Doodles and other art stuff will be added to the end of this post. (Due to how many wips i have and such, there will be multiple reblogs happening as i go through this so bare with me.)

So, did you want to know how BaBvc would have went? Here's your answer. (This will contain a mix of the script, old comic wips and context)

Now, well jump to where we left off in the comic with a smol refresher.

Scene 6 Nightmare:

It's dark and bendy is in a black like void. He hears voices.

"Why? You had a chance!" OB growls.

"Who's there!?" Bendy shouts.

"Why did you resist?" OB

"What?"

Bendy's eyes are suddenly covered by cold clawed hands. And he tries to pry them off.

"Why!?" OB

"What are you talking about?! Who are you!" Bendy growls trying to fight them off.

"Don't keep me waiting much longer" we see the claws retract and three tails around Bendy.

"I'm sick of waiting"

The last shot is of Bendy's demon cross eye.

“But, how…?”

He hears a yawn from Boris as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, “good morning, Bendy”

Boris blinks at Bendy’s hand and the bag, "You better not eat that so early in the morning, Bendy.” Boris scolded, ears pinned back.

“What? No, i wouldn't do that. But...” Bendy says, looking at the can thoughtfully. "Did you get some more after last night…?" He asked the tall wolf. Boris raised a brow at him, confused. 

"What do you mean?" He asked. "That's the same bag from last night when we went to the market right?" He asked. 

"Well yeah but, I lost it, remember?" Bendy said and looked up at his younger brother. Boris stares at him in confusion. "...You did?" He asked. 

Camera focuses on the can in his hand.

Scene 8:

Bendy and Boris enter Berry cafe and take a seat at a booth.

"So you honestly don't remember?" Bendy starts looking across the table to his younger brother.

"I really don't. I only remember us getting the stuff, and then after that, it's all blurry. Like I blacked out or something, and then it was morning." Boris replied. "Are you sure you didn't just imagine you lost it? Maybe it was a dream that you had last night." He points out.

"..." Bendy thinks, "Maybe you're right. I've been having weird dreams, and I guess it's possible." He says tiredly. "Though it really felt like I wasn't dreaming." He mumbled to himself.

Then Melody comes around shortly after and asks them what they would like to order. "Hello, welcome to Berry's Cafe. What would you - oh! It's you two, the usual then?" She smiles and lifts her paper and pen.

Bendy lifts his head and gives a small smile. "Ah, yeah, for me, at least. Boris?" He looks over expectantly for his order.

"Oh! um, what's the special today?"

"New York cheesecake drizzled in strawberries and syrup, it's so good!" she smiles and hugs her notepad dreamily.

Boris perks at that smiling "Guess I know what I'm getting now, (haha) and can I get a hot coco with that, thanks Melody."

"No problem! I'll put your order in right away." She nods and walks away allowing Bendy to see the other residents in the cafe. And surprisingly enough he sees someone familiar. His eyes widened a little, shocked.

(Isn't that-?)

Bendy looks at his right wrist and rubs it lightly.

(So it hadn't been a dream? I should probably thank him.)

Bendy stood, making Boris look at him. "Bendy?"

"I'll be back."

Bendy walks away and heads for the familiar person.

"Uh, Hey." he says. Catching Cupheads attention who opens his eyes. He looks a little confused and shocked to see Bendy for a moment.

"I wanted to say thanks for the other night you really helped me back there." Bendy says looking to the side awkwardly.

Cuphead says nothing for a minute. His shock turns to annoyance.

"Yeah, whatever, watch yourself, you're lucky I found you when I did." Cuphead says with a steady look. "Didn't your mom teach you not to walk around at night by yourself?"

"It's dangerous." He glares, narrowing his eyes.

Bendy furrows his brows at the semi aggressive tone. "Hey, I came to thank you, not get a lecture! And I wasn't by myself."

"..."

"Anyway like I said, thank you, seriously." Bendy frowned.

Cuphead stands up and looks down at Bendy, who looks up at him in return nervously as they stare at each other.

"Here you go sir, your order." Tostie says, giving Cuphead two drinks.

"Thanks," he says.

She walks away.

"There you are, Cuppy!" A new voice sounds in the cafe besides Bendy.

Mugs comes over and stands by his brother's side. Who gives him an exhausted look.

"Here." Cuphead hands him the second drink.

"Oh! Were you in the middle of something?" Mugs looks between Bendy and Cuphead.

Cuphead gives Bendy another glare.

"No. Let's go." He walks off, but Mugs falters and gives Bendy a nervous smile and a wave before he follows.

"Geez, what a jerk." (At least the other guy was nice) Bendy sweats but shrugs it off heading back to Boris.

"Was that someone you knew?"

"Uh, not exactly," Bendy says as he slides back into the booth.

It's silent for a moment before Boris speaks up.

"Bendy, listen, I know you're just as confused as I am, but you haven't told me a single thing about what happened last night, I was really worried about you."

"I know, I promise to tell you when I've made sense of it, ok? Just… give me some time."

Boris sighs, "...Ok"

Bendy looks away and out the window covered in fog with a thoughtful look. It starts to snow a little.

Scene 9

Cuphead glares ahead. (The hell? Did I not wipe his memory correctly? And what's with that weird smell?) He rubs his nose.

Mugman watches him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Cuphead mutters. “I just need to go to the casino… again.”

Mugman frowns. “Huh? Why?”

“I’ll tell you later—unless you wanna come with me.”

Mugman hesitates, then nods. “Mmm… I’ll go with you.” Cuphead glances at him, his expression unreadable. Without another word, he keeps walking.

(Que this scene where they report to The Devil about Bendy being immune to memory wiping)

"Sir, I've come to report something." [Kneeling]

"What is it?"

"There's someone i met that's immune to memory wiping."

"..."

"Is that so..."

(Thus, The Devil orders Cuphead to keep an eye on Bendy and to report back if anything happens.)

Scene 12

Cuphead (bat form) climbs through the crack of the window in the kitchen. He hops to the ground and transforms back into his toon form. He dusts himself off and then looks up. Unexpectedly Bendy was in the doorway and saw everything.

(Que a funny nervous Bendy stares and throws a mug at Cuphead.)

Bendy runs to his couch and starts his spiel.

"What are you doing in my house!? Are you going to kill me!? You're a vampire! Aren't you supposed to stay out of houses unless you're invited!? Or something!?

"Huh?"

"Wait a minute, vampires have other weaknesses! I think I have a few things!"

Bendy runs out of the room, and Cuphead is left in confusion.

"Okay...this is weird." -sigh-

Bendy comes in and out with various "vampire deterrents"

"Garlic!?"

"No"

"A cross!?"

"Nope"

"A stake!?" (It's a twig)

"Na-da"

"Sunlight!?" (Its a flashlight.)

"Did you forget you saw me at the café?"